ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ 1999 (ˢᶜʰˡᵃᵗᵗᵇᵘʳ)

16- Itsy Bitsy Spider

----We shall finally look into Schlatt's past, and into why he's a silly little man today, also decided to add something special in this chapter :) 📌📌WARNING! BLOOD, GORE AND MENTIONED ABUSE📌📌----

-Schlatt's POV-

Everyone I've known has that one little song their parents sang to them when they were babies, right? Even if it's a classic, or a completely made up lullaby, it was helpful to some extent, helped the parent get some sleep, and helped the baby not wake up again.

The one my father used to sing me was, well, simple, that stupid little song, with the spider that kept failing, falling, crying and disappointing himself with every single thing he did.

It stuck with me up until adulthood, haunting me, sending shivers down my spine at random, and even leaving me shaking with cold sweat at night just briefly thinking about it.

Stupid little spider, got knocked down by the rain, the brainless little spider that tried to climb back up again,

But of course the whiny little spider would never fail again, because there was nothing to fall down from, no rain, no water spout and no parents.

The itty bitty spider went up the water spout, no parent to make him cry and drown him in his tears, wail and spasm in his weak legs. He climbed up that hill, got over those expectations, because he got rid of the water in the water spout, of course. Was there any other way he could end up like this?

But no, the worthless little spider found another, 'better' water spout, he tried to climb up on it but soon more rain kicked him down, so the small, frail little spider, learned from his mistakes, got sick of that pouring water spout and got rid of that one, again.

That itty bitty child, who wanted to win so badly. He is no more, now, only a small fragment of that boy remains in this husky, lifeless body, who he calls "Schlatt".

It's ironic he kept his father's last name, the spider never learned from his mistakes after all, it seems.

Everything else is a blur, it's as if my whole childhood just.. Disappeared, into thin air. And the only thing I could recall is a stupid piano.

My father made me learn how to play when I was just 8, not that I knew what I was doing. I just memorized all the keys carefully, and played them. I didn't enjoy the lessons, I assume, because then I'd at least remember my teacher's name..

She was sweet, careful and kind, her words dripped childish affection, but her hands were made to bruise. I didn't think that it was bad, because she told me it wasn't. It was to be the best, and succeed in life.

She dressed me in leather, in fur and in rich cloth, made me participate in silly little competitions, but would be so surprised when I didn't get gold.

I didn't understand the enjoyment in bruising my knuckles, nor did I crave it like she did. Like my father did. He didn't even come to watch me play, just praised or belittled me when I was done.

I do, in fact, remember my piano, it was shiny, and the keys were clicky under my fingers as I tapped them. I remember the dust under the paper holder infront of my hands, and how I hated cleaning it up.

For some reason, I also remember how heavy the thing was, piano or not, I could only drag it around with my weak little hands, careful not to throw in down, shatter it into pieces.

..