#He's out there | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whumpupthejam · 1 year

Text

Running For It - pt. 1

// A/N: If you saw this fic the first time I posted it, no you didn’t lol. It needed... fixing. It...wasn’t right. Lol. Anyway, yada-yada, here’s the Marcus boy, back again as I promised! I’m planning three parts to this currently, and parts 2 & 3 are already underway. I also have a few Other Things up my sleeve when it comes to this lil story-verse. I just really want to write for all these guys again, and I had a surprise burst of inspiration, so we’re running with it, bc that’s what you do, right? Thanks for reading, you don’t know what it means to me. :) //

Marcus’s stomach churns with dread. Half his instincts tell him to just go back downstairs--not to try anything stupid. If the Man catches him, he knows he’ll be better off dead than facing whatever he’ll put him through. But the other half of him whirs with hope and excitement. If he stays where he is--just to, what, play safe?--he might never get another chance like this.

If he stays, he’d rather be dead anyway.

He steps carefully. There are a few chairs and a coffee table he has to maneuver around as he makes his way through the living room, silent as a mouse.

He struggles to even out his breaths, but it’s difficult when he’s still in so much pain. Every breath in and out aggravates the wounds he acquired in this afternoon’s session. It’s a miracle he’s even upright.

Evidently, the Man assumed he’d be too broken down to even move for the rest of the night. Either that, or he simply forgot to lock the door behind him, in some bizarre lapse of character. And yet, he had left it unlocked. Marcus had listened for the clank of the bolt, straining his ears as he always did--hoping against hope. But it had never come. And when he’d forced himself to crawl over to the door, using the handle to drag himself up, it had opened for him.

After that, it was only a game of waiting. Of staying quiet and sitting tight until enough time had passed that Marcus was willing to take the plunge in hopes that it was nighttime and the Man had fallen asleep. And when he’d reached the end of the bleak hallway and climbed the stairs, pushing the door open silently at the top, he’d seen he was right.

The house is dark, the only sounds are those of a softly ticking clock, and the structure itself moaning and whining as the wind pushes it about.

When he reaches the entryway of the house, he stands for a couple moments, staring at the door, drawing shuddering breaths and thinking. He’ll have to get this exactly right the first time. He needs to be smart. He draws the curtain aside from the big front window and peers out. The moonlight is gentle on his eyes and on his skin as it washes him. Everything outside is outlined sharply in shadow, and the pane of the window is cold, a halo of fog forming around his fingertip as he touches it. Across the street, there are some thick woods. He can see only one house nearby, but in the distance, he sees that the little road the two houses are on connects to a bigger road. Where that leads, how far it is to the nearest town, he’s not sure.

His eyes narrow on the car parked in the driveway.

Silently, he creeps back into the rest of the house, to the kitchen this time.

He glances around, not wanting to move too much. The floor is made up of wide slats of wood, and he doesn’t trust it not to creak at the worst possible moment. In the kitchen, there are only normal things. A kettle on the stovetop, a tea canister not far away. Nestled into the corner are a few cookbooks, with many tattered sticky notes pressed between the pages. There’s a butcher’s block with a full set of knives. Pans hanging on the wall. Orange oven mitts on the counter. A slowly dripping faucet. Potted plants in the window. There’s even a small circle display case with what look like brownies inside. It even looks like some have been eaten. On the fridge, hanging by a magnet, there’s the beginnings of a grocery list: milk, and fabric softener.

He lets out a low breath. This could be anyone’s home. Any normal person might have collected these things and arranged them in a way that made them happy.

His eye snags at last on a bit of metal glinting in the pale light from the kitchen window. A keyring hangs by the back door. Bingo.

Just to the left of the door is a set of stairs, and Marcus somehow knows they lead up to his bedroom. He imagines he can hear soft snores coming from up there and it briefly reminds him of his father. He hisses through his teeth and shakes that thought loose before it can linger.

