"Can you scooch over a bit?"

Trophy blinked slowly, turning slightly to face the person speaking. She smiled at him, reiterating her question.

"Yep, you. Scoot!"

Soap waited for him to move. He shifted over a few inches, and she nodded in approval. She sprayed something over the couch, fervidly wiping it down with a blue rag. He kept his eyes locked on her as she worked. She stood back to admire her work, then looked at him again.

"Okay, you can move back now."

She said with a smile.

He looked at her for a while longer.

"Why did you...Spray the couch?"

A higher pitched voice asked, observing the dark, damp stain on the cushion. Soap turned to face him, waving her blue rag around as she spoke.

"Um? You really ask me that?? You know what's there all the time, every single day, right Paper?"

The hotel's Co-manager shrugged.

She went to reply, but a raspy voice interrupted their conversation from behind.

"BUTTS! People put their BUTTS on there!!!"

"Yang! Shut up!"

The monochrome colored sphere bounced out from behind the couch. Soap and Paper exhaled slowly, unamused.

"I am not wrong!"

Yang reiterated, boasting his claim for all to hear.

"Right, right...That's my point. I need it to be clean."

Soap nodded in agreement.

"But not with spray- stuff! You get something else!"

Paper groaned, looking past the other two objects.

Trophy didn't care to hear their banter. He'd been standing off to the side, listening in on the party cleanup. He did his best to remain expressionless, but he'd taken a seat a few hours ago so his shaking legs were less noticeable. He also did this to avoid being part of that search party for he-who-will-not-be-named. He didn't care either way. He had no obligation to do so. Trophy put his arms behind his head, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. The other three objects watched as it made an awkwardly loud sound, and they looked at him.

"Please don't put your feet there-"

"-I just cleaned that!!"

Paper and Soap asked with varying degrees of volume. He scoffed at both.

"So what?"

He replied.

Paper rolled his eyes and simply walked away, not caring to squabble with him. There were more important things going on.

Soap found great importance in this however, and gave him a slight nudge with the spray bottle. He glared up at her, though she was undeterred.

"Nobodys in the mood for all this! When they get back, they should come back to a nice, clean hotel, yeah? So if you could stop putting your dirty feet on everything, that would be nice."

She said through gritted teeth.

"That might be a step in the right direction!"

Someone else interrupted, though Soap and Trophy smelled him before he even spoke. The distinct jarring stench of blue cheese cut between them, making them both cringe, hardly aware of the familiar sound of a knee-slap. Trophy did his best to keep the anger out of his voice, lest he have an outburst.

"Get lost."

"Haha, get it?? Because- step? Feet??"

The wannabe comedian asked, staring at him for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

"Buzz off Cheesy, I'm having a conversation here."

Soap said with a sigh.

"Oh come on, I was soap certain you'd enjoy my presence."

"Hahahah!! You soap- so...YOU thought wrong!"

They bickered.

Trophy turned away from both of them, kicking his feet off the table. Not because he was told to of course, just to get a little further away from their argument. It was giving him a headache. Or maybe it was just the awful smell. Cheesy was a perfect mix between an unbearable presence and an even worse personality. He couldn't count how many times he wanted to knock his lights out merely for uttering the world's worst pun. What a violent train of thought, a morbid idea to get for something so simple. He ought to be locked away from other people, lest such a violent man be allowed to repeat his offense. He's killed before, so what's stopping it from happening again?

Yes, they should hold you in a padded cell underground, you should be buried underneath the jail. Buried. Buried. Buried.

He tensed as the front door swung open, a plethora of inanimate objects running forth, all with varying degrees of enthusiasm. He turned away from them, trying to appear disinterested.

"I swear, of all the days to run off, he had to pick today?"

A certain hotel manager said with a sigh.

"Aw, cheer up Georgia-Gin, I bet he's around! Somewhere. Round' here."

Another one exclaimed with a bright demeanor.

The bulb took a seat on the couch adjacent to Trophy, laying across it to take up all the space for herself. She didn't even acknowledge his presence, so he had no reason to notice her. He closed his eyes, pretending to doze off. He listened closely to the rest of the scattered conversations skittering about the hotel's main area.

"Nobody just up and vanishes. I agree with Lightbulb, I don't think it's that serious."

A voice added, and the hotel manager had to look up to face them.

"But nobody saw him leave. We've asked just about everyone here, and there isn't a sign of anything."

He replied, leaning against the wall.

"OJ, maybe you should take a break. We can send a different group of people out to look this time."

