Upon meeting Toby, you were trust into very unfamiliar territory. It was a long journey to befriending him, the twitchiness of his tourettes, his constant trust issues and the fact that he always felt the need to test if your kindness was fake by snapping or feigning apathy to any compliments. Although, despite everything that made him the psychotic killer he would always be known as, you got to know the sweet, insecure boy that Toby truly was.

8:36 PM

Today happen to be just another average day in the Slendermansion. Lound wind howled just outside the old creaky walls, auburn colored maple leaves fluttering around in small clusters, swept away by the wind. The large fireplace in the commons was crackling as every pasta and proxy gathered for dinner, a few large, cheap looking grilled chicken carcasses sat on the old rusted platters in the middle of the table, their poorly spread sauce glistening under the dim, dingy chandelier overhead.

No one really sat down for dinner, they took their fill and slinked off to their respective rooms of hangout areas. By the time Toby managed to push his way to the table to grab one of the flimsy paper plates and load it up with poorly cooked chicken, Jeff turned, with is usual smug grin, and handed Toby a plate containing two wings and one drumstick. Shoving the plate into Tobys hands, Jeff hums, boasting about his "kind deed"; because clearly Toby could dish up a few scraps of chicken himself. But still, Toby couldnt help but be surprised Jeff actually did something nice.

Jeff: "Here ya are, Tobster, got ya somethin' so you dont have to push ya way through just to get a few grisly scraps~"

Jeff snickers, offering a crooked smirk

Toby: "Th-thanks, Je-eff. Pop Im surp-p-prised you actually d-did-did Shit! something nice fo-or onc-Fuck!-once...."

Toby mumbles halfheartedly, his fingers twitching before he retreats from the small crowd of proxies and pastas, climbing the stairs to his room, the cracks of his neck echoing in the old, dilapidated stairwell.

Once up, Toby shut the door, setting the plate on his nightstand, before unceremoniously flopping onto his bed. With a loud groan and a short string of uncontrollable slurs, Toby grasps at a chicken wing with his scarred, scabby hands, mangle from years of biting at them and cutting them.

10:14 PM

It had been a little under and hour since Toby sat down and actually started eating. He had noticed an odd, chalky taste as he bit into a particular wing, but he paid it no mind. The flavor was too subtle to affect whether he would eat the wing or not. It probably wasnt anything either way, a lot of the foods at the mansion tasted shitty.

He noticed, after some tossing and turning of trying to get comfortable as he lay in bed, his body felt hot. Like someone was putting a heating pad on his abdomen. Toby groans, irritated by this unfathomably uncomfortable feeling. Gripping at his hair, the wind from hours ago continues to howl outside, as if a reflection of his inner turmoil. This was hell. What the hell was wrong? Was the chicken moldy? He hoped not, every entity in the mansion had some of it....Upon lifting his gaze to glance at his bedside table, he looks upon the now almost empty place. Toby bumps the plate as he reaches for his water cup, only to watch a small pile of white power spill from the innards of the cooked appendage. Fuck.