The injuries on his front and back pulse with heat as he takes a slow step into the kitchen. Nothing. Silence. He takes another, and it’s the same. He eyes the keyring across the room. He just needs to reach those keys.

His weight shifts and the floorboard suddenly pops loudly beneath his foot, freezing him on the spot. Any heat disappears from his body, his senses flipping into overdrive as he listens carefully.

The clock tick-tick-ticks from the living room. The wind moans against the windows of the house. The only other sound he can hear is a fly buzzing against the kitchen window, desperate to get through the glass. Stupid thing. He has an idiotic feeling of sympathy for it.

Marcus lets his shoulders relax and is preparing to take another step toward the keys when he hears a creak from upstairs.

A single thought is not spared as he spins on his heel, tearing back toward the front door. He would’ve gone for the back door since it was closer, but he doesn’t know what’s out there. At least he’s seen what’s in the front.

“Fuck!” He swears as his thigh slams hard into a chair on his mad scramble through the living room. He doesn’t let it slow him.

He hits the front door hard, fumbling to unlock it. Suddenly, his memory is jogged and he’s thrown back to that night that seems so long ago now, when the Man first took him. He’d been shaking, terrified as he grappled with his keys and groceries. That night definitely did not end in his favor.

The deadbolt unlatches as heavy footsteps now fly down the stairs--Marcus makes a small panicked noise as he hears them reach the kitchen.

Please, please, oh god, let me get out. I have to get out!

“Shit, shit,” he groans, his fingers moving to the lock of the handle and twisting.

The door swings inward and then he throws open the screen door, letting it smack into the side of the house.

And he’s running.

He can’t remember ever running this hard, pumping his legs to the absolute limit. Everything burns. His feet slam into the asphalt, hurtling him toward the tree-line.

Faster. Faster. Faster! Oh, god, oh jesus fuck, is he behind me? Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!

Marcus hears the screen door rattle against the side of the house again as he passes through the line of trees. He makes a split second decision, switching course and running as far as possible to the right, diving into the first ditch he comes to.

He lies down as far as he can, praying he won’t be visible unless the Man is right on top of him, and further praying that the man will assume he ran forward into the woods, not sharply to the right as he had.

Marcus ignores the way his skin feels like it’s being peeled off all over--ignores the aching chill that has steadily grown in his bones, and the cold sweat that covers him. There’s something wet tickling its way down his body, and he can’t determine whether it’s sweat or blood.

Oh fuck, oh Christ.

Oh please, please, please. Don’t let him find me. I can’t go back--

Not again, not again, not again!

He clasps his hands over the agonized noise that almost leaves his mouth when he hears the Man crash through the trees. He stops breathing and his lungs scream at him. He ignores that, too.

There’s a horrible, sickening moment when Marcus realizes the wind has stilled. The night’s silence stretches maliciously as the Man pauses to listen for him--not even offering the sounds of insects to cover Marcus’s breathing. Marcus bites his lips hard, squeezing himself to stop the shivers that quake through him. Any tiny movement, he fears, will alert the Man to his presence.

“Marcus?”

Marcus’s throat is tight. He can’t breathe, Jesus Christ!

“Well, well. Look at you. You’re not being a very good boy, now are you?” The Man takes a step.

He screams silently, biting down on his own flesh again. The Man’s heavy footsteps through the underbrush send hot skewers through Marcus’s chest.

“I’ll find you. You understand that, don’t you? There isn’t anywhere you can hide from me.”

Is-- is his voice closer now? Is he coming this way?

“Maaarcus,” he taunts. Sticks crack, leaves rustle. “Come out, come out, Little Cricket. You know you’ve been bad, but if you come out now, I might not crush you completely.” He pauses again. “I know you’re not feeling well,” he says sweetly, “So I’ll forgive you. I’ll even do all I can to make you feel better before I have to punish you--and I will have to punish you, you know. Come on,” he says, on the move again. Too close. “Make the right choice, Precious.”

