Tune4Toons: I don't know why people say horror's my strong suit haha. It's not—it's really not. Psychological, sure, but that style's different even though both are dark. XD

Figured I'd put a trigger warning here in case because some of the content pushes a few moral borders, but otherwise, here's a bizarre story I didn't ever expect to write. This is my entry to lyokolife6's Horror Story Contest and the "Great and Noble" Paprika's OOC Contest. :P Enjoy.

…

I'm considering to bite off your finger.
There you are, cheeky smile.

Humans. All the same. Poking at my face like I'm a stuffed doll on display. Compare a local to you and it makes me wonder how long you'll last here.

Pichu. That's my name.
Glad you didn't ask.

I'm too old for this. Average lifespan of a Pikachu's ten years, maybe fifteen if a lucky Raichu. Me? On my eighth right now, but nowhere close to evolving. Lived here for all my life if that says anything.

You have a reason for coming here though.

Maybe you're here to see the Doctor. You'd been walking till you saw me, but then stopped. Bent down to my level to see me. Everyone says the Doctor can perform miracles—because that's what people want. A miracle. Pathetic.

To find him, go round the street corner and head east. It's a long distance to get there, but try not to get yourself killed along the way—

Wait. Changed my mind.
I'll take you there myself.

The way your eyes swirl around night sights bores me like you've never seen rusty back alley balconies, piss-stained garbage crates, or eyes of living carcasses staring back before as we pass by. A short man with a glass dome over his head walks in front of us. Bunched up in his hand, he holds the thin necks of four flower creatures—red, blue, yellow, black. Each body is dragged across the pavement. Dead.

"Can you wake them up?" he says. "Couldn't carry them in my arms, but they've been asleep for a while."

He doesn't reek of alcohol, but the smell of piss and rot already does wonders. Your face turns green, so I start talking. "Pretty sure your friends are dead, mate."

Eyes widen. Yours, not his.

"No, they're asleep," he continues. "I went to the Doctor to get him to wake them up, but he told me no. Said I should try making friends with other people, but I like talking to them. They're my only friends. No one else would talk to me."

The Doctor's no god, but I've seen him experiment on these kinds of creatures before—the ones whose necks are crushed in the man's palm. Pikmin.

Average lifespan of one is two months.

"How long have they been asleep for?"

Pause. "A year."

You're staring at me again. Didn't expect me to talk?
Surprised you didn't decide to speak up for yourself.

The Doctor put a microchip in my tongue a long time ago. It allows me speak in human speech. You're still staring though. Dumbfounded face. No worries, I don't blame ya. Or is it the Pikmin bugging you? Best leave the man be, I figured. He's a lost cause.

Out of the alley and into the streets, barks and growls welcome us. I want to sing along and join them. Become nothing more than a feral animal like my predecessors before me. But you wouldn't understand.

This city feeds on the weak.

An apartment door bursts open to our right, and a woman's tossed out like trash. Blonde hair's in shambles, mascara running deep down her cheeks. Hear her pleas as she scrambles to her feet and rushes up the stairs, but the door slams shut in her face. Bang.

I knew her when she was younger. Used to be a plump, human girl.

Cuddled me in warm arms. Played with me.
Pampered me like a doll.

Now look at her. Waist's half the size she used to be now wrapped in a tight, glittery blouse. Short skirt and dark leggings to show off her thin curves. Painted nails dig into the door as she yelps pleas like a desperate canine. I still remember the old her. Fat, cuddly human girl.

I continue crawling forward, but don't hear you following me. Turn back, and there you are, eyes tranced to the woman at the door. She screams, then stomps down the stairs while wobbling on her heels. Don't know what to think when I see your reaction though.

Eyes widen as you step back and watch her glance your way—her makeup-caked face studying your clean clothes while hers reek of semen. Look at how thin her limbs are. A walking skeleton covered in glitter. It's a wonder how her body hasn't collapsed in her outfit yet. Does she recognise me, I wonder? She doesn't even look my way. Only yours as she searches for someone who doesn't see her the way you do me—like an animal.

Imagine if you ended up like that.

"Hey, peachy. What's a beauty like yourself doing out by yourself?"

A man emerges out of the alley beside the apartment, so you lift me up and hide in the shadows on the other side of the street. The man grabs her wrist and drags her across the floor as she struggles to rip herself free.

Many used to mock her or disregard her existence altogether, so she asked the Doctor to do this to her. Trim her fat off till she matched the size of a "fashion model." Fascinated me to watch the Doctor cut her open, digging her insides out. The blood that pooled, the tears that fell. Now she screams in the alley as she's penetrated in the ass and fucked repeatedly for nothing.

'Tis the price of human beauty, he told me.

At least others acknowledge her now.

You never once tell me your name. There you are walking close beside me knowing I can speak, yet you follow as if prisoner-chained or bounded by obligation. Surprised you didn't call me cute either, though I'd rip off your tongue if you did. Glance in your direction. See your hand rubbing your arm, biting your lip. Wonder why you want to see the Doctor though.

