Brittany wasn't sure how she'd gotten here, but she knew that SHE had not put those shoes on. She was wearing a very cute party dress--where had this come from? She'd remember this dress. Black and sequinned with splashes of colour. Very elegant! Whose dress was this?
Anyway, she would NEVER have chosen to put teal tennis shoes on to complete this outfit. So something funny was going on.
Besides that, she was in a small round room with a very high ceiling. Wait... make that no ceiling. A well? Was she in a well? Maybe something similar, but with no water.
Designer cocktail dress. Tennis shoes. Imprisoned. And... her hand suddenly went to the back of her neck... her hair had been cut.
This was starting to add up to one thing: Timothy.
"JESUS CHRIST TIMOTHY. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?"
Her voice was echoey. She felt alone, but was entirely unfazed to hear a faint "Brittany..?" coming from behind a round wall.
She gritted her teeth.
"Brittany, I think I'm hurt."
"What the hell have you done?"
"I need a glass of water. And one of my pills." So feeble.
"TIMOTHY WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?!!"
She could feel the heat building up in her midsection. She sighed. Might as well use the rage. "TIMOTHY I HATE YOU!" She cocked her fist and smashed it into the wall... and it bounced back, snapping her shoulder uncomfortably.
Rubber stone walls. Nice touch. Fuck fuck fuck.
"Timothy, tell me what happened."
"Brittany," came the whiny reply, "are you mad?"
She felt a molar crack. Deep breath.
"A little, Timothy. I'm trying not to be. Where are we?"
"I don't know. I don't knoooooowwwww. I was just saying you should dress up more and then you blinked out and I thought I'd help by trimming your mullet..."
"I DON'T HAVE A MULLET."
"Well, not NOW you don't, you've got a very chic cut NOW. But it WAS a mull..."
"THE CHASE, TIMOTHY. CUT TO IT."
"I'm GETTING there," he was whiny again. "So I cut your hair, and you were still out. I was SO BORED."
She remembered now, getting called to the university board to defend her thesis. She'd explained to Timothy that the call could come at any time, but she'd astrally projected without actually telling him when she did. Sigh. Her brother was a mental seven year old. He needed constant supervision.
"So then I thought we should go dancing, and so I conjured you a dress--"
"--which is very nice. Lovely, Timothy."
"--but you know you'd always want to wear uncomfortable shoes and then you never DANNNCE, so I asked Bobo what shoes were comfortable and he said tennis shoes, so I got you some..."
Bobo. The house monkey. Of course.
".. and then there was a flash and then we were here and I bumped my head and I'm THIRSTY and I never got to dance at all. Why did you bring us here?"
Hm. Why did SHE bring them there? She was pretty sure she'd had nothing to do with it. However, telling Timothy that would only make him whinier or panicked, and in either case, he would be no help.
"Timothy are you in a room? A round room?"
"Parts of it are. Round the wrong way. Why didn't you take me with you into your room? I don't LIKE being alone."
"I know, bub. I know. I'm going to try to get us out. Do you want to help?"
"If I CAAANNN."
"Let me use your hand. Yes--" she cut off his interruption,"I know it will hurt, but only for a minute, I promise. Okay."
"I guess so." The answer was definitely pouty. She focussed, rubbed her bare neck again, looked at the tennis shoes and let the anger bubble. Then she closed her eyes and felt Timothy's arm. Slid it on like a glove. Pulled back, and... POP. His hand popped through the wall. Single-sided rubber, as she'd suspected.
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