Marcus shakes uncontrollably, doing everything in his power to silence the panicked breaths escaping around his palm. He presses his hand tight on his mouth, tasting dirt and sweat. Silent whimpers fill his throat and he almost chokes trying to swallow them down again.

The Man has to be almost on top of him now. This is it.

There’s a sudden noise further out in the woods. Marcus’s eyes widen. What the hell? It has to be some kind of animal, but it sounds just enough like a person making a run for it, that the Man takes off immediately in the direction of the noise without a word.

Those heavy footsteps fade into the distance. Marcus peeks over the top of the ditch, scouring the darkness for any sign of the Man’s return. He sees nothing.

He wastes no time. The Man has to realize soon that whatever he’s chasing isn’t Marcus and he’ll turn back. Marcus shoves down the pain once again. He can think about it later, he decides, as he pulls himself out of the ditch, forcing himself not to scream as the wounds are aggravated on his stomach. He stands slowly, requiring the help of a nearby branch. He only takes one second to breathe the pain back down before he forces himself to run again.

He doesn’t bother being quiet this time, rushing into the kitchen and snatching the keys from their hook. They’re cold in his fingers, and he’s practically buzzing as he runs back outside and hauls himself into the driver’s seat of the small car.

“Yeah!” He shouts, slamming his hands against the steering wheel as the car roars to life. He bursts into almost maniacal laughter as he backs recklessly down the driveway. Freedom is so close, Marcus can taste it--he can smell it.

There’s a flicker of movement in the rearview and Marcus twists around to see the Man hurtling toward him from the tree-line like a train. “Oh shit!” He spins the car in the right direction and slams the pedal down, tires screeching. The Man's hand makes brief contact with the trunk before the car peels away, leaving him in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

Marcus’s eyes are wide, and he feels his heartbeat in his mouth as he watches his captor grow smaller in the mirrors before disappearing completely. He’s not sure if the Man has another vehicle or not, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care.

He. . . he got away. Can it be true? Can this moment be real?

A new wave of mad laughter bubbles in his throat. He does his best trying to stay on the road as his body is racked with it. In the end, it all went as perfectly as he could’ve hoped. He flicks his gaze up to the stars, tears forming as he thanks whoever’s up there for his escape.

The stars. When did he last see them? It almost hurts his eyes, how lovely they are. He’ll never take them for granted again. Not for as long as he lives.

He shakes himself, his groan long and low as the pain in his body reintroduces itself with a vengeance. But he can’t slow down yet. There’s too much to do.

He has to get to town, go to the police, report this son of a bitch, find a phone, call his friends. That thought alone almost does him in. The thought of hearing Caleb’s voice, or Jake’s. Or Elena’s. God, how he’s missed them all. They’re all that kept him sane these past weeks amidst the torture, humiliation, and misery.

Marcus turns onto a country road that he’s shocked to realize is familiar to him. He thinks this road is one he remembers leading to a small town he’s visited before but can’t recall the name of.

Holy shit. He laughs again, his head light. He knows where he is--sort of. Strangely enough, now that he’s out on the road, he can see that the Man didn’t take him far away at all--maybe only an hour or so away from home! Marcus has driven these roads before, on trips in and out of town.

He pushes the pedal down a bit further, his heart leaping with the anticipation of going home. Home! He almost doesn’t believe it.

Suddenly he’s startled by a high pitched chirp from behind him, and the interior of the car floods with red and blue light. The lights hurt his head, and he squints, raising a hand to shield his eyes as he slows to a stop on the side of the road. He watches a stocky man climb out of the police cruiser and approach. His stomach is uneasy again.

What now?

Taglist (I know it’s been actual eons, lol so if anyone wants to be added/removed, just let me know!): @whatwasmyprevioususername @whumphours

#Marcus Pearce oc #the Man oc #running for it #he's out there #poor Marcus boy #whump #my writing #captivity #implied torture #escape #failed escape #...maybe

10 notes · View notes