Chip Abaroa (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
demonpuppy) wrote2016-12-27 02:45 pm
demonpuppy) wrote2016-12-27 02:45 pm
(no subject)
Chip hates this place.
They hate the smell of the halls, the doctors everywhere, the way everyone keeps deciding things FOR them. Here's your breakfast Chip, we're going to your therapist now Chip, let's head this way now Chip, you can't do that here Chip...they don't belong here. It's stupid and pointless and everyone just wants to twist their head around wrong and they just want to go home. But instead they're sitting at a stupid table with a stupid paper and stupid crayons making a stupid drawing of who they are.
It's pointless. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The black crayon is nearly gone, with how much they've scribbled all over the paper. It's all they are inside, black and gross and disgusting, just like the bad thing in Mama's head always tells her, and scrubbing the color across all that white with vicious energy is almost cathartic. Chip drops the crayon for a moment to flex their hand, wincing at the cramped pain, and double-take at the kid sitting next to him. Most everyone else is at least trying to draw, but he hasn't even picked up a pencil.
"...why aren't you drawing?"
They hate the smell of the halls, the doctors everywhere, the way everyone keeps deciding things FOR them. Here's your breakfast Chip, we're going to your therapist now Chip, let's head this way now Chip, you can't do that here Chip...they don't belong here. It's stupid and pointless and everyone just wants to twist their head around wrong and they just want to go home. But instead they're sitting at a stupid table with a stupid paper and stupid crayons making a stupid drawing of who they are.
It's pointless. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The black crayon is nearly gone, with how much they've scribbled all over the paper. It's all they are inside, black and gross and disgusting, just like the bad thing in Mama's head always tells her, and scrubbing the color across all that white with vicious energy is almost cathartic. Chip drops the crayon for a moment to flex their hand, wincing at the cramped pain, and double-take at the kid sitting next to him. Most everyone else is at least trying to draw, but he hasn't even picked up a pencil.
"...why aren't you drawing?"
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"Yeah."
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He stares at Chip expectantly, not especially caring whether or not the other kid gets it. But it's not hard.
He's so tired.
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...oh.
"...you should eat it."
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"No. Yes. Literal shit!"
Foster's facial expressions tend to range, at best, from 'nothing at all' to 'looking extremely fake.' But he somehow manages to look inexpressive and excited at the same time in response, his blue eyes shining like he's made a connection that changes everything.
He regards the violence of Chip's piece for a moment. Then looks at his.
He starts to fold his up fiercely, creasing it with unnecessary precision (and unnecessary force) to craft a more mouth-friendly square.
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That black feeling curls up their throat again, but they don't even care--it's right this time, it's right and they can destroy this, they can! "Tear it all up and then eat it! And the crayons, too! Break it all!"
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And he's eaten at least half of it before the nurse reaches them.
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They hate everyone here just as much as everyone hates dealing with them.
The next morning they're allowed back with the rest of the kids at breakfast, and accept their tray of bland, tasteless food with their usual sullen look. It's not until they spot Foster's bright head of hair that they deviate at all, and they pause for a moment before slowly making their way over, trying to ignore how the other kids cast them odd looks.
Always the bad one, even with the freaks. It never changes.
Chip comes to a stop and hovers uncertainly near Foster, chewing on their lip before speaking up.
"Sorry."