Paper said, standing beside him.

YinYang raised their hand, rapidly waving it, as if to offer themselves to the search effort.

"Ohh! We can help!"

"No! Why would I care to look for that loser?"

"Must you fight me on every single little thing?? I just want to do anything that isn't staying cooped up!"

They argued between themselves briefly.

"Yeah, this party really fell apart."

Cheesy chuckled, and several hotel-goers turned up their noses to his presence.

"Gosh! Knife really was the life of the party then, huh?"

Someone else interjected, and the manager had to look upwards to face them too.

"Yes, the life of it! And now the party is deader than he is!"

Yang chuckled, getting various visceral reactions from the crowd.

Trophy's eyes shot open, the pit in his stomach growing ever so slightly. Lightbulb opened her eyes as well, catching his sudden movement.

"Don't say that. He's not dead."

OJ said without any concern.

"How can you die at a party anyway?"

Soap postulated, bringing a hand up to her chin to think.

"M-maybe h-he died of b-b-boredom."

A voice from behind her just barely stuttered out.

A collective chuckle sounded out from the crowd, but OJ shut it down quickly.

"Stop, stop it."

He looked around quickly. Trophy turned to face the crowd, still seated on the couch. He locked eyes with OJ for just a second. One second, maybe not even that, less than a moment. But he swore it was enough to give him away. That he was so guilty, so obvious about it, all it took was a stare to break down his facade. OJ read him like a book, and he'd call him out in front of everybody right then and there.

They're going to bury you underneath the jail, it's all you deserve.

Buried.

You never think some things are so difficult or tedious until you actually have to do them.

Just sticking the shovel into the cold dirt was a hard task, but it became even harder as the blisters on his hands rubbed and tore from the effort, throwing dirt off to the side in a pile. A couple of times, he accidentally threw the dirt over the body, right into its open eyes and mouth. For the better really, he wouldn't have to look at it if he did so. He was working in a space far too cramped, just over the new grave, himself, and what he would soon deposit in. He almost tripped and fell into it a couple of times, but the shovel kept him anchored into the ground. He watched the earthworms and rollie pollies emerge from the soil, catching a ride on his tool and getting down after another clump slid off the edge. He even saw a spider inching slowly up the handle of the shovel, threatening to reach him. Trophy sent it away with one shake, watching it be flung off into the darkness.

Time had little meaning at that moment to him, but he guessed it took around two hours to just dig out the hole, and another ten minutes to rest afterwards, just to catch his breath. He sat on the massive pile of dirt he'd overturned, neatly seated. His flat rear made the space easier to sit on, as if he was displaying himself like an award on a shelf. He almost cracked a smile, before spotting it again. He dusted himself off, and tried to mentally prepare himself for the next part of it.

He crouched down in front of him. In front of it.

It's not a person, it's just an object. Not like me. Nothing else is like me.

He gently swiped the dirt off its face, leaving it exposed to just stare back at him. A few worms made themselves known once again, emerging from the clumps of soil still in its mouth. Trophy gagged, nearly throwing up at the sight. He put both arms around it, turning it over and repeatedly slapping it on the back. The clumps of dirt fell to the ground, like he was helping it cough them out. He flipped it back over, gently putting a hand over its eyes, closing them, like he was in a deep sleep. He also helped it shut its mouth, despite not getting quite all the dirt out. It didn't matter, and he thought himself to be a bit stupid for taking the time to do that. He was going in the ground anyways, so what was the point? Out of respect? This was probably the second most disrespectful thing one could do to a dead body, besides cutting it to pieces and running it through a wood chipper.

Trophy picked it up, carrying the corpse bridal-style. He'd intended to just kick it down into the hole, but something about that made him uneasy. He resented this position just as much, but decided it was fine since it wasn't a living, breathing person. Anything that wasn't physical intimacy was not weakness. In fact, it took a very strong person, both mentally and physically to do what he was doing. That was what he told himself to feel better.

Standing over the open grave, he brought it down slowly, resting it neatly in the dirt. It was then he noticed he hadn't dug deep at all, just enough for him to rest inside. His arms and legs still stuck out awkwardly, though at least with his eyes shut, it appeared still like he was just taking a nap in an extremely uncomfortable position. Trophy let out a groan, putting his hands over his face in frustration. He gritted his teeth. There could be no more time wasted on digging, someone was bound to turn up here eventually. He had to get this over with. For the sake of his own sanity. With a shout of fury, he violently stomped down on the corpse. It dug slightly deeper into the hole, and even more so as he kept stomping, over and over again, more forcefully and frantically. Realizing he was getting nowhere with this strategy, Trophy wielded the shovel once more, bringing it down over the body's legs, breaking them to properly fit into the small grave. He heard them crack and bend in directions they shouldn't normally be able to, and went to do the same with the hands, but found he did not possess the strength to even grip the shovel any longer, letting it fall to the ground.

