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Romance and Death	By : lilvior Category: +G through L > Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy Views: 4786 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Romance and Death

Author: Lilvior

Summary: Mandy tell it like it is; why she is the way she is.

Rating: R

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts and attempts. There will be Mandy/Grim thoughts, but no actual action.

Feedback: Yes please. Flame as much as you want – like I care.

Archive: Yeah, go for it.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Billy, Mandy or Grim. Although I do own a large stash of Prozac.

A/N: Okay, is it obvious that I’m basing Mandy on me for the first few paragraphs? Mandy is nearly thirteen in this fic, so I think anything citrusy between her and Grim would be beyond even my sick imagination.

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They diagnosed me as schizophrenic when I was eight. Personally I think they were wrong. I only wrote a few dark poems and talked about killing people. Talked about I stress, I never had any intention of doing anyone any damage at all in the real world. I kept all the murder and mutilation in my own private fantasy world.

Nonetheless, they sent me to a shrink who prescribed me fluoxetine hydrochloride. That’s Prozac to normal human beings. They prescribed Prozac to an eight year old and said that I was the crazy one. They made me see a counsellor too. A horribly chirpy woman with thick glasses that made her look like some mad professor. The first thing she asked was if I’d ever been sexually abused. Wow, what an ice-breaker. In truth; no, I have never been sexually abused, but did this woman actually expect anyone to say ‘why yes, I was repeatedly fucked by my neighbour/babysitter/whatever’ to a complete stranger? I’d never met this woman before in my life and she was asking things that she had no right to know. She asked about my parents, giving me a doll’s house and three figures and asking me where in the house I’d put my mother and father. I put my father in the attic and told her that he spent a lot of time up there crying. I also told her I didn’t know where to put my mother as there wasn’t a wine cellar in the doll’s house. She looked at me with undisguised concern on her face and asked where I’d put myself. I placed the last doll in a bed in one of the bedrooms. She asked if that was where I spent all my time. I told her ‘no’ and that I also spent a lot of time watching television. In retrospect, I can’t think of where she expected me to be; if I’d spent all my time in the kitchen she probably would have thought my parents had me cooking and cleaning all the time and I would have been carted off by child services. If I’d put myself in the bathroom I imagine I would have been interrogated about my bowel movements. She said I was angry. She came up with some crap about my parents having high expectations of me and that I was upset because I felt I couldn’t live up to those expectations. I politely told her that she was full of shit and that the truth was my father wished I’d been a boy and my mother wished I’d been stillborn. Her expression was fantastic; I still wish to this day that I’d had a camera on me.

They sent me back to see this awful woman every week for a year. I made the most of it, turning it into a game, I aimed to have her needing therapy within a few months. She kept coming up with new and exciting ways to bore the hell out of me. One week she gave me a sheet of paper and some pens and told me to draw how I felt. That was just too easy. I meticulously coloured the whole page in black, the whole time wishing I could come up with something a little more original. It had the desired effect, though.

The strange thing is that the whole time I was seeing this woman, I never once told her the truth; that I couldn’t see a future for myself. All I could see was a painfully long existence with no real satisfaction, no light at the end of the tunnel. I hated school, I was going to hate work, I was always going to be alone. I would have to work hard just to survive and I just couldn’t see what was in it for me.

That’s why I slit my wrists when I was ten.

I didn’t do a very good job of it; I bled a little, but the cuts healed themselves without even the aid of stitches. I wasn’t too disappointed that I didn’t die; truth was I didn’t really care.

I’d befriended Billy back when I was in therapy, I met him in the waiting room, apparently his mother thought he was autistic – he wasn’t, he was just an idiot. I felt as though I couldn’t let this prime example of human idiocy go without my sour brand of friendship. He was perfect for my needs; he never asked how I was feeling, he was cheerful in such a way that I couldn’t possible be jealous of him for it. Not to mention the fact that he would do anything I told him to.

It was after a second failed suicide attempt – this time I’d taken a nice hot bath with my razor-blades – that Billy invited me around to celebrate his hamster’s birthday. I stoically agreed, trudging around the corner to his house. The hamster was fourteen; I only hoped I wouldn’t have to live that long.

