[ thank fuck please stay safe and use that baseball bat like the ichiban kasuga you were born to be
anyway OBVIOUSLY something is off since there's still a fucking sea monster in the pipes and it's tragic that the little mermaid won't exist for 30 years so he can't have ursula thoughts. he's still clutching his nail file, standing in the doorway himself now as he looks back toward the sink. waiting, ready to bolt and slam the door behind him if he needs to. ]
[Fortunately the sink remains still. No further sounds bubble up from below. The popped drain cover lies inert on the floor, as does the paper from before — though curiously, now it's blank.
What draws his eye is the framed round of cross-stitch on the wall opposite. Normally it's a passable pattern of two kittens messing with a ball of blue yarn. Nothing too crazy, Eunice probably followed a pattern and patted herself on the back for making something nice for a change.
Now it's different. There's a clown on the right, tilting to one side with a leg stuck out and an orange balloon in the opposing hand. He's stitched into a suit of silver with orange pom buttons down the front and a ruff to match around his neck. A screed of letters takes up the empty space on the right:
NO PLACE LIKE HOME AIN'T THAT RIGHT FIDELIO?
The name strikes a chord of dread in you. Something you've never heard before, but no one else should know.
The clown reaches up — really reaches, little stitches jumping over the canvas to reconfigure as he goes — and beeps his nose twice. Then he points out to you.
The canvas bulges, following his finger, stretching to accommodate the move as the cross-stitch clown splits open its lurid red grin and laughs. He cackles, and you can almost swear you hear it in your head.
The door swings shut and nearly bowls you over. The bathroom is closed and quiet.]
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holyspirits) wrote2025-03-09 04:46 pm
no subject
anyway OBVIOUSLY something is off since there's still a fucking sea monster in the pipes and it's tragic that the little mermaid won't exist for 30 years so he can't have ursula thoughts. he's still clutching his nail file, standing in the doorway himself now as he looks back toward the sink. waiting, ready to bolt and slam the door behind him if he needs to. ]
no subject
What draws his eye is the framed round of cross-stitch on the wall opposite. Normally it's a passable pattern of two kittens messing with a ball of blue yarn. Nothing too crazy, Eunice probably followed a pattern and patted herself on the back for making something nice for a change.
Now it's different. There's a clown on the right, tilting to one side with a leg stuck out and an orange balloon in the opposing hand. He's stitched into a suit of silver with orange pom buttons down the front and a ruff to match around his neck. A screed of letters takes up the empty space on the right:
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
AIN'T THAT RIGHT FIDELIO?
The name strikes a chord of dread in you.
Something you've never heard before, but no one else should know.
The clown reaches up — really reaches, little stitches jumping over the canvas to reconfigure as he goes — and beeps his nose twice. Then he points out to you.
The canvas bulges, following his finger, stretching to accommodate the move as the cross-stitch clown splits open its lurid red grin and laughs. He cackles, and you can almost swear you hear it in your head.
The door swings shut and nearly bowls you over. The bathroom is closed and quiet.]