ultramegagigamax3 - Tumblr blog

ultramegagigamax3 · 5 months

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2: you drank the blood and bit the meat / toby rogers

drive the pathway through the pines

and the moors of mystery

welcome conflict and let the crisis come

and shake the ground beneath

masterlist ~ last ~ next

!!TRIGGER WARNINGS!!: homophobic slurs, references to ableism, graphic murder (duh), sexual harassment/assault (not between main couple), bullying/assault, references to suicidal ideation Author's Note: ~ will be used to warn of the start/end of the SA scene

No, that wasn’t a sign, right? You look at the blood and mud staining the sink, were they connected? No, that kid and this psycho, it had to be a coincidence. Sure, there were certain similarities, and maybe he was a bit of a creep. But a murderer? “Take whatever He gives you with open arms.” You can almost hear your mom say.

Hours earlier

For the nth time that day, you could’ve jumped out of your skin. You yelp and twist your body around, and there’s a boy standing over you.

“Holy fucking shit! Fucking cocksucker–!” Your mouth continues to spit off a variety of curses, very unholy!

“Ack, sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!” He stuttered, though not sounding very sincere. His voice sounded nervous, but the way he held himself didn’t show it. He stood up straight, if not relaxed, looking down at you past his nose. You couldn’t help but feel like you were being assessed.

“Fucking shit...” You’re breathing hard, “What the hell, man?” You looked the guy up and down, tall and gangly with heavy layers, ratty brown hair, a pair of sunglasses, and a bandage over his left cheek. His face is pale and sunken in, his boyish face gaunt, and he almost looks dead. Freaky.

“Sorry, sorry!” He raised his hands in surrender, as if that would ease your nerves.

You groan and place your head between your knees again. “If you’re one of Pete’s guys, twenty bucks and you tell him I killed myself and that he can leave me alone now.” You sigh, defeated.

“Woah there! Who’s Pete? Haha! I’m just,” he pauses, twitches, “looking for a place to smoke!” He sounded cheerful, it’s way too early to be cheerful. His stuttering seems to be his natural manner of voice, and now you notice his hands, shoved into his pockets, are twitching.

“Ughhh…” You whine before toppling over in the dirt, not caring about the mud clinging to you. You curl into a fetal position, as if to take a nap. You’re tired, and you silently pray that this guy leaves you the hell alone. You bring another cig to your lips and feel around for your lighter in the moist dirt. “Look, I know you’re here on a dare, but I’m not in the mood, can you, like, do this another time or something?”

“No one dared me.” Suddenly, the flame alights before your face. The boy is crouched over you, and his hand is as unsteady as you could’ve expected. You cringe a bit, a little freaked out that his twitching hands would drop the flame in your face. But he doesn’t, and you finally take a long drag of your cancer stick, the edginess under your skin melting away inch by inch.

“Thanks.” You mumble though a cloud of smoke.

“Hehe, no problem.” The stupid grin stays painted on his face, and he doesn’t make a move to stand.

“Can you go away now?” You closed your eyes, trying to relax, but the boy’s presence made all your hairs stand on end.

His smile drops and he scoffs, “You’re so mean.” He pouts, and you cringe at his tone.

You shrug, you’ve been called worse. Way worse. “Why are you still here?” You can feel a painful throb begin to grow from within your skull.

“Ah! To, uh, smoke!” He seems to break out of whatever trance he’s in, as he takes a seat in the dirt a few feet away from you.

“Yeah, I got that, dipshit.” You state matter of factly, ouch! “But why are you here?”

He tilts his head. “Because I won’t be seen if I hide in the bleachers?” He replies stupidly.

“That’s not…” you roll your eyes, “whatever.” This was going nowhere. You decide to leave the weirdo be, though you still can’t quite pinpoint what his supposed true intentions are. You take a couple drags, then a beat passes, and you’re almost done with your cig again. He’s still sitting there, he’s still watching, like a fucking idiot.

“Are you gonna fucking smoke or what?” you mutter.

“Oh! Yeah!” He sits back and finally makes a move to check his pockets. He searches his body, his oversized coat, his wrinkled brown sweater, his muddied pants. You try to ignore him, but he doesn’t seem to find whatever he’s looking for. For some reason, he sees this as a chance to start a conversation. “My name’s Toby by the way!”

“Okay.”

“Ahaha…”

…

“… And, what