Chapter Text
“So, always remember, neighbor. . . Red and blue makes? . . .Purple! Red and yellow? . . .Orange! Yellow and blue? . . .Green! You and me?”
A brief pause.
“Whatever we want,” you murmur absently, mixing your colors with a brush. You know this line by heart and find it comforting, if somewhat cheesy.
On the other side of the kitchen door, a shrill voice breaks while another growls venom. Here in the living room, the coffee table’s legs scrape harshly against the hardwood floor as you scootch it closer to the television. One hand holds down a thick stack of drawings.
“That’s right,” the mellow voice agrees. “You and I can make whatever we want. Now let’s get our masterpiece started!”
“You have no fucking idea what I do for this family,” your father spits. “Why do you always—“
You turn the volume up louder.
Your mother cries, “You think I wanted this fa—?”
And louder.
Much better.
Welcome Home is on. Your favorite show. A xylophone jingle plays, and inside, you see the notes as candy-striped curlicues. Colorful, sweet, a reminder that everything’s fine.
And when it’s not, come and leave it behind!
You like that part. It’s in the theme song.
Seated so close in the dark, the TV’s high volume rings in your ears while the bright light stings your eyes. It’s bearable, though. You haven’t looked directly at the screen since Sally’s Silly-Soliloquy. A little babyish, true, but cheerful, like every skit in this episode. Flower Hour, the Butterfly Ballad, Catererpillar, Poppy and Barn Spin a Yarn, and…
Well.
Wally’s art segments are… okay, too.
In theory, they’re right up your alley. You’ve always loved to draw—people and places, mostly. Someone and somewhere else to be. Pirates, knights, princesses, along with their ships and castles. All of these have a tutorial devoted to them. The subject of this one is now equally enthralling, if only because you’re starving.
On screen, a bowl of fruit is arranged artfully in front of Wally’s easel.
“Apples are my favorite,” says the puppet, tossing one from hand to yellow hand before setting it atop the pile. “Are they yours, too?” He pauses, as if for an answer. “Ha, Ha. Barnaby told me, ‘an apple a day keeps the doctor away’. I’m not sure why doctors are scared of apples… They’re very good, and they’re oh so pretty. So, neighbor, don’t you be scared! Apples are easy. We’ll start with a few simple shapes…”
Your tongue pokes out in concentration as you sketch a wobbly circle. You glance up occasionally to follow the puppet’s progress, eyes never lingering longer than an instant.
Wally Darling is the main character. He’s fuzzy and cute as a button. But something about him puts you… a little… ill at ease. That flapping jaw, maybe? The flatly droning voice of an actor just phoning it in? This doll-like stare straight at the viewer even as he paints, or talks to his friends, or stands in the background?
Who cares? Grow up.
You focus on filling in your apple with deep red, stomach pangs just another irrelevant afterthought.
“Very good! I’d say we’re off to a great start. Hmm… but something is missing. Ah. I know. Apples are shiny. Let’s add a little highlight and give our fruit some dimension. Then it will really be out of this world.”
At this, you look up at the TV, and Wally’s wide mouth opens slightly in a placid puppet grin. Your gut lurches uncomfortably. You chalk it up to hunger.
There’s a scream.
A shattering crash.
You jump, nearly toppling over your paint water.
Someone threw something, again.
A plate?
“—e’re going to take our white paint—“
Your mother wails. Your father shouts over her. The back door rips open, slams shut, and rattles the windows in their frames. The moment of silence that follows is a ghostly echo, deafening on its own. By comparison, Mom’s sobs are quiet. But you hear them. So raw she may have swallowed glass right off the floor. It cuts straight through you.
A tinkling sound, now. Broken porcelain, or…? No, a cup from the fancy cabinet. She’s getting a drink.
“—st a little brush on the side, an—“
Fingers shaking, you adjust the volume only to find it can go no higher. The fight to hold back tears is a losing battle once your lip starts trembling. The finishing blow is the knowledge that tomorrow’s a school day.
Hunched over, heaving, you swipe at your snotty face with a sleeve. You don’t want to smudge your painting.
“—eed to take a break, we c—“
Crying so hard burns your eyes, and squeezing them shut hurts worse, but the last thing in the world you want is to see this place, to hear it, smell it, be in it—
“—u okay, sweetie? Hey h—“
The walls are closed tight on every side of you, the room is spinning, you’re sinking in quicksand, drowning in tears, it just won’t stop, there’s no way out—
You hear your name.
