Title: Ordinary
Author: Amarylis Cemetery
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: All Johnny the Homicidal Maniac characters belong to Jhonen Vasquez; this piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Feedback: Love it, but unnecessary.
Word count: 577
Summary: (one-shot) He was an ordinary little boy, and he still looked at the world with a kind of childlike wonder, wishing to make a difference.
Notes: Kind of just a random fic that came to mind. I like it, at least. Squee's cute.
Squee was an ordinary little boy.

Or so he liked to tell himself.

His stuffed animal, Shmee, often told him dark and scary things. It made Squee want to run to the parents who didn't love him, made him want to cry and hold himself. So he did. Nothing helped. Shmee wouldn't shut up ( shutupshutupshutup! ) and Squee played with the thought of throwing him out. But Shmee was his only friend, the only one who would listen to him without interruption. Even if Shmee was an evil little bastard, Squee needed him, so he kept him.

Whenever his neighbor, Nny, came over to play, Squee was just a little bit happier. He was always disappointed in Shmee, thought, because Shmee would always insult Nny and make him go away. Then Squee was sad again, and Shmee just laughed ( andlaughedandlaughed - why didn't he shut up? ).

Squee liked Nny a lot, even though Nny scared him. He was almost always covered in blood, with a manic look on his face. But Nny was smart and understanding, and Squee wanted to be like him, sans the killing. Sometimes, Squee didn't think the killing would be so bad, but then Shmee would ask him if he'd like to die the way Nny killed, and he decided that murdering was not for him.

Once, Nny told Squee he was a flusher, a sponge. Nny had seemed less in touch with reality then normal, but Squee understood. And Squee had just looked at him, smiled, and said, "I'll help you," because Squee admired Nny, even if he did kill good people. Nny left after that, face closed up ( boarded, like his house ), and Shmee just laughed at Squee's hurt.

Sometimes, Squee liked to imagine that Nny was his friend instead of Shmee, that Nny was his own personal sponge, and how much happier he'd be with a big brother like Nny. But then, Shmee would tell him that all of Squee's problems would be much too heavy to add to Nny's, and Squee agreed. His issues would only serve to bring Nny down, and he wouldn't make Squee happy anymore. So Squee just kept his mouth shut and left his fantasies in the darkened corner with his broken toys.

"Todd," his daddy once told him, "You were a mistake." Squee didn't need telling. He always knew that. Mommy told Squee that he was a blemish, a rash, an infection she couldn't rid herself of, so she medicated herself with pot and beer. Daddy told Squee that his life should've been better, would've been better, if he hadn't knocked up Mommy and let her have Squee. Mommy and Daddy didn't seem to care about Squee, but he thought it was all right. Wasn't it normal? He thought it was normal. All his teachers told him that feeling that way was.

Yes; even with Shmee's whispering, hideous, condescending voice; even with his Mommy and Daddy pushing him away, kicking him away, yelling profanity and harsh words; even with Nny, covered in someone's former life, fighting against his own demons and his own existance; his life was normal. He still looked at the world with a sort of childish wonder, thinking maybe, he could help everyone, so Nny wouldn't have to kill anymore, so Mommy and Daddy would tell him they loved him, so Shmee would praise him rather than abuse him.

Squee was an ordinary little boy.

Or so he liked to tell himself.