Chapter Text
“Remember, neighbor. Red and blue make. . . Purple! Red and yellow make. . .Orange! Yellow and blue make. . .Green! Now, what do you and me make?”
A brief pause.
“Whatever we want,” you murmur absently, mixing your watercolors to sludge. You know this line by heart and find it comforting, if somewhat cheesy.
“That’s right! You and me can make whatever we want. So let’s get our masterpiece started!”
A sudden noise in the kitchen makes you flinch. A tearful voice breaks; another shouts with venom. Here in the living room, the coffee table’s legs screech against the floor as you scooch closer to the television. You try to forget.
The trouble began with a school progress report. A bad one. Parent-teacher meeting bad. It was read aloud—“distracted”, “attitude”, “aggressive”—and a debate spiraled into argument. Who’s going? Who failed? Whose fault are You? Hushed at first, but not impossible to hear through the door.
Now, hours later, Mom and Dad are in an Everything Fight, both yelling. Maybe they figure you’re too dumb to care.
Not that you do. Your show is on.
“—have no fucking idea what I do for this family. Maybe you sh—“
You turn the volume up louder.
”—like I wanted this fa—”
And louder.
Much better.
The windows are black. The crickets outside are asleep. Your tired mind is mushy. At this in-between hour of late and early, the world feels less real than usual.
The television screen is your only source of light.
Seated so close in the dark, the high volume rings in your ears while the brightly saturated colors sting your eyes. It’s bearable, though. You haven’t looked directly at the screen since Sally’s Silly-Soliloquy. A little babyish, but cheerful, like every skit in this episode. Flower Hour, the Butterfly Ballad, Caterer-pillar, Poppy and Barn Spin a Yarn, and…
Well.
Wally’s art segments are… okay, too.
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 good, too, 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,” the puppet says, 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 are oh so pretty. So, neighbor, don’t you be scared! Apples are easy. First, we make a circle…”
You chew your cheek in concentration as you sketch a wobbly red blob. You glance up occasionally to follow the puppet’s progress, eyes never lingering longer than the barest instant.
It’s stupid, really.
Wally Darling is fuzzy and cute as a button. He’s the main character of your favorite show. ‘Your best friend!” says the sticker on the tape. But something about him puts you… a little… ill at ease. That flapping jaw, maybe? The dull voice of an actor just phoning it in? The way the puppet stares straight at the camera even as he paints, or talks to his neighbors, 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. Then, it will really be out of this world!”
At this, you look up at the TV, and Wally looks right back, his wide mouth opening slightly in a placid puppet grin. Your gut lurches uncomfortably. You chalk it up to hunger.
A scream.
A shattering crash.
You jump, nearly toppling over your paint water.
Someone threw something.
A plate?
“—e’re going to take our white paint—“
Your mother wails. Your father shouts. The back door rips open, slams shut, and rattles windows in their frames. The silence that follows is a ghostly cold 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. It shreds your heart.
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—“
You adjust the volume with shaking fingers only to find it can go no higher. The world on screen goes blurry, and the real one comes into focus. You are Here. There is nowhere but Here. 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 nose 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 you want is to see this place, to hear it, smell it, be in it—
“—u okay, sweetie? Hey h—“
The room is spinning, the walls too tight, you’re drowning, it won’t stop, there’s no way out—
You hear your name.
Like a tap-tap in your skull.
You sniffle. Hiccup wetly. Rub your eyes, then open them.
The puppet’s face fills the screen.
For an eternal second, you are frozen, lungs strangled in an icy grip.
Wally is looking at you.
“Listen,” he says, soft voice crackly with static. “You have to breathe, don’t you? Go on. Take deep breaths.”
With great effort, you break your paralysis to gulp a huge, stuttering gasp, wondering if the paintbrush in your upraised fist can be used as a weapon. The handle is firm, but brittle. It would likely snap.
“There,” Wally croons in the same feather light way. “Very good. A few more, alright? Easy does it.”
