Evil Is Pink (bxb)

Chapter 18

A cloud of cicadas swamped the backdrop of oncoming traffic, the hushed sounds of passing cars and the beeps of traffic lights, with their incessant buzzing. At first, Sticks thought that the constant humming came from the aged white fluorescent light that flickered directly above him, its essence so archaic that the light seemed to be tinged with a smother of yellow. Maybe it was because the pasty drywall ceiling was so abnormally orange that it tinged the whole room with its hue.

The buzzing continued, and Sticks slowly turned his head to the side. He managed to twist his neck half an inch before the muscles lining the inside of his neck screamed at him. The pain was sharp—like a rip, so Sticks decided to remain stationary instead, opting to roll his eyes over to glance to the side.

There was a wide sash window. Curtainless, which allowed a thick stream of sunset to pour into the room, spotlighting every mote of dust that danced and fluttered about above him. The wood was white once, but now it was a flaky peeled mix of cream and dark brown, the brown came from the rotting, aged wood underneath.

The bugs were still singing.

It was nice. Sticks never really got to hear what a real cicada sounded like, given how he was usually kept underground somewhere back when he was living with Dr. King in Seaweed City. He only recognized the sound through videos. Probably an old cartoon or an anime of some kind. It was comforting to know that, even after a thousand years, cicadas still sounded the same.

Maybe some things aren't meant to change.

Sticks tried to move his hand but quickly realized that something was broken. Maybe his ribs. Or his shoulder bones.

He closed his eyes, taking a still, silent breath. Despite the aged griminess of the room, he caught a whiff of something sharp and lightly metallic. Like bleach or peroxide or abstergent or something.

As he lay there, he let his mind go to black. Soon the memories came flooding back to him. All of it. A deep, swirling black whirlpool of horror that played again, and again, and again, and again...

The next time he woke, the orange sunlight beyond the decrepit window had turned into an ocean of black velvet. The room was still lit by the dying white fluorescent, which hiccupped every few seconds. Instead of cicadas, Sticks was awoken by the sound of a creak. The gentle creak of a rusted door.

Even without looking, Sticks could tell that whoever it was that entered the room had stopped at the entrance, not yet passing the threshold.

"You're awake."

Tendril's voice...

Sticks swallowed and closed his eyes. As nice as it was to hear his voice, it served as a harsh reminder.

Tensing, Sticks tried once more to push his body upright. He clenched his jaw, fighting through the initial jabs of pain that came from the movement, until he was sitting with his back against the bed frame. He was panting by the end of it.

Tendril raised his eyebrow. That was when Sticks noticed the guy was shirtless, covered in white bandages, and had a sling over his arm. The bandages even crept towards his legs, lying under a pair of oversized patchy green shorts that clearly couldn't have belonged to him.

"Trying to go somewhere?"

Sticks looked at him. "How long was I asleep?"

Tendril leaned against the doorframe, still looking at him. He scratched the back of one of his legs with the foot of the other. "A week."

That was shocking. "A week?!"

"A week," Tendril said again. He was frowning. "I've seen you heal faster before. But I guess even you would have trouble recovering after having half your skull and brains bashed in."