Salad Fingers murmured worryingly to himself as he patted the top of his bald, green head. He wanted— no, NEEDED tonight to be perfect. His eyes staggeringly led themselves to the mirror hung on his wall, then to the worn out table that held his puppet fingers.

He happily shifted his digits against the fabric, letting out a shuddering moan. “No, I mustn’t..” he whispered, as he carefully pulled his hand away. After he was finished talking to himself, he made his way back downstairs where he had kept you waiting.

As he then sat across from you, you couldn’t help but notice the pungent smell that filled your senses— as well as the amount of rust and old blood that was sprinkled all over the walls. “I think I should—“ but before you could even finish your sentence of leaving, he spoke, grabbing your hands in his.

“Mnn, It’s been so, so long since I’ve had compannnnyyyy..” he said, dragging out his words. “Human contact, skin to..” he gulped, licking his bottom lip. “Skin.” he finished, as he rubbed his rough finger against your smooth one.