The puppet gives you a leery once over up and down, his gaze like spiders skittering along your goose pimpled skin. Horribly, he looks into your eyes. His are lifeless, felt pupils centered and immobile yet focused precisely on yours no matter how you shake.
He speaks again, very quietly, and 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 thin rasp of your voice, you snatch another breath and whisper, “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.”
Despite your shock, there is a prickle of irritation. Breaking reality just to preach about bedtime? A relatively minor offense, isn’t it? Also… “I am not little,” you correct with a sniff. “I’m seven and a half.”
Wally huffs a slight laugh. “Ha. Oh… Excuse me, neighbor. I did not realize you are practically a grown up. It must be because you’re sitting.”
”Well…”
His voice is warm and familiar as a friendly preschool teacher’s. It’s a voice you’ve heard all your life, saying nice things. Incredibly, an encroaching sense of normalcy loosens your death-grip on the paintbrush.
“…It’s okay. You didn’t know,” you whisper. Still, you are skeptical, your pulse rabbity. “How… are you… talking?”
Smiling as usual, Wally tilts his head thoughtfully. “Why, what kind of a silly question is that? I talk all the time.”
“No,” you hiss, clammy brow furrowed. “How are you talking to me?”
“Don’t I always talk to you?”
“No!”
The puppet’s smile twitches, like the grip inside his head has flexed. “How are you talking to me right now?”
“I just am,” you sputter.
“Exactly. 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. Logic fails you. So you accept it with an aggrieved sigh that leaves you slouched against the table.
“Enough about me,” Wally says amicably. His tone goes stern. “The sun is down. It is late. You may be big, but you are 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.
“Then why don’t you go and—“
“I’m waiting.”
“Waiting?” asks Wally.
”Yes,” you croak. A kitchen cabinet opens and shuts. You flinch. To your dismay, your eyes start to sting again. “For… Because… I can’t go—I—don’t—wan-na—see—!” Your throat tightens against a whimper. You’re starving, it’s a school night, your homework is blank, 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 do you have 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 stage gasps. “Gee! Can I see?”
You hesitate.
They aren’t very good.
”Oh, pretty please with a cherry on top?” he begs, hands together in prayer.
So, 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 on your style, passion, and jaw-dropping talent. You eat up the praise, ravenous for it.
“Wow, wow, wow. And we did all of these together?” asks Wally, watching your face, perpetual smile in place.
You nod proudly, smiling a tiny bit yourself.
He whistles. “What a portfolio! Will you be a famous artist like me, someday?”
You consider this seriously. “Maybe.”
He clasps his hands over his chest, where his heart would be. “I am so honored to see the start of such an illustrious career.”
“Pff… h’okay,” you mutter, aiming your pleased expression at the floor.
“It’s true. You’re definitely going places. But first,” he chirps, and shrinks away from the foreground to take a seat back at his easel. “We have one more masterpiece to finish. Then, it’s off to bed. Deal?”
A furtive glance at the crack under the kitchen door tells you the refrigerator light is on. 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.
You stir your paintbrush clean in the 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 do red and white make?”
“Pink,” you answer, already mixing.
“Right! Follow my lead.”
You do just that, eager to please, too occupied with each instruction to think deeply about this whole thing. Magic is real, you suppose simply. All the movies were right. Go figure.
Soon your apple is done, and in your delusional opinion, nearly as good as Wally’s. The pink and white streaks give it a 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 set the 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?
“Bedtime.” The soft drone of his voice makes you jump and take a few steps back. “But first. Take it with you. We don’t want your mom or pop finding out.”
You frown.
“I don’t—“
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.
Wally hums an innocent tune behind you.
“How,” you say, helpless.
“You said so at the beginning. You and me can make whatever we want.”
The apple is dense in your hands. Its stem shines with dew, as though plucked fresh off the tree. Your mouth agape, a questioning furrow in your brow, Wally interrupts before you can say another word.
“Goodnight! Sleep tight! See you tomorrow!”
He blows a kiss. 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.