He crouched beside the grave, posing the body's arms across itself, trying to fit them properly. There was no way it would fit, none at all. They didn't even fit at his sides, the space was too narrow. He gripped the hand tightly, not caring for how the gesture looked. He gritted his teeth in frustration, staring daggers at it.

"Get. In. There. Right. NOW."

He spoke, seething with desperation and panic.

Trophy balled up the corpse's hands into fists, crossing the arms again, as if doing the same thing would wield new results. The sheer anger he was emitting threatened to set him alight, and he knew he'd snap again, disregarding all remaining respect for the dead. He jumped back, away from the hole, and raised the shovel over his head, threatening to beat it into submission once more. And yet he couldn't. Something was preventing him, like some invisible force, a break in his code, so to speak, that would not let him repeat his past offense. This wasn't tough, impressive, or manly in any way shape or form. It was frightening. He threw the shovel down kicking clumps of dirt up in his little temper-tantrum.

Just when he'd nearly had enough, when his mind was about to cave into itself, he thought for a moment. Trophy ran back towards no-man's land, running to the same place he'd produced his implement for digging.

Hotel OJ had a small shed just behind it, somewhere between the back exit and the garden that was planted by who knows and who cares. He went into it, searching for something to aid in his dilemma. He looked at the various tools and materials. Planks of assorted wood, a few screws he almost stepped on, and of course power tools all scattered about. The wooden planks were there from OJ's construction of the shed itself. Trophy assumed he wanted to build it out of necessity or to just to prove himself in some respect, it was a labor he took on all by himself, and it showed. It was a very crummy construction job, and Trophy felt claustrophobic just staying there for more than five minutes at a time.

He considered the various power tools, saws, drills, even a chainsaw laying there for anyone to use. Trophy was not unnerved by the sight of it, moreso what train of thought spawned by its presence.

That would make quick work of those arms.

He grabbed the nearest wooden plank, carrying it over his head and running back out. Trophy looked more or less like an odd turtle as he hobbled back into the woods, only setting it down upon arriving at his previous destination.

There was hardly any hesitation as he threw the plank over the body, pressing it down to flatten it into the dirt. There was still a struggle of course, and he had to entirely lay across it to finally get it down deep enough. It finally worked, and he smiled as he'd successfully entombed his enemy in a shallow grave. He started to laugh, laying there for a moment to catch his breath.

He sprung up quickly upon realizing the only thing separating him from laying across a man's chest was a piece of wood. The plank, that is. He chuckled, realizing how skewed his morals and priorities were at the moment. Not wanting to think at all anymore, he started shoveling the dirt over the wooden plank, evenly spreading it over the grave.

All hidden. Out of sight.

"Well whatever happened, we need it sorted fast."

OJ finalized, making Trophy snap back to attention.

He looked around, noticing more objects had taken seats around him, making him feel slightly more observed and claustrophobic. He lowered his gaze, pretending to doze off again.

"Oh yeah, let's all just cancel the whole party because Knife wanted to run away and do whatever it is he's doing!"

Someone remarked sarcastically, so loud and obnoxiously right next to Trophy's 'ear,' He wanted to glare over at them, but just didn't have the will to do so at the moment.

"I'mmmm gonna have to agree! Why are we taking this so seriously?"

A much higher pitched voice said, taking a seat next to the previous speaker.

"Because it's not like him."

Someone responded, one who stood at the center of the crowd of objects.

"Knife really isn't the kind of guy to just sneak off and not tell somebody about it. He's not secretive."

The speaker looked off to the side.

"Pickle, again, stating the obvious."

OJ nodded along, extending a hand to the aforementioned in agreement.

"D-do y-you think maybe we can just-"

Someone stuttered out.

A sneeze rang out from the crowd, interrupting them.

Trophy slowly craned his neck to the side, eyes following the trail of green to the end of the couch, catching sight of the sickly, pathetic, sniveling creature that clung to it for support. It wiped its 'nose' with one arm, looking up at Trophy.

"Sorrey."

It muttered.

