Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Neuro watched her father's pickup truck back out of the driveway, stall once, twice, then finally sputter away. She caught a glimpse of her sister, practically feral in the back seat, still screaming.

A beat passed, and they were out of earshot.

Now Neuro was alone. Alone in her empty house.

Her mind picked at the word like an old scab.

Empty.

She mentally turned it over and over, this time like a rubik's cube, a puzzle she had all the pieces to solve but couldn't quite figure out how.

She sat on a black faux leather couch, idly playing with the flaking fabric. The dusty grandfather clock tick, tick, ticked unerringly. The ceiling light flickered, like it wasn't quite sure if it was supposed to be on.

And finally, there was the TV. A spiderweb of cracks spiraled outward from the middle, small glass shards littered in front of it.

Neuro was alone, but she'd been alone before. And she could definitively say she was alone now. 

But her house wasn't empty. 

Yet... she couldn't shake the feeling that wasn't quite true. 

Frowning, Neuro tried and failed to sort out how she was feeling. 

She blinked. She breathed. And, every so often, she'd glance at that old clock and find time had passed, somehow. 

That empty feeling remained, however, even when a familiar pickup truck pulled into the driveway.

Her father stormed in like dark clouds. He glared at her, then the TV. She flinched away from his raised hand but... Lightning shook its head and decided to strike elsewhere tonight. 

Only after thundering footsteps descended into the basement did she relax, slightly.

A gentle pitter patter of footsteps followed.

Her sister walked like the broken TV had somehow left glass all over the entire floor. Her face a portrait left out in the rain. 

She looked less angry now. Less animated too. Lesser, in general. Less... her.

Lesser. Another word that stopped making sense the more she repeated it. Another word to pull apart, re-assemble, and still find it didn't quite fit. Or maybe it fit too much.

The spiders had gotten to the mirror this time.

It was difficult to pile the broken shards in a corner. The bathroom was so small her elbows touched the sides unless she tucked her arms in. 

It was also hard to wash the blood from her hair. She had to keep shifting slightly to get the right angle. 

Only after a few minutes did she realize her hands were bloody, too. Neuro was a bit too used to dull, throbbing pain. At least the red was pretty, almost mesmerizing, as it swirled down the drain.

But sharp, spikey pain was a new friend, and soap was there to introduce them. White suds changed red to pink, and like a new coat of paint it brought a fresh kind of pain.

Suddenly, the blare of a bus horn signaled doomsday. Neuro swallowed, father would be passing out more judgement if she missed it.

She looked at herself in the broken mirror one more time. Her left middle tooth was missing, like a family photo with the mom cut out. 

Neuro smiled and tried to look happy. 

She failed.

She took a deep breath in, then out.

Down the stairs, carefully, step step step step, then a dead sprint out the door.

The yellow vehicle of misery greeted her, its occupants suddenly quieting as she stumbled on.

Then, there was laughter. Pointing. Jeering. 

Their words didn't leave bruises. Somehow, that was worse.

Neuro could only blame herself for not washing her hair well enough.

Neuro was alone again in her house.

Her house.

That didn't feel right. 

She'd gotten better over time at contextualizing things. Words weren't a puzzle, they were a tool. Tools were meant to be used. The key was finding the right tool for the job. 

If the house was hers, then that meant she belonged there. But Neuro didn't belong anywhere.

The house. 

There. That felt better.

It was a house she lived in, but it wasn't hers. It wasn't home.

Her stomach reminded her it was time to eat. A yawning void that never seemed to be sated or happy, only temporarily at ease. 

Neuro could relate.

The kitchen wasn't hers, either, but she supposed that just meant her father allowed her to eat his food.

She poured a bowl of cereal but found the fridge the familiar sort of empty.

There was rum, some baking soda, and ketchup. But there was no milk. It wasn't at all what she wanted.

So, it was empty.

Milk went with cereal. But milk was a liquid, so... why not water?

The tap water was slightly murky, but that was normal. Clear and transparent surfaces only invited the spiders in.

It only took one bite to find out water did not go with cereal. 

Bitterness, resentment, disappointment, it was hard to pick the right word. They all seemed to fit.

A second bowl was poured, dry. 

Stale.

Neuro decided on disappointment.

"I made you."

Her father often said those three words, like they explained everything.

I. Made. You.

Neuro had discovered you could learn a lot about other people from the words they used. Each sentence was a little mystery, the words a trail of clues.

'I' referred to him. Her father. Her creator. That was simple enough.

'Made'. Past tense, construct, form, cause something to exist. Her father had created life.

'You'. This was the tricky part.

Her father was referring to her. To Neuro. 

He used to say this to her sister, too. But her sister was gone.

"The failed side project."

Only Neuro was left.

But... who was Neuro? She wasn't exactly born. She was designed, like some kind of expensive brand.

She didn't feel like she was worth much, now.

Maybe at one point she was shiny, polished, or new. But she'd been worn and worn down.

There was something charming to that. Clothes that had stubbornly survived despite all odds, like they spat in the face of their creator and demanded they still exist.

