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8-dermestid · 6 months

Text

the (blood) of the covenant (is thicker than) the (water) of the womb

relationship: gen, slender-mansion & reader

word count: 1.8k

links: available to read on ao3

warnings: reader is sent to a mental health institution (backstory-ish, between the page breaks (✸𓅓✸) if you want to skip), implied to be psychotic (me, the author-slash-birthday-person, projecting)

It’s days like this that make you miss your old life, your warm house, and your family, even if they didn’t stop you from fleeing to this new life you have. Your new family, these folks that took you in (cold, wet, and sick), have been doing their best to make it work. You’ve been counting down the days to your birthday, looming dread worsening as time passes. It used to be a day you could barely sleep waiting for, but now you wish you could sleep the whole day away to avoid it; you live in a squatter’s house with more than a dozen people, so space is the last thing you’ll get.

The worst part is that everyone has been acting weird (weirder than usual today, on your actual birthday), and it’s unnerving to see Toby sneaking about the manor and Tim and Brian ducking away as soon as you spot them. Sally’s always giggling like she knows something you don’t, and Jeffrey’s keeping to himself more than ever. Everyone else is treading quietly around you. You’ve been in some sort of sour mood since the month started, and maybe they’ve picked up on your energy and decided to stay away from you since then. It sucks, this sucks.

You stir the food you’re cooking over a hot plate. You aren’t sure how this abandoned manor still has a working socket, but you’re grateful. You pour the contents of the pan onto a plate and sit down to eat, hearing the side door connected to the kitchen creak open and multiple pairs of feet scuttle about the kitchen.

Tim and Brain, the only ones here with driver’s licenses and access to a car, set a grocery bag on the countertop, and a few others are crowding around it, peeking inside with excited looks on their faces.

“Whatcha got there?” You ask, fork a few inches from your mouth.

Everyone’s heads snap in your direction, and Toby and Jeffrey block the bag with their bodies.

“Nothing-–It’s nothing, nothing at all.” Toby chuckles, elbowing Jeff, who pushes the bag out of the doorway’s view.

“Just go away-–” Jeffrey says your name with a pushy tone, and Brian smacks him in the chest.

You know when you aren’t wanted, and even though it hurts to hear that from the people who welcomed you when no one else would, you pick up your half-eaten plate and take it up to your room. You hear Toby mutter something.

“Not cool, dude.”

You stomp down the hallway to your room and slam the door harder than you wanted to, wiping back the pathetic stream of angry tears until your eyes are sore. You abandon your meal on your desk and curl up on your ratty mattress, pulling your thin sheets over yourself. You pull a walkman out from underneath a loose floorboard and tug on your headphones. You pop in a cassette on the A-side and click play, drowning out the sound of clattering pans and the creaky manor as you curl up into a tighter ball on your bed.

You spend a few hours tossing and turning on your naked mattress. You pace for another hour, then contemplate rolling out the window for the next hour and going on an impromptu slaughtering session, taking out your embarrassment and frustration on some strangers in the woods.

You pop out the tape and flip it to the B-Side, then let the whole tape run before picking a new tape and repeating the cycle of blasting music in your headphones until your ears hurt. While you were busy flipping over your third tape to its B-side, there was a knock at the door. They call your name, rapping their knuckles against hardwood. “Open up.” You hear Jeffrey say through the keyhole, beating both hands against the door. He doesn't stop knocking, and the sound grates against your exhausted brain. You pick up one of your shoes and throw it at the door. Like striking a timpani, the impact strikes out against the ajar door, the buzzing sound and the creak of the old hinges almost worse than Jeff’s incessant knocking.

“I’m not coming out.” You say, like a child set on running away.

“Stop being such a baby,” Jeffrey opens the door; he takes a moment to try and soften his tone, “I’m sorry for calling you that… and telling you to go away.”

“Did Tim make you tell me that?” You scoff, curling into an angry, defensive ball on the corner of your bed.

“Do you think I’m some kid that can't give an apology?”

“A little bit.” You want to say with a jeering tone, but you know that’s not true, mostly just coming from a place of anger.

“Well, do you want the apology or not?” Jeffrey asks, picking a scab on his scalp and flicking it into the hall.

“...I do.”

“Okay, good, because I was gonna say it anyhow,” Jeffrey sits on the edge of the mattress and tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves, “... I’m sorry for fucking up your birthday.” He says quietly, one bleach-damaged eye peeking over to look at you.

“How did you know it was my birthday? I never said anything about it.”

