Osteologic Desires

Written by:

PetPetAngel

The bones were really quite old now, and he never introduced them to anyone as what they really were.

Most people knew, or assumed, but they–and he–never said it aloud. Many people knew of the frequent visits that Timothy had been making to his mansion–as he was still the Timmy TV star–but even more people knew that after one trip, Timothy never left. They would assume, but they would never say it aloud.

He wasn't dumb enough to keep them all together, the bones. If one saw a properly assembled rib cage and spine over his mantle, he was certain that he would get into some kind of trouble. Deaths were usually hushed over in the community, despite how common they were. People expected the body to be rid of, and after it was done, the entire problem was avoided once more. Out of sight, out of mind.

He was the only one who had ever kept the body.

So he scattered them around the house in several different display cases, creating his own works of art and sculpture out of the bones. If he felt crafty, he would create three dimensional wall pieces out of the longer limbs, slim thighs and sleek calves and curiously shaped arm bones, misshapen from being broken and improperly set back into place. He had broken many of the bones when he had accidentally let the body slip into rigor mortise, but had fixed the breaks quickly afterwards with magic.

Occasionally, he would invite people over simply to bask in the glory of creating new pieces of art from the bones. It was his own personal medium, one that only he would ever properly master. Those who assumed would give him strange looks, scowling mouths turning into false smiles when he passed, as though they thought they could hide their thoughts from him.

He knew what they thought.

They thought he was grotesque for keeping the corpse, for keeping the bones, for being able to smirk and display them, knowing very well that no one would ever dare say anything to oppose him. They thought him morose for being able to arrogantly boast about them, for being able to leave something so glaringly wong in plain sight and blind the whole room to the true nature of the crime.

But when the people all left, it wasn't so artsy anymore. When he felt lonely or gloomy, he would go around the house collecting the bones–often whistling as he went–and would reconstruct the boy by the fireside, attaching old bones with freshly cast magic. With the right amount of patience, he could look at the skeleton and see Timothy as he once was, ten and young and pretty.

He had worked hard to keep the bones clean and to keep them from rotting, decaying. While the process certainly wasn't hard, it could be draining. In the first months, he hadn't put the bones out on display. Too much flesh still remained and the face was too recognizable, so he kept the body in a coffin next to his own, waiting for the day that it would be fit for his purposes.

The butler knew what the real story was, who it was in those bones. Although he had never openly expressed blunt distaste for his actions, Louie had mentioned to him offhandedly that he was denying the boy closure, that he was keeping his soul in limbo, an unfair punishment for a child who had bent so readily to his needs when it was so asked of him.

At those times he would lead the other Anti-Fairy into his room, open the boy's coffin and show him the peaceful look on his face and the small smile on his atrophying lips, the relaxed position of his muscles and the calm posture. He always did it with the utmost attention to detail, wanting to do whatever it took to silence the butler's worries. It would be a shame to have to kill him over something so silly. He had a great sense of humor.

It hadn't always been all pleasant when it came down to it. It had been very troublesome to get the butler to keep the thing–he was long since used to planting the bodies in other homes–and even harder to get another coffin when he supposedly had no body to put in it.

He had once been openly accused as the boy's murderer. The challenging Anti-Fairy had planned to expose him at a dinner party filled with many prestigious figures in hopes of ruining his reputation, but he proved able to do little other than make a fool of himself. After the party, he had gone to the man's house and killed him.

In the beginning, the bones had the odor of death, a smell that–although he was long accustomed to–still seemed jarring to his senses. He at first had tried to mask the scent with magic, but it always managed to seep through. Eventually he had resorted to just opening the windows, and by the close of the first year the perfume was faint and only noticeable when the bone was close to his nose.

He had thought of sleeping with the corpse, as it grew to comfort him in his times of need. But he was afraid of crushing the fragile bones. He had only handled them with the gentlest of care and was worried that one wrong move could cause them to crumble. Over the years the idea had never lessened in appeal, but he had forced himself to control his urges.

Instead, he opted to caress the hard material of the skull, fingertips just barely brushing over the coarse bone that had the most intriguing texture. His only regret of the situation was that he hadn't saved someone else's bones sooner, although he wondered if they would really be that special if they weren't Timothy's.

It was a good fifty years earlier that he had killed the boy and the bones were really quite old now. He never introduced them to anyone as what they really were and the questions had dwindled until not even whispers were heard in the streets as he passed.

Anti-Cosmo was the only one who had ever kept the body, and in the end, it proved itself as a rather gratifying feeling.

Note: Please do not hold this fic against me. I realize it's very touchy in a way, but this is simply the kind of character I can see Anti-Cosmo being. I gave you all warnings in the summary, so no complaints. For those who enjoyed the fic, thank you for reading. :)