A soft sigh ran through the sea of objects, though most bit their tongues, giving him a half-smile. Cheesy was the first and only one to greet them.

"Hi Sneezy!"

He said with a smile.

Tissues nodded to acknowledge his presence, then spoke up to the crowd.

"Maybeee..."

He coughed, then proceeded.

"Maybe Knife is just...Uh...Nawt feeling like partying..? Oim sure nawt..."

The tissue box stated, pulling a piece of fabric from his head and wiping down the couch. Soap cringed, watching him smear the mess further. She wielded a broom, poking him gently on the side with it.

"HAHA!! Okay that's enough! I'll get that later, thank you!"

She said frantically, making the shorter one drop his snot-stained rag. He coughed a few more times, each making Trophy grit his teeth impatiently, begging for the chance to stand up and walk away. He'd been looking for the chance to slip away undetected, to finally rest after a long night. A night that had gone on way longer than he'd hoped it would. But the world didn't want him to rest, evidently. He had to put up with the same monotonous, irritating routine of everyday life. Trophy couldn't believe that back then, in that forest, he longed for it as a distraction. It was just making everything infinitely worse, like a weight in his head, slowly threatening to sink him completely.

He couldn't count just how many times he'd woken up in the middle of the night covered in snot and other disgusting things, all thanks to no other than the hotel's one and only 'Sneezy.' This was a name bestowed upon him, it just stuck, and he could never quite wipe it away, or maybe he just did not possess the energy to correct people or fight against it. To simply give up like that. A weakness that his roomate despised.

Just being near him made Trophy feel sicker.

Like a meek, obedient dog, he let people call him whatever they wanted. He could be ordered around and not fight back in any meaningful way, other than words, as the snotty devil was known for having a sharp tongue, so to speak. Very sassy and arrogant when he was feeling slightly better, and completely compliant under the usual circumstances. And he was always close. He wanted to be closer, God knows for what reason. Maybe he longed for that strength Trophy possessed, to be able to put his foot down and talk back. But he'd never get that. He was not made for it, and Trophy would rather rip his own handles off than be that stupid animal's 'friend.'

Tissues attempted to take a seat next to him, but Trophy scooted away as he drew near. This was more than enough to deter him, who simply lowered his head and backed away, making for the quarantine of his room once again.

"...What were you saying, Bomb?"

OJ asked after an unbearably long silence.

"O-oh, I was j-just saying th-that- why, wh-why d-didn't we ask M-MePhone t-to recover h-him?"

He answered.

The crowd was silent for a moment, all turning around at the same time to see none other than MePhone 4, stealing cookies from the long abandoned snack table. He too turned to face the crowd, sugary confections still stuffed in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed them quickly.

"What?"

He asked absentmindedly.

"Can you recover Knife?"

OJ asked, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Ohhhh."

MePhone nodded, then slowly shook his head.

"Nope."

"W- what? 'Nope??' What do you mean 'nope??'"

Paper asked, even more impatient than the hotel manager.

"I didn't get any recovery notification, that's what!"

MePhone responded, matching their tone of voice. He turned back around,​​ taking another cookie from the table.

OJ along with the rest of the crowd made their way towards MePhone, surrounding him like a swarm of angry insects. The host looked around, slightly perturbed.

They shouted their objections towards him, some angry, some confused, most filled with concern. MePhone did his best to angrily shout back, defensively putting his hands up and shooing away the angry ex-contestants.

Trophy opened his eyes slowly upon hearing them all flock towards the other side of the room. Finally alone. At last, time to himself. That's all he ever really wanted, to be left alone and at peace. Sometimes he wondered if the fire that was always lit within him would only be snuffed out when he achieved some sort of eternal stillness, a comfortable, quiet, dark place just for himself, a small space only he belonged to. That idea frightened, but also somehow put him at ease. He exhaled slowly, feeling his worries sink away.

Peeking just off to the side, he flinched, seeing that he was in fact not alone. He turned his head quickly off to the side, not wanting to be perceived by them.

In turn, she faced him, her entire demeanor melancholy and downcast.

"Did you happen to see him at all?"

She asked.

He didn't respond, not so much as a breath escaped him when he heard those words. She sighed, shaking her head in defeat.

"I thought so..."

Her eyes scanned around the room slightly. A one-sided conversation between two people that did not wish to be in one another's presence, not for who exactly the other one was, but a general, deeper fear of opening oneself up to another living person. She spoke again, trying to steady her nerves.

"I just don't know..."

She trailed off.

"...Who else to turn to."

