A Black Market

An Ib Fanfiction

A/N: This is a combined ending story, featuring the endings "The Forgotten Portrait" and "Together, Forever." I tried to make it less fluffy than all the other Ib fanfics I've read, where Ib was a Scaredy Cat or just a giant mush. I tried; it's up to you to decide if it's good. This is my first time writing horror, so please don't over criticize, but constructive criticism is nice. Some IbxGarry in here too, because I'm just that much of a fangirl.

Enjoy~

Chapter 1- Ib the Unstoppable

Ib walked along the quiet halls of the distorted corridor. It was dark and eerie, much like her own expression. Every step made the floor creak, and she walked slowly, ever so slowly on the deep violet floors, so much so that it was the only thing that could be heard, sending a chill down a spine. For everything else, that is. Ib was too confident to care. As she walked along the path, she glanced at each painting; making sure she noted every single detail. She soon came across yet another painting entitled "Lady in Red", unsure of this one's motives. She brushed off any sense of fear and continued on. The painting, much like many of the ones seen before, came to life. The woman in the painting almost dove out, and her once 2d figure became 3d on the floor. Only the top half though, as the bottom was never seen in the original painting. Its screeches rang throughout the hallway; its voice was blood-curdling and made nails on a chalkboard seem like nothing. Because it had no feet, it moved by clawing the ground with its long, sharp claws, leaving deep indents in the ground. And even under these circumstances, it was surprisingly fast. Ib didn't react as it lunged for her, until it got close. She smirked as she leaped forward; landing on her hand for less than a second, and springing into a mid-air back flip. She landed perfectly, right on target; the skull of the red lady. The skull smashed under her, splattering blood everywhere. The violet walls and floors were now stained with deep red blood, as it slowly dripped off the wall until it dried. "Man, you're off your game today," Ib said with a chuckle. "I expected more from you." And with that, she laughed a malicious laugh, one only prone to madness. She then stepped off the grotesque remains and brushed off her red skirt, content with the scene in front of her. She then turned on her heel and continued walking in the same manner as previous. At the end of the hall, there was a painting that caught her eye. A painting of that wretched girl. She hated her, no, loathed the very sight of her, but yet, couldn't remember why. Every time that painting came into view she wretched on the inside, her cold expression from before being mixed with a livid feeling. She couldn't understand why, so she just called it an impulse. And this "impulse" caused her to violently slaughter the painting with her pocket knife. Blood splattered everywhere, until the entire end of the hall was covered, and the painting itself? Demolished and unrecognizable. Ib smiled softly, happy with her work. And as she continued on, she was stopped. "Ib!" She looked around. There was nothing, no one. Just her and her madness. "IB!" This time Ib made out the voice. It was a man's, but it had a feminine tone to it, but at the same time, cold. "IB, STOP!" Stop…stop what?" Ib said in confusion. "I don't understand." "DON'T YOU REMEMBER? YOU NEED TO LEAVE!" "L-leave? Leave where? I don't remember this!" At this point Ib began to panic. Who was this person, and why was he telling her to leave? What was going on? Why did she not remember? "IB YOU NEED TO REMEMBER WHAT'S GOOD AND LEAVE!"

I don't want to lie to you, but I don't want to tell the truth either. If you need help, I'll come running.

Ib's eyes shot open. She sat up, covered in cold burning sweat. As she continued panting, she frightfully looked for the clock. 5:42 a. m. "Another nightmare…" Ib said with relief. " I have to get up soon anyway. Might as well get up now." She sprung from her bed, stretched a little, and did her routine. Three back hand springs into a back flip, landing on her bed. She always performed it as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake her parents. But she always woke her sister in the room next door, and prepared for her arrival. After three seconds, Ib's door swung open and her sister came racing in. "IB! I TOLD YOU TO STOP DOING THAT! IT WAKES ME UP!" she whisper-yelled." Ib shyly apologized; her dyslexia never made her good with words, including reading, writing, or talking. Her sister knew this and smiled. "I know you're a gymnast, Ib. But you don't have to perform every morning!" Ib smiled and nodded, and her sister smiled back. "See ya in 20," she said, and raced off to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. "Bye, Mary," Ib said after Mary left. And as soon as Ib knew Mary was back asleep, her happy expression turned dim. There was something irritating about Mary, besides the fact they were siblings. Although Ib questioned that, as well. Ib and their parents had rich, dark chocolate hair, almost black. Mary had bright, happy blonde. Ib and their mom had scarlet red eyes. Their father had dark chocolate. And Mary? Bright sky blue. It was irritating, especially since Mom and Dad loved Mary more. Ib was treated as a simple forgotten memory. But, she was okay with this. As long as she knew she was great, as long as she knew who she was, and as long as she knew she was alive and remembered by at least herself, no one's words or actions meant anything to her. She was unstoppable.

Ib the Unstoppable.

Yeah, that had a nice ring to it.

Ib smiled to herself. One day, she thought. One day they'll see. They'll all see. And with that, she laughed to herself and continued getting dressed into her outfit; a tight white blouse with poofy short sleeves, with a red skirt that started below her bust and ended right above her knees. She also had a thick black belt with a silver buckle she put right under her bust. Her shoes were typical red buckle flats, and light white tights. She placed her most important belongings in her pocket; her handkerchief and her pocket knife. She never left these things at home. She brushed her hair so it was nice and full. She pushed most to the back, letting some rest on her shoulders. Her bangs sat perfectly in place, almost like a picture. She did the rest of her morning routines shortly after, but with Mary at her side. Mary was dressed in an olive green sleeveless dress with a blue bow wrapped around her neck. It buttoned down her back. She wore normal black flats with white stockings. Today was a very important day, you see. It was the first time in seven years they were going to see the Wiess Guertena gallery.

But Ib didn't know why, which is something she voiced to Mary in the car. "You're kidding, right?" Mary said, laughing. But when she didn't get the same response from Ib, she stopped. "What, you mean you don't know?!" Mary said, absolutely shocked. Ib was flustered by her lack of cooperation, but didn't show it. She shook her head, thinking thoughts of stabbing her like the painting. Mary really pissed her off, a lot. "I mean, I. Don't. Know." Said Ib, in her normal, cold tone. "It's your birthday! You're turning 16! You're the one who wanted to come here!" Ib froze. "Birth…day? It's my birthday?" Ib choked. Mary was shocked. "How could you forget that?!" Ib struggled for a response. "T-tired I g-guess…" she said shyly. Mary huffed. It was typical of her to be forgetful and to have loose responses, but her birthday? This wasn't right. But, Mary let it go anyway; Ib didn't do well during mornings. "I suppose you're right…" Mary said quietly, and dismissed the conversation, putting in her IPod and listened to soft, slow songs. Ib sighed with relief. Yet another conflict about her memory problems avoided. It started after the first time she went to the gallery. It started with little things, like where her books were. But got worse as time went on, like forgetting where she was and what she was doing. Her doctor said it was due to a traumatic experience, and that it would wear off soon. But there were no "traumatic experiences" that she could think of. To calm herself, Ib turned on her IPod as well. But instead of silly slow songs, Ib played her favorite: Heavy Metal. And as the car went along to the gallery, she thought of the wonderful things that would happen in her dreams: ripping apart statues and hands, slicing paintings that pissed her off, bashing skulls of the ladies, and best of all, destroying the painting of that wretched girl. She could almost feel the warm, liquid blood on her as she smiled contently. Then they pulled up at the gallery. Ib suddenly gained a feeling of utter dread, and regretted coming along.

But for the life of her, she didn't know why.

A/N: Chapter 1, Done!

I hoped you liked! Please review, it's great to know if you want more!