You sniffle. Hiccup wetly. Rub your eyes, then open them.
The puppet’s face fills the screen.
He has left his place at the easel to stand up close to the camera—to you.
You are frozen.
He is looking at you.
“Listen,” Wally says, soft voice faintly crackly with static. “You have to breathe, don’t you? Go on. Take deep breaths.”
Your lungs are strangled in an icy grip. With great effort, you break your paralysis to gulp a huge, stuttering gasp, wondering if the paintbrush clutched in your upraised fist can be used as a weapon. The handle is firm, but brittle. It would likely snap.
“There,” Wally croons approvingly in the same light tone. “Very good. A few more, alright? Easy does it.”
As the puppet gives you a leery once over, you shiver, that impossible gaze like spiders skittering along your skin until, horribly, it settles back on your eyes. His are lifeless, felt pupils centered and immobile yet focused precisely on yours no matter how violently you tremble.
You hide behind your hands. When you peek through your fingers, Wally is still looking at you.
Then, he speaks again, very quietly, at which point it occurs to you that the volume of the TV has been lowered.
“Should you be awake?” Wally turns his whole head to the left, peering over your shoulder. “It looks dark in there.”
“I…” Surprised at the harsh rasp of your voice, you snatch another breath and whisper, “I, I couldn’t go sleep. It was loud.”
“It’s quiet now,” he reasons. “You’re a little one, you know? You oughta be in bed.”
In spite of this shock, you have it in you to be offended. Breaking reality just to preach about bedtime? A relatively minor construct, isn’t it? Also. “I am not little,” you correct with a peevish sniff. “I’m seven and a half.”
Wally huffs a slight laugh. “Ha. Oh… Excuse me, neighbor. I didn’t realize you’re practically a grown up… It must be because you’re sitting.”
”Well…”
The puppet’s eyes are dead. His voice, on the other hand, is warm and familiar as a friendly preschool teacher’s. It’s a voice you’ve heard all your life, saying nice things. Its effect is so disarming as to be totally at odds with the instincts that have you on your guard. Incredibly, an encroaching sense of normalcy loosens your death-grip on the paintbrush.
“…Well… It’s fine. You didn’t know,” you whisper. Still, you are skeptical. “Uh. How… are you… talking?”
Smiling as usual, Wally strokes his chin thoughtfully with a yellow finger, head tilted. “Why, what kind of a silly question is that? I talk all the time.”
“No,” you hiss, clammy brow furrowed. “Right now. How are you talking to me?”
“Don’t I always talk to you?”
“Not like this!”
The corners of his smile twitch, like the grip inside his head has flexed. “I could ask you the same. How are you talking to me right now?”
“I just am!” you sputter.
“There you have it. I just am. That’s not so strange. Is it, neighbor?” In his slight sing-song, there is something suspiciously like amusement.
Gears turn furiously in your young mind to work out some inarguable reason that this cannot be happening, but it is, and logic fails you. So you accept it with an aggrieved sigh that leaves you slouched against the table.
“Enough about me,” Wally says amicably. Then his tone turns stern. “The sun is down. It’s late. You may be big, but you’re still growing. Growing boys and girls need their beauty sleep.”
Your stomach growls in thunderous protest.
”…Oh,” says Wally after a curious and slightly embarrassing pause. “You’re hungry?”
You nod, studying your apple painting.
“Well, then, why don’t you go and—“
“I’m waiting.”
“Waiting?” asks Wally.
”Yes,” you croak. A cabinet opens and shuts. You flinch. To your dismay, your eyes start to sting again. “For… Because… I’m still waiting, for the kitchen, but it’s—it’s—it’s—I don’t—wan-na—see—it…” Your throat tightens against a whimper. You’re starving, there’s a school day coming up, you didn’t do your homework, and the fourth wall is only the second scariest thing that was broken tonight. What about your home? Will it still be in one piece by morning?
You don’t want to go to bed. Falling asleep means waking up. It means tomorrow.
The living room is quiet save for your wheezy sniffles and the soft electrical hum of the television.
“Aw, sweetheart,” Wally murmurs. “That won’t do at a̵̧̓l̸̙͊l̶͍̆.
Static splits the screen with an angry buzz, then instantly smooths.
The puppet smiles. He points at the chaotic arrangement of construction paper splayed on the table before you.
“Say. What’ve you got there?”
”Hm? Um.” Your despair is halved by sudden shyness. You drop your gaze to the stack of paper and take its edges in both hands. “My art stuff,” you answer bashfully.