He scoffed.

She shut her eyes, cringing before continuing.

"You can forget I even spoke to you after this if you want, I just need someone to hear. Someone to just listen."

She spoke firmly, not intent on grabbing his attention, just making her intentions known, as well as her presence.

"Why do you think he'd run away at a time like this?"

She asked, not to him in particular, as she was looking up to the ceiling as she spoke.

Trophy hung his head, arms rested over his knees, trying his best not to emote whatsoever.

"I bet...I bet he was more nervous than he let on."

She suggested.

"He's putting on a...facade of a 'tough guy.' But I bet inside..."

He peered upwards at her ever so slightly.

"...He's just scared."

She said with a hint of sympathy.

"I should ask him when he comes back."

Trophy bounced one leg up and down, tapping rhythmically and continuously.

"Yeah, he needs to know that there's nothing to fear. We shouldn't be scared of this show anymore."

Shut up.

"And after today, we can just act like it never even existed..."

Trophy put his head in his hands, breathing hard. She turned to look at him again, tilting in confusion.

"What's the matter?"

She asked meekly.

Peering over at him, she remarked in a slightly louder tone.

"There is a flower in your head..."

She even pointed it out with one foot, but he smacked it away without a second thought. She let out an 'eep!' and scrambled backwards. She walked right up to him once more, now staring more intently at him.

Staring silently, judgingly.

He was shaking his head slowly, still unable to face her. He just wanted her to be quiet. Everyone to be silent for once, and leave him be.

What do flowers mean? 'A flower in your head?' Is that a joke? She had to be subtly mocking him, or maybe she already knew. A part of him wanted to confess to her, tell that stupid girl that she was an idiot for thinking he'd still be alive, that there was any shred of hope that he was still around.

And then something clicked.

'I didn't get any recovery notification, that's what!'

It was at that moment he came crashing down, audibly gasping for air, gripping the couch's edges for support. Try as he might, he just couldn't breathe. She sprung up, standing atop the furniture, her concern growing with each passing moment.

"Hey! Hey what- what's wrong? What are you-..."

She trailed off, at a loss for words.

I didn't get a recovery notification.

Didn't get a notification.

Didn't get it.

Didn't get one.

Not one.

He wanted to turn off his brain, stop himself from coming to that conclusion, that miserable, morbid train of thought that stole the air from his lungs and made him weak in the knees. He couldn't bury his guilt far enough, evident by his severe over-reaction. The suitcase inched closer to him, trying to form her own thoughts regarding his strange demeanor.

The crowd around MePhone was starting to take notice of his behavior as well, watching him make his way out of the room and towards the kitchen. Every step sent shivers up his spine, legs having fallen asleep, the only feeling produced when making contact with the floor was a wave of pins and needles. She still trailed behind him, watching as he clung to the kitchen sink, head hung over it precariously.

"Do you-..."

She started, unsure if she should finish her sentence.

He looked back only once.

It was enough for her to read him, his eyes giving him away so subtly, yet so clearly. Her eyes went wide with the realization, and she let out the truth before she could even try to stop herself from speaking.

"Do you know something?"

Trophy turned back around, throwing up in the sink quite violently. He coughed, paused, then let the rest of it out. He was having trouble catching his breath, though found the strength to reach aside to wipe his mouth on the nearest cleaning rag. Averting his eyes from her gaze, he stormed out of the room, making a beeline for the stairs. She bolted after him, shouting accusations forth.

"WAIT!! Come back! What do you– What do you know?!"

She called out, stealing the attention from MePhone 4 away long enough for him to sneak away.

Trophy didn't look back as he ran for his room, running from the accusations he was dreading to hear, what he was too stubborn to even acknowledge, even if it was staring him right in the face.

He was running, almost tripping on one of the decorative carpets laid across the hallway. He kicked at it in frustration, though he scraped his foot against the tile, stabbing a splinter right into it. He more or less hopped one one foot the rest of the way to his room, slamming the door shut. Trophy sat on his unmade bed, kicking the rest of the covers off the side.

