Part 1 of ?
Triggers: abuse, major character death, death, guns, violence, blood
For future warning.
Out of the new trio of egos that had arrived, none was more interesting than this new convict -- Yancy.
He was an expressive soul, with his pronounced New York accent and dramatic love for flair--one that could even rival Mark.
However, he was the up-and-coming enigma amongst the men. Even the conjoined spirit Dark was curious about why the man was a felon (aside from the murder of his parents) despite his cheerful exterior. It was something on all the egos minds. They knew it was something--and something bad--if Yancy would hardly ever speak of it.
It wasn't these murders that seemed to trouble him, though. In fact, he often vocalized loudly about how awful his father was to him and how overprotective his mother was. When he heard something bad had happened, he related it to his father's absence and abuse, or to his mother's coddling and strict rules in their household. Surprisingly, he found a lot to relate to.
No, it was something much worse, something more recent, and something that he truly regretted.
It would be enough to send him over the edge if one of Wilford's guns were strewn about or if certain characters raised their voices a little too much. The boys had started to notice the man get anxious around the slightest sight of blood or even miniscule paper cuts.
If certain words were ever heard over radios, TVs, or seen in ads, Yancy retracted to his room and and wouldn't be seen for days on end. After a few, he'd come out with his common sly smile and a newly crafted musical number to get stuck in their heads. It was getting to the point that some couldn't go on without an explanation as to why.
It was time to get some answers.
________
One quiet evening, Yancy had retreated to the quiet of the theater in hopes to rehearse his new show-stopper. It was a solemn piece, however; not about being in prison, but about getting out. No one had heard it and not many cared to. Most respected the mysterious and sorrowful convict...
...But, the most curious of the bunch (Dark and Wilford, to be exact) decided to peer in to hear what all this annoying moping was about.
Softly, Yancy hummed the melody he knew too well. It was what he sang to all the fresh bait that didn't know how swell prison life could be! Before he knew the real truth, that is.
Sitting with a pitiful slouch, he was shrouded in the shade of the stage curtains like a greaser Phantom of the Opera. His voice was broken and clear. It was haunting.
"You wanted me t' be free?
Now lyin' next t' me...
Once here, now youse is gone...
How could I try t' go on?
I just wanted us t' grow old...!
Now it's too late, my heart has been stole..."
His refrain didn't end, it trailed off into a flurry of soft tears down his cheeks. The sobs were quiet, but they spoke volumes. Whatever sparked this verse of his, it wasn't a pretty picture to delve into.
Yet, that's exactly what Dark was determined to do. Pure rage washed over the demon's face and radiated off of him in dangerous waves. "This is what he goes and cries about? Some random?" they growled. "I've had enough of this absurdity." They began to march in.
In an odd spike of sympathy, Wilford groped for the coat sleeve of their suit. "Oh, come now, Dark. The boy is clearly in some peculiar sort of mourning, therefore it might be in our benefit to leave?"
The spirit snarled at the thought and threw their seized arm back towards Yancy. "No. Since when have you backed down from a story, Will?"
Wilford shrugged and went back to his goofy sneaking stature. In any case, they were right. This explanation was too enticing to give up for the pair.
Without a word, Yancy was thrown up and out of his chair. He was scared and confused--this was all too familiar... His breath quickened and his eyes darted about the shadowy room. Two figures stood... Who were they? What did they hear? What did they know.
To some semblance of comfort, he recognized the faces and gave his best confident smile in return to the harsh gesture. "O-Oh..! Hiya, boys! Is, uh, somethin' the matter?"
Wilford obliviously cut in to answer. "Ah, dear boy, we're incredibly curious as to why you must go into these little spells of yours, that's all," He jovially chuckled to himself. Yancy slowly nodded in response as his attention turned from one... to the other.
Dark wasn't so cheerful. "I have had ENOUGH of this, Yancy. I cannot deal with these behaviors of yours any longer." They hastily tugged at the lapels of their suit (...It promotes dominance?) and inched slowly towards their anxious prey. With every sentence they grew closer. With every sentence, Yancy grew more fearful.
"Consistency. ...Participation! Bright and new concoctions toward. Our. CAUSE!" They raised their hand in a ragged and suspicious move--was it to strike? Slowly and calmly they brought it back down. Their shell was becoming increasingly unstable, even though the face would not show it. Even Wilford backed away, he knew how unpredictable this entity could be when it was angry.
They sighed lowly, deeply. "Yancy, that is what needs to be thought of here. I tend to expect that out of EVERY lost and pitiful soul that finds their way here to this sickly island of MISFITS!" The walls shook with their roars, and now they were a mere inch away from the shaking convict.
"Now," they sneered sonorously into his face, "when one of my misfits decides he'd rather trudge along his sad little way instead of participating in our group activities here, I tend to notice." Without losing the searing eye-contact with the prisoner, Dark gave a saccarhine simper. "Isn't that right, Wil?"
The mustached man nodded, quick not to show his cautiousness in the matter. "Entirely, Dark. Now, Yancy my boy, what are these ever-so riveting refrains of yours about? They certainly spark our fancies!"
Tears began to well up in Yancy's eyes as he shook his head. "I-I'm sorry, boys, I really am, but I can't do it." He chuckled with pain in his heart. "This ain't somethin' really needin' t' be shared with the class, y-ya know?"
Dark's eyes narrowed. "Try me."
