*This is under my folder titled “Creepypasta stuff”. Gacha Club character designs are under my forum titled “My character designs<33”. Enjoy!*

I lose control. I kill children. Sometimes adults, but mostly children. I laugh. I laugh a lot. It’s all that I do, really.

I’m no different than Isaac. Oh Isaac…he was such a sweet little boy. Peculiar, but sweet. I loved him with all of my cloth heart, with every shred of my fabric. He loved me too, a long time ago.

Back when everything was bright, we used to play together. We ate candy, I told him scary stories. We hugged each other. It didn’t matter that I was “imaginary”, because I was real to him. It didn’t matter that I was magical and he was not, because his smile was what motivated me to do magic in the first place.

Then it happened. That day I killed the cat. It was an accident, but goodness. Isaac thought that it was funny. I remember seeing the cat’s mangled body, wanting to cry, but my eyes wouldn’t let me. I was supposed to be Isaac’s best friend, that was what they said. I had to agree with everything he said, I had to agree with whatever he did.

Though I wanted to tell him that what I did was wrong, that I never wanted to kill the cat in the first place, I only laughed with him. God, it was a terrible day. I felt like doing what humans call throwing up. I felt too real. I wanted to go back into the void, to become nothing again.

But I didn’t. I stayed. Me and Isaac hid the body. His mother found out anyway, and she sent Isaac off to boarding school. She blamed the whole thing on him, even though Isaac ratted me out. Some friend he was for doing that.

He was a lonely and poor child. His father was a drunk and used to beat his mother, and his mother took her pain out on Isaac. Isaac, naturally, took his pain out on me a number of times by throwing a fit when things didn’t go his way, but I never complained. I was his friend, after all, and I felt sorry for him.

I waited thirteen years for Isaac to return. Thirteen years. I’m a Jack-in-the-box clown, you see. I had to stay in my box, I couldn’t come with him. He didn’t let me, even though he was the only one back then who could see me. Only he could open the box, because he was special.

I waited and waited….

When Isaac returned, he was a grown man who had a job in building furniture. He had a job, but his parents were dead. His mother was beaten to death in the street by his father, and his father was hanged in the gallows for what he did. He didn’t have any family left.

More importantly, he was a bitter, hardened man, just like his father. He drank a lot, too. A lot.

My joy had diminished greatly during those thirteen years, my bright rainbow colors had faded into dull black and white, but deep down, I still loved him. I still love him. I must have grown with him, I think. Not physically, because beings like me don’t really age, but in mind.

He forgot all about me. He didn’t open my box. He murdered people right in front of me for some time. He had power, control. Something I wanted. Something I deserved.

Eventually, one cold December night, the shelf my box was sitting on fell, which prompted Isaac to check on the damage.

He found my box and wound it up, probably out of some foreign instinct within. I don’t know.

I remember feeling so much hate, betrayal, sorrow, fury, happiness, relief, ecstasy, and shock when Isaac opened my box. I remember there being blood, lots and lots of blood. I was killing him, he was calling me obscenities as I did so. I laughed too, I laughed loud and clear. Laughing is fun. Laughing makes me feel good.

I’ve existed for many years, doing the same thing every single time. Killing whoever befriends me. I have an entire carnival, where all of the ghosts reside. All of my friends, all of my company. It’s never enough, though. I need more. More to play with. More to love me.

Do I like to kill people? Yes and no. Yes, because I get to see what they look like on the inside and play with their squishy organs. Yes, because then their ghosts come out and they can play with me forever. I like children because then I can stop them from growing up and becoming terrible, like Isaac. But sometimes, adults need to be free too.

No, because it feels lonely. Because it feels like I’m never going to amount to anything, never be the same clown I was many centuries ago. Isaac was the one who got me to kill, so by killing him, I think that I trapped myself into a state of murder.

Is anything I do individual anymore? Is it me or is it him? Perhaps it’s both.

I’m a monster, I think. There’s no going back. All I can do is laugh.