DMH Fiction: Weird

I love it when my latest vision matches the Sunday Scribblings prompt.

“Weird.”

Fozzy supposed he should have had something else to say on the matter. After all, he’d woken up to find a fresh drawing sitting on his desk. He’d been drawing a lot since the accident, it was true. Then again, when all a guy could do was lay around and be miserable, drawing at least filled the time. So what if he’d had to learn to draw left-handed? It had been the sort of challenge he’d been up for.

But he didn’t remember drawing this one. It didn’t look like anything he’d been drawing lately. There were no skulls, no demons, no death. No horror, no screaming. No blood, no bones, no gore.

Nope. It was a drawing of a meat cleaver. Handle down, blade pointing to the left. That was it. Nothing more.

That alone was weird. This was the first time Fozzy had ever drawn something he couldn’t remember drawing. Maybe he hadn’t. But if he hadn’t, who had?

And there was no way he would have drawn on last week’s drafting assignment, either. It had taken him three times as long as it should have; he didn’t have that left-hand thing down yet. It had been a kick-ass project, too, one he might have tried making. He’d gotten an A on it, too. Fozzy didn’t get many As on things.

Now it had this weird hatchet thing drawn on it. You couldn’t see the drawing anymore. Just a few arrow ends here and straight lines there. So much for that A he’d earned.

That made two weird things he’d woken up to. Fozzy would have never let himself ruin something he’d worked so hard on. He wanted to get mad and throw things, but what was the point? His drafting assignment would stay ruined. And if he threw shit, something else might break and get ruined, too.

His counselor would tell him he was growing. Changing. Becoming at peace with the world.

His counselor was full of shit. All he was doing was realizing how pointless it was to have nice things, and to care about them when you managed to get your hands on something. It was stupid, all of it. The only thing that mattered in life was getting out of it.

That brought him back to the third weird thing. So he had a drawing he didn’t remember making, of a hatchet or meat cleaver or whatever the hell it was. It had appeared out of nowhere, ruining last week’s drafting homework. At least he’d already been graded on it. One. Two.

Three; the Hatchet was wearing a red Santa’s cap, complete with white fluffy thing at the tip and a white band around the brim.

The Hatchet seemed happy. But somehow, Fozzy knew better. It was like him: biding its time until it could go for the throat and take its revenge on this shitty life that had done this to him.