Easy for me to pick out foreigners like you, the only ones with dirt-free clothes and clean skin. Around us, living corpses emerge from behind tinted windows, peeking out as they watch you move.

Soon I spot shadows flickering in the left alleyway. Head shoots up. Hear moaning. Whispers. A girl and a boy.

"Haah, haah, t-there— ahh…"

You can't help yourself it seems, brushing past me to peek. I scramble in behind you. Then you stop, leaving me to crash into your leg.

We stumble behind a garbage crate, and the scene plays in front of us. Take a moment to breathe, and I finally see why you stopped.

A boy in blue has a girl in pink crushed between him and the brick wall. Both moaning in each others' mouths. Quick glimpse, the girl looks exactly like the boy.

Siblings.
Twins, no less.

But look closer, and both are missing an arm.

I know them too. Saw them in the Doctor's office two weeks ago. They'd been attached together as one body; two arms, four legs, two heads. Born that way, I heard. I can only imagine how other humans see them as:

Monsters of their own rite. Awkward wobbling for walking. They begged, pleaded, cried to the Doctor for their separation.

He sat them on his table. Strange sight, but I considered them the lucky ones. They sighed as one. Sad smiles as they removed their clothes. Found myself scrutinising the bruises on their bare skin, each one the size of a wooden bat.

But they glanced at one another, neither flinching nor drifting away.

No one's acknowledged me like that before.

Then the Doctor's blade's held up before touching their skin. Listened to their cries. Watched them bleed together. Saw them separate into two as they moaned in their own pool of blood.

Now they make love, and you're entranced. No, more of fixated to what shouldn't be. See them now, both missing an arm. Girl with only a right hand. Boy with his left.

Their eyes flicker in our direction, and you stumble back into me.

Is this not the first time you've been caught peeping?

The moment you trip over my stomach, you glance at me as if remembering I was there for the first time. Soon a piece of paper slips out of your pocket. I pick it up. Read aloud to myself.

It's an address. The Doctor's, to be exact.
Glance up at you. Then smile.

Do you believe in miracles?

Enter in a hallway of frames, footsteps dull to the growing sound of drills in the path ahead. Left and right, people move within the pictures.

To our left, a young boy with a flat face. You stare at him—or rather, the drink in his hand. Notice the scratches on his cheeks. The crusty knife on the floor. The blood crusted down the sides of his face.

His ears used to be pointed, you know.
He only did this today.

Must've hurt to slice off tips of your ears, the sharp burning sting lingering, left screaming so loud he almost puked.

He can't speak that well—became a quiet one—mocked for having a foreigner's tongue and appearance. Can't defend himself from the verbal blows. The teasing, the shoving, left to committing an almost-suicide.

Sticks and stones may break his bones, but words destroy hearts completely.

The boy's hands tremble as he holds the vial up to his lips, and you just watch, letting green liquid slip down his throat.

Did you know he comes here everyday? The drink's only temporary.

But you just watch.
Swallow. Sweat.
His skin begins to bubble and burn.

You don't continue walking forward like you're supposed to. Instead, you remain in place watching from a distance, documenting the boy's face as it turns from flat to round, hearing skin sizzle as if on a grill.

Still bubbling.

Boiling, could pop.

Think if his face

does

go—

Shrieks pierce my ears, but still, you stay. How is it you manage to watch without trying to draw away? I once heard an expression about people like you. Cursed with curiosity. I think I know why you're here.

You saw something you weren't supposed to. So what are you?

Perv.
Masochist.

Or just curious?

Sound of glass smashes echo. Attention snaps back to the front. I spot dark silhouette moving through a room. Turn back to the boy, and you gasp. Eyes widen.

He's looking at you through a mirror on the wall.
His face no longer flat, but round.

Normal.

You shuffle back before walking farther down the corridor, breathing heavier, heading far away from the boy's room. Glancing behind you, I chuckle. So you scrunch your eyebrows at me. For someone so observant, no wonder you're always caught in your peeping. But you're too late. Body crashes into another figure in front of you.

The Doctor. "Why hello," he says. Wears a white coat covered in blood. His moustache only sweetens his smile, but I've seen him do more than enough for me to think otherwise. "You made an appointment to wipe out your memory, correct?"

You nod, then glance back at me. Memory's a funny thing, you know. Can see why you wouldn't want yours. You're my opposite. Funny.

Doctor points to the room behind him. "Head in there for me, and we'll begin shortly."

Then you disappear behind the door, closing it shut. Doctor walks up to me, bends down, then speaks. "You picked a decent one here, Pichu. Your operation is next?"

I nod. "With that human."

"We'll make the switch shortly."

Follow the Doctor into your room, and you stare. Eyes flickering between him and me. Smile. I consider you as a lucky one. Unfortunate you don't see otherwise.

Doctor snaps on his gloves. You swallow. I grin. I don't have a lot of years left, you know.

"Ready to begin?" he says, but you already close your eyes as you nod.

How sweet. You seem so normal.
But we both know I'm far from it.

Doubt you'd understand who I am.

You're only human, after all.