𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 || the simpsons

Chapter Six: No Other Way

It was nighttime in Springfield. The sky had ceased its relentless downpour...for now. Stars twinkled in between the thick, grey clouds, and the moon's light shone through the cracks, casting creepy shadows on the ground.

Moe stepped out of the building and shut the door quietly behind him. He strode downtown to his bar with a skip in his step, humming a tune to himself as he walked. He was a lot happier than he was before he entered. As he reached the tavern, he noticed Homer, Lenny, Carl, and Barney standing outside of it, looking agitated. When they saw him, they walked forward, shouting.

"Heya, Moe, where've you been?" Lenny asked.

"Where's our beers?" Barney cried.

"Where the hell were you?" Homer demanded.

"Not to worry, fellas, I'm here." Moe said soothingly. "Sorry, there was some important issues that I had to take care of."

"Are...are you alright?" Carl asked. "You look a little...odd."

Moe smiled as he filled his mind with devilish thoughts. He chuckled to himself before replying.

"I've never felt better, Carl. Now let's all go inside and I'll get you your beers." he said.

He unlocked the door, and the four friends ran inside. Moe looked back at the building he had just left.

You're mine, Waylon, he thought to no one, before laughing again, and heading back inside.

Smithers woke, later that night, with a start. Glancing around him, he could see no one. He couldn't remember how he had gotten where he was, or what had just happened. All he knew was that he was terrified. He threw back the sheets of his bed and attempted to stand, but his legs shook and gave out from under him. Leaning heavily against the wall, he made his way slowly out of the bedroom. The moment he left the room, memory flooded back to him, and the realization of what had just happened hit Smithers like a freight train. 

Moe.

As he remembered everything that Moe had said and done to him, he began to shake. He slid down the wall slowly, and collapsed into a trembling heap on the floor. Tears streamed from his eyes as he ran his fingers through his hair, overcome with emotion. He could still hear Moe's voice, whispering;

"Lock the doors and close the blinds, cause kid,

"We're going for a ride."

After a few minutes, Smithers attempted to gain a hold of himself. His breathing slowed as he shakily stood back up. He limped heavily into the bathroom across the hall, and leaned against the sink, gripping it on either side as if his life depended on it. Breathing heavily, he looked up at himself in the mirror.

He was a complete mess. Tears were still falling from his eyes, which were now red. His hair was disheveled, even more so now after running his fingers through it. The entire right side of his neck looked like it had been torn apart, and this continued on his shoulder and partly on his chest. 

As he saw himself, he slowly remembered every detail of the night, every word Moe had spoken and every action he had taken to make Waylon his. He knew that nothing could be done. There was no one, not one person in this world that he could talk to or could make him feel any better. He had no friends. No one cared about him. 

There had to be some other way to relieve himself of the pain.

All of a sudden, Waylon found himself walking to the kitchen. He didn't know what he was doing or where he was going, but apparently, some other part of his mind did. He opened up a silverware drawer and took out a knife. Running his thumb along the blade, he noticed that it was very sharp, and realized exactly what he was about to do to himself.

He attempted to stop himself from thinking about it, but it was hopeless. There was no other way. He had to do it. It was the only way that his pain would go away. He lightly pressed the blade against his arm and sighed. This was it. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth before pressing down and sliding it across his arm.

Waylon gasped in pain as he cut himself. It hurt, but somehow he felt...slightly better? He had no idea how it worked, but it had. Before he knew it, he was cutting himself again, and again, and again. He lost count of how many times he did it, but the more he did it, the memories faded...but the pain grew. Eventually he was screaming in pain as he dragged the knife over himself.

He had to stop. The knife fell from his hand and clattered on the floor as he collapsed once more, holding his arms to his body, attempting to stop the bleeding. Blood poured from his wounds and dripped onto the floor as he shook. This wasn't going to work. By relieving himself of the memories, he was inflicting more physical damage on himself. There had to be a way to stop feeling pain all together.

Suddenly, he knew the answer. He knew exactly how he was going to rid himself of his pain. He didn't even attempt to push it out of his mind. He was resigned to his fate. No one would care if he did this. No one cared about him. He didn't even care about himself anymore. 

He picked up the knife again. Its once-shiny, metallic surface was now covered in blood, which dripped down the sides and fell to the floor. As he looked at it, he remembered his entire life, all the loss, pain, and trauma he had experienced. He had thought of doing this several times, the most recent of which was only last year. He didn't remember why he had wanted to do it, and it didn't matter. Nothing did anymore. He raised the knife to his already-bloody throat and prepared to cut himself for the last time.

Suddenly, a memory overcame him. Not of that night, no. It was a faint memory, of a while ago, but it was one he had vowed to never forget. A sunset, a crowd, and one man in particular. Waylon gasped in shock as he threw the knife away from him. As he realized for the third time what he must do, he whispered the name of the one man who had taken him in and cared for him, the one man who had kept him alive for all of these years...the one man he loved.

"Monty..."