I looked into Mr Snuggles’ eyes and saw how tired the poor little bastard looked, but he also looked happy. He didn’t want to die, and yet the inevitable would have to happen some time soon. This thought made me angry.

And that was when the Grim Reaper materialised in Billy’s bedroom.

For a brief moment a thought he was there for me – why else would I be able to see him? But Billy saw him too and I knew he was here for Mr Snuggles.

I challenged him the way I challenge any adult when they think they might be smarter/wiser than me. Of course the fool took my challenge.

If He won, he could have Mr Snuggles, Billy rather stupidly – or more likely, ignorantly – offered to go with him as well. If we won, we kept the hamster. The Grim Reaper laughed at the wager and offered his eternal friendship, as well as the hamster’s life, to us if we won.

It is hard to describe any expression displayed on a scull. He had no eyeballs, no lips, no facial muscles, and yet… The expression on that face when he lost! It was one of those moments that I keep in a very small file of reasons to live.

I often wonder what it would be like to be friends with someone like Mindy or Sperg, but I don’t think I’d be happy. Of course I’m not happy now, but I have a different type of life. My best friends are the Grim Reaper and someone who is almost supernaturally stupid. There’s certainly never a dull day.

I was told once that mixed gender friendships can’t last, that romance destroys them.

I was certain that couldn’t happen with our friendship.

My first sexual awakening came when I was twelve, I dreamt about Sperg forcing himself on me. I repeat; I have NEVER been sexually assaulted. But the dream left me somewhat confused. I had no feelings at all for Sperg, but I did have to avoid him at school for a week or so. But it made me realise that I was becoming a woman, and that – this came as an enormous surprise to me – I had a heart, and one day I was probably going to fall in love.

And that meant I was probably going to get my heart broken. I had no idea how it would feel, but I lingered on the idea for days, pondering the worst kind of emotional hurt. Eventually I decided it would be best to never fall in love.

I tried to kill myself again.

I did much better that time. When I eventually woke up in hospital I’d had to have a blood transfusion, five stitches in my right arm and seven in my left.

Billy and Grim visited me before my parents. Billy had no idea what I’d done, he thought it had been an accident and accused me of being clumsy. Grim sent Billy out of the room and sat by my bedside.

I asked why he hadn’t taken me, I knew he should have.

He took my fingers in his bony hand and looked me in the eyes.

He asked why I did it. I claimed not to know; how could he possibly understand the pure emptiness of life? The numb feeling that surrounded me and the black-hole where my heart should have been. He would never have understood the fact that when I smile, I feel like I’m acting; and not doing a very good job of it either.

But something in his posture conveyed a deep concern.

I had to wonder why he cared; he had never wanted to be my friend, he’d told me he hated me more times than I could count. So why did he care that I had tried to end my life. I tried hard to think of something worth living for, and the only thing I could come up with was the special bond I shared with my two best friends.

I hadn’t cried since I was about three, when I stopped having real emotions, but I felt like crying now. I felt like I’d done the worst thing in the world – Grim looked like he was about to cry. He told me he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t noticed how unhappy I was. He said he could normally smell death on the morbidly depressed. Then he muttered something about being in denial. He wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb and told me he would never let me get that miserable ever again. Then he held me in an awkward yet somehow comforting hug.

I felt safe. I felt warm.

He rocked me until I drifted off into a contented sleep, all the time whispering in my ear, telling me that I had everything to live for; that I was smart and pretty and strong-willed. For the first time since I’d met him, I felt that he wanted to be my friend. I felt his fingers running through my hair, gently smoothing it out, undoing the tangles that had formed since I was put in the bed.

He was still there when I woke up. I really hadn’t been expecting that. My hands had wrapped themselves up into Grim’s robes, and he was now sat in the bed, holding me against his ribs.

I suppose if I had to fall in love, Death was the obvious choice.
End

A/N: Sorry if that didn’t really go anywhere. I’ve been told it’s a comforting read if you’re feeling a bit down.
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Romance and Death