Dents

[+] Halfway To The Halfway House

((This chapter contains mature and potentially triggering material. Reader discretion is advised.))

From the very first encounter I had with her, I knew that Noodle was wise beyond her years.

Her posture as she sat before me, tugging her teabag around the rim of her cup, spoke miles about her in a way I failed to explain.

We sat silently for a long while, staring complacent into our respective glasses. It was a peaceful, comfortable silence. It was everything I could have asked for.

"I like you a lot, you know."

Her words sent a warm tingle through my face.

"2D hasn't been happy for a long time," she said, wrapping the string of her teabag tightly around her index finger, "I have not seen him like this for years. He smiles more with you around."

Her nails were painted deep red, in the shade of black cherries or clotting blood. The tip of her finger paled from lack of circulation.

She uncoiled it and caught me in her analytical emerald stare.

"I get the feeling you need a friend as badly as I do."

I was taken aback. Not being one to mince words, Noodle spoke plainly. She was serious in what she'd said. Despite the calculating look in her eye and her decisive tone, I snickered. Soon after, I was leaned over in my chair from laughter.

"Oh God, is it that obvious?"

She smirked sharply.

"Yes."

After finishing our tea, Noodle sensed that we needed a stronger brew and retrieved a bottle of fine saké from a safe underneath her bed. She told me that it was a preventative measure on account of Murdoc's alcoholism. I appreciated the forethought and the shots that followed. It seemed to me as if we'd never run out of things to talk about or alcohol to drink.

She explained to me that she was once a sleeper agent, a super soldier trained in every field for any situation. All of the other children that had been in the experiment with her were executed when the research was discontinued, except Noodle, who was shipped off in a FedEx crate right to Murdoc's greasy, boozy doorstep.

She spoke almost no English and lacked the entirety of her memories before the age of ten.

After she discovered her identity, she returned to Kong Studios to clear out 'zombies,' as she told it, and set the groundwork for a new album.

Then she went on to tell me about how Murdoc had accidentally killed her. To my astonishment, she explained that she had been delivered to Hell, and that Murdoc talked Satan into letting her get a free ticket back to the surface.

It was mere happenstance that I had arrived before her at Plastic Beach.

I thought it odd that I, the misguided one, was first to crash into that stinking heap of garbage. She had been searching for it, after all. I, on the other hand, had been searching for death.

I hadn't realized just how badly I wanted to tell someone what I was feeling. I wanted someone else to help me shoulder the burden of everything I suffered since I'd left home.

I didn't want to share it with 2D. I didn't want him to look at me differently. I didn't want him to see what I saw when I looked in the mirror.

I told her everything. I spared no details. I sugar coated nothing.

Her expression was one of sympathy, empathetic to what I'd experienced despite not enduring it herself. She leaned in close and put my head to her chest. For a brief moment, I thought it curious how similar her form was to that of the android that temporarily replaced her. Her hair felt like dozens of pomegranate feathers.

Instead of a whirring engine, I could hear the persistent sound of a heart beating in her chest.

Human resilience is a truly marvelous circumstance.

I left the quaint, lantern-filled bedroom with a new friend and a strong buzz, as well as a few odds and ends to patch 2D up. I figured a couple of popsicle sticks and some medical tape would have to suffice until we could have him checked out in the morning.

I paused outside the door.

For the past three nights that we'd resided at 212 Wobble Street, 2D listened to music ceaselessly, even while he slept. He mentioned that Noodle sifted through some dated recordings in the basement that survived the incident at Plastic Beach. He hoped to salvage and rework some of it into 'bloody excellent material.'

I had expected to hear music from the other side of the door as usual. Instead, it was unsettlingly quiet.

I took hold of the knob, though I didn't enter immediately. All of my senses were muted except for my ability to hear.

There was the hushed, raspy sound of 2D's breathing followed by the crackle of burning tobacco embers. At one point, I thought I heard him release a few hushed chuckles, but they were too faint to discern through the barrier the door had created.

Seconds after this, a series of clicks rapidly decreased in speed until the air sat vacant once more. It was a sound I recognized.

I opened the door so fast that I slammed the knob straight through the wall.

The scene I walked into was horrific.

2D's room was spotless. It offset my nerves to see it in a way that he never would have left it. It smelled like lemon and fresh laundry. There was a subtle undertone of stale cigarettes. On his bed, which was made high above any previously held standards, sat a closed green notebook, a pen, and a lighter.

Against the headboard, 2D sat with a pistol in hand. He was fumbling with the cylinder, examining it closely.

He was looking at it with terrifying purpose.