Wally whistles lowly. “Gee. All of that? That’s amazing! Would you mind showing me a few?”
You hesitate.
They aren’t very good.
”Oh, pretty please with a cherry on top?”
Despite your wet cheeks and the hairs on your neck still standing on end, you shuffle through the drawings for your favorites. As you display them one by one, Wally “ooh”s and “ahh”s, remarking liberally on your attention to detail, style, passion, and jaw-dropping talent. You eat up the praise, aglow with pleasure.
“Wow, wow, wow. And we did all of these together?” he asks, watching your face, perpetual smile in place.
You nod proudly, smiling a little yourself. “Mostly.”
“Get outta town! What, a, portfolio. Are you going to be a famous artist like me, one day?”
You consider this seriously. “Maybe.”
He clasps both hands over the center of his chest. “It’s an honor to have been here from the start of such an illustrious career.”
“Pff… h’okay,” you mutter, fidgeting, looking away to hide your pleased expression.
“It’s true. You’re definitely going places. You know, you’re almost done with that masterpiece we started earlier. Your apple just needs a little dash of white to give it—what, again? It was a ‘D’ word. Do you remember?”
You chew your lip, memory straining. “Deee… tention?”
“Dimension, that’s right! So,” he chirps, and shrinks away from the foreground to take a seat back at his easel. “What do you say we finish it? You and me. Then, it’s off to bed. Deal?”
A furtive glance at the crack under the kitchen door tells you the refrigerator light is on, and if you strain to listen, you can hear your mother’s vague, sleepy grumbling. She won’t be leaving anytime soon. When you look back to the screen in defeat, Wally’s smile is encouraging, although you can’t place exactly what’s changed about it.
Why not. What do you have to lose?
You stir the brush’s bristles clean in the paint water cup. An attempt to crack your knuckles produces no sound. “Deal.”
Wally’s mouth hangs wide open, transforming his smile into a thousand megawatt grin. “Alrighty. Now… What we’re going to do is mix our red and white until we get… what?”
“Pink,” you answer confidently, already mixing.
“Right-o. Pay close attention to what I’m doing…”
For the next minute and a half or so, you follow comfortably along with Wally’s progress. You wonder. . . If you’d spoken to the puppets before, believing they would answer, would they have?
In any case, Magic is real, you suppose. All the movies were right. Go figure.
Soon your apple is done, and in your humble opinion, nearly as good as Wally’s. The pink and white streaks give it a polished, three-dimensional quality that’s next to lifelike. You slam your brush down and hold the paper up so he can see.
He approaches. You await more compliments, and he doesn’t disappoint.
“Ah-mazing! That might be your best work yet. Way to go!”
The puppet lifts a fleece hand to the screen. A high five? How can you resist? Not missing a beat, you put your painting down and tumble over to the TV to slap his waiting palm. You startle at the feel of it—softer than the smooth glass you were expecting. A tidal wave of fresh fear sweeps over you, and Wally watches, as always, as you snatch your hand from his.
From up close… are you crazy, or is his head also three-dimensional behind the glass?
“It’s bedtime. Remember?” The soft drone of his voice makes you jump and take a few steps back. “But first. Eat. Take it with you. You don’t want your mom or pop finding out.”
You frown.
“But… I don’t have—“
He points somewhere over your shoulder. You look, and your breath catches.
Your painting isn’t a painting anymore. Seated atop the paper is a huge, ripe, deep red apple. A hungry jolt shoots through your stomach at the sight of it. You reach disbelievingly, then exhale a confounded laugh when your fingers actually make contact. It’s an apple. A real one. Somehow.
Wally hums an innocent tune behind you.
“How did…” You’re unsure of what you want to ask.
“You said so at the beginning, didn’t you? You and I can make whatever we want.”
The apple is dense in your hands. Its stem shines with dew, as though plucked fresh off the tree. To think it had been merely paint and paper just seconds ago. You turn it over, seeing it gleam in the light of the TV, the puppet’s face reflected fuzzily off its surface. Your mouth is agape, a questioning furrow in your brow, but he interrupts before you can say a word.
“Bedtime! Thanks for stopping by, neighbor. I had a real blast. I hope you did, too.”
All you can muster is to stare at him in stunned silence.
Wally waves. “Goodnight. Sleep tight. See you tomorrow.”
The television flickers off, drowning the room in darkness. Your heart leaps. Apple in hand, you scurry off to the safety of your room.
On the way, you take a tentative bite.
It’s delicious.