The stabbing pain he felt momentarily took his mind elsewhere, anywhere else that wasn't the current situation was welcome. He brought one foot up on the bed, feeling around for the accursed thorn. He could feel it, but not quite grasp onto it and remove it. He tried again and again, cringing and muttering obscenities under his breath. Is that what it feels like? He'd never gotten a splinter before, but today was about a lot of firsts. First time he'd hidden a body, first time a girl spoke to him unprompted, and the first time he was going to rip his own foot off to pry this horrible splinter out if it was the last thing he did. Maybe he stepped too hard, and the damn thing went all the way in. That's hard to hide. The pain isn't easy to keep away when it's your own. Did that plank have any splinters? Did he cover his biggest mistake in a tomb of a thousand small spikes, keeping him sealed inside forever, or at least until it came back. Surely by then he'd be buried as well, buried underneath whatever jail they'd throw him in. Maybe it's a cozy place. One where he couldn't be bothered. He'd finally be left alone. But it still hurts, and it's always gonna be there. That splinter is always going to hurt and leave those waves of stinging, sharp pain every time you take a step. You can hide anybody else, but not yourself.

He gritted his teeth so hard he thought they might break. The room smelled of sickness. It was damp and humid, it always was. But now, going out means the end. Not knowing restraint, not accepting finality. Unable to really wrap his head around 'forever,' a creation that was made for a finite purpose and dumped into the garbage when he was no longer useful, he cried out, screaming as he punched the side of the bedframe in frustration. His hands stung too now, shaking and twitching from it. He reached back down again, trying to free himself of the splinter once again. A thorn in his side, nothing he hasn't lived with before. That stupid, ill animal always had something to do, something to say to ruin his day, everyday, without fault. Trophy thought he derived some form of sick pleasure from it, but grew to realize it was nothing more than his twisted form of 'affection.' Sneezy always wanted something from him, be it friendship or just his presence. It was disgusting, it was sickening, and made him feel funny in a bad way. At least he thought it was in a bad way. What kind of person just offers friendship? Who would be so stupid, so brainless to think that's how the world works.

He finally got a good hold on it and pried it out, the piece of wood no bigger than an eyelash. He flung it across Sneezy's side of the room, hoping he'd step on it on his way to bed. Maybe it'll stay stuck there, get infected, and kill him. Would that make Trophy a serial killer? Killing one person can be an accident, killing two people isn't a mistake. But that didn't happen. Can one be persecuted for just thinking things? Are thoughts a reflection of the kind of person you are, or do actions speak louder? Why didn't he just fess up when he did it?

It was a mistake at the moment, but then he tried to hide it. That was enough of an admission of guilt. The kind of person he was, that was clear to anyone that had spent more than a day around him. But this was a kind of limit he didn't see himself reaching, so would it be shocking? That square thing would tell everyone what she knew, or maybe everyone else was already putting two and two together, and it was all over. In trying to toe the line of right and wrong, he fell over, smearing the lines until they were unrecognizable. Everything hurts, and everything stings. But that isn't what hurt the most. It was what he'd been trying to avoid with his own frenzied, mad thoughts, a simple conclusion he didn't want to accept, the unforeseen consequences of his actions.

I didn't get a recovery notification.

They're going to bury you under the jail.

He's just scared.

Just remember, you're a jock, and I'm a jerk. You never had a chance against me from the start.

A cabin in the woods, a Saint Bernard, a warm fireplace waiting for him after a long day of work. That was his reward. There was something good to look forward to. There was always a reason to keep getting up and going, just to feel that warmth after the long day. Even if that dog is a snotty, disgusting animal that causes you nothing but misery, it always comes crawling back. No matter how badly you mistreat it. That cabin, even if not built by you, is your home. You can stay there forever if you want to, nobody has any right to tell you otherwise. And that fire, that light that keeps you warm and safe, it was all around him now, enveloping him in a beautiful, consoling aura.

Trophy clung to one of the pillows atop his bed, trying to melt into that feeling. There was nothing else to do. He was sure he looked like a loser, and he didn't even care. He wanted something to stop him from realizing just how bad it was. That he might have just done something so morbid, and he wasn't even aware until it was screaming at him, repeating in his mind like a broken record.

And he couldn't keep it away.

As badly as he wanted to, It was still there, and it wasn't going away.

They're going to bury you too.

Come on guys, don't argue, I don't want to force you.

Might be a STEP in the right direction!

You need lumber to start a fire.

Cleaning's my life! And when I'm feeling down...

Never got a recovery notification.

Scrubbing the floors always removes a frown!

Never got one.

Do you know something?

I'd rather form an alliance with Mr. Sharp Guy over there!

You buried him alive, Didn't you?

He shoved his face down into the pillow, screaming his head off.

Nvk, P ovwl fvb mlls ihk. P ovwl fvb obya. Iljhbzl dolu P nla vba P't nvpun av thrl pa dvyzl.