Jeff chuckles, his voice scratchy like TV static, “It’s not Hannukuh or Christmas or any of those other holidays. It‘s not like you have any friends to fight with ‘cept for us, and besides, you usually get like this around this time every year.”

You chuckle, wiping your eyes, “You’re right, yeah. It’s my birthday. I never really liked celebrating. People always made too big of a deal about me; too much attention. But now I miss it. I miss being able to go out and celebrate, but I can't go out with you guys, and it sucks.”

Jeffrey clicks his tongue, “Yeah, hard to go out in public with Leatherface—” He gestures to himself—“And every other freak in this house, wish we could, though.”

“Yeah, we could go bowling or something.”

Jeffrey laughs, “Well, it’s not a bowling alley birthday bash, but we have a little surprise for you in the kitchen,” He tugs at his hair, “That is if you are willing to come.”

You sit up and wipe at your eyes again, pulling the sheets off and quitting your moping. Jeffrey

follows you out of your room and walks to the kitchen, pausing right before the doorway. He covers your eyes and carefully guides you through the doorway. Though his hands cover your eyes, you can tell that the room is dark, the curtains pulled shut to block the outside light coming in. Usually, the kitchen (and dining room, it’s where the long table lives) is the brightest room in the daytime, with large, dirty windows allowing natural light to seep through.

Jeffrey pulls his hands back and runs into position (you keep your eyes closed to be polite). There’s stray whispering and giggling as you hear many voices shushing each other.

“Okay," Someone pulls open the curtains, “Open your eyes.”

✸𓅓✸

One of your teen birthdays—thirteenth, fourteenth, doesn't matter; the numbers tend to blur together because they all were sucky to some degree—was objectively the worst. Your memories begin with fighting within your family, and you finally snapped under the pressure and lashed out. It was scary. It was alarming, and people were frightened of you—not because of what you did (what the stress of elaborate and too-loud parties and academic stressors in your life made you do)—but just you. Someone pinned you down and held you chest-to-floor, shouting for someone to call the police. You didn’t even know what was happening or why they forced you to the ground. Everything just happened so fast, all filtered through a static-y blur that makes it difficult to recount.

They sent you away, kicking and screaming and begging to be listened to, but none heard your pleas as the car dropped you off with nothing but the clothes on your back at the nearest psychiatric hospital. Nobody called, nobody visited, and everyone probably forgot you existed, except for conversations of that day over dinner, speaking about it like it was just some out-of-the-blue tragedy—folks whispering about you like you weren’t even a person. They spoke as if you were some demonic thing, not someone’s child or cousin or friend.

You spent time there lightly sedated on a cocktail of medications, isolated and worn down. One of the nurses responsible for checking in on you wasn’t, and you snuck out right under her nose and ran like hell. Hiding under bridges and sleeping on park benches with only your ratty clothes nearly drove you crazy.

Until things shifted, you started to see things (different things than before), and you wandered into the woods and found the mansion. You sacrificed your old life and became a proxy, though as the years went by, you began to yearn for that old sense of security and stability (a warm house, clean clothes, and a nice bed to sleep in, mostly).

✸𓅓✸

“We had a working oven last night, and Brian bought—not stole—cake mix from the store,” Toby said, lighting the candles atop the cake. The cake itself is lumpy and weirdly shaped like all homemade cakes should be, with lots of frosting smeared around the cake. It reminds you of a mud pie from some show you watched as a kid.

“We know it isn’t much, but we may as well try and make it a celebration,” Jane spoke, passing you a silver cake server, “We didn’t know how old you are exactly, but it is the thought that counts, right? Sally helped with decorating, put the candles on, and she helped with frosting.”

Sally nods, bounding around the long table to stand beside you and admire her work.

They all go through a rendition of Happy Birthday, sung out of tune and off-rhythm, leaving everyone laughing. You blow out your candles, ignoring that there are too many on the cake. You pull each candle out, carefully slice the cake into equal parts, and set them on plates, passing them around the table to each of your friends.

For once, your birthday goes off without a hitch. You’re enjoying yourself, and the people around you are having fun, too.

“Happy birthday,” Toby says, passing you a bag. You pull out your gift, “There are some blank cassettes so you can make mixtapes next time we can get into the library. We hope you like it.”

“I do,” You say, trying not to get overwhelmed at how pleasant everything is, “Thanks, guys. I appreciate you putting this together for me. It means a lot.”

There’s a slew of you’re welcomes that follow, and you dig into your cake.

It’s the best cake you’ve ever had.

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