But Neuro didn't ask to exist. She didn't spit in the face of her creator. She didn't ask to be given emotions, feelings, pain. 

Her father had mentioned she used to be a lot dumber. A lot less emotional. A lot less real.

Why couldn't she go back to that?

Could she go back to that?

Existence was pain.

Neuro wanted the pain to go away.

She spent a lot of time thinking about this, over and over and over.

More words, words, words.

Eventually, the truth revealed itself.

She pulled the trigger, and her last thoughts were wondering if the spiderweb would be red this time.

Chapter Text

The cemetery was a maze of tombstones, with cracked cobblestone paths branching off seemingly at random, leading to uneven rows of graves. Dead ends led to dirt desire paths that trailed away. 

After finishing their business here, most wouldn't care to navigate the web of dead flowers, unwashed rocks, and painful memories.

Evil's feet carried her forward, black umbrella in hand to shield her from the harsh morning sun's rays. An unnatural but not unwelcome quiet left her heels clicking clearly against the cobblestones. 

Not even crickets dared disturb the dead.

Her eyes glazed over the graves as she walked past. Many were simply marked with a name and a date, like that was all someone's life led to. 

You lived, you died, and then you became some etching on a stone. Maybe if someone liked you enough, they'd visit and clean your stone. Maybe they'd bring you flowers, for some reason. 

Dead people couldn't enjoy flowers, and so Evil could only wonder why people brought them.

She stopped. 

Her grip tightened on the bouquet of white carnations, her eyes looked upward to check for rain. 

Still sunny.

Taking a deep breath in, she kept walking.

Some graves weren't even marked. Or maybe they were, at some point, but they'd faded like memories. Without remembrance, being etched in stone no longer meant forever.

And if graves were where the dead came to rest, then this place was the burial ground for graves. There was more moss than grey on many of them, and chips and cracks decorated them like weathered waystones.

Nobody paid to maintain them, and nobody paid attention to them.

Except Evil, at least today.

She stopped again, and tried to take a deep breath but choked. Melancholy overwhelmed her. Strength left her legs and she quickly sat on a fallen tombstone. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged herself, shaking. 

Her umbrella now fallen, the sun in her eyes, she put her face in her arms and wept.

She couldn't do this. 

She'd spent the past week absolutely miserable just thinking about it. Thinking about coming here. Reliving memories she'd spent her whole life trying to forget.

"She's dead, by the way."

"Who?" 

Her father grinned, his mouth open, teeth baring. "Who else? Your pathetic sister. Looks like you weren't my worst failure, after all."

But she couldn't forget. If time heals all wounds, then the past cuts deepest. Tears bled like mental scars opened again. 

She sniffled, then got up, her legs now numb. Grabbing her umbrella, she reminded herself that crying is not weakness. 

After getting emancipated, it had taken years to unlearn her father's teachings. Years of perspective, therapy, and found family. And even still, his presence lingered.

Evil looked up at the sky, no sign of rain.

She started walking again.

Eventually, she arrived at the back of the cemetery. 

Being furthest from the entrance, even the desire paths had given up and were more suggestions than anything. Where the weeds grew least became the way forward.

Her heels now muted, only the rustling leaves of the large oak tree filled the silence. And under the cold embrace of its shade, she found the second smallest tombstone in the cemetery.

She closed her umbrella.

Hidden at the base of the tree was a small cache of garden supplies, and Evil spent a few minutes cleaning the dead leaves, dirt, and wiping down the headstone.

Most would consider defiling the dead a grave sin, but Evil felt no remorse after she'd etched her sister's name on the originally unmarked tombstone. And now, her sister's name was clear to see for all.

For her.

Evil took out the purple candle— nearly burned down to the bottom of the wick— and placed it on top before lighting it. She added the bouquet of carnations to the base, then stepped back. 

The barest hint of lavender wafted towards her, and she couldn't help but pick at the locket around her neck. Opening it, her sister's passive— but not unhappy— face looked back at her.

"Guess we'll be seeing more of each other for a while then huh?" said her creator.

And suddenly, Evil realized she had not yet reached the limit of her despair today.

"...what do you mean?"

"Why, there's the funeral of course!" he laughed, it was a horrible and grating thing. "Oh but don't worry, I've got the perfect place picked out for her."

"I can pay for it!" she blurted out. "I... I'll handle it."

"Oh I know you would, but I'm her father. I made her. And that means I get to bury her where I want." He paused for a moment, theatrically humming to herself. "Oh, how about the cheapest, furthest, middle of nowhere shithole. Yeah, that sounds right for a failure like her."

A shudder ran through Evil's body, and she repeated another mantra.

Leaving to find triumph elsewhere is not failure. 

This had been the first and arguably most important lesson she'd learned. 

And she ran. First from her father, then from the home that was more like a prison, and finally from her sister, who now lay buried. 

There was no triumph here.

And neither was there any in returning. Returning to ensure he never hurt anyone, ever again.

I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Neuro.

And as Evil's gaze lingered on the smallest unmarked and unkempt grave next to her sisters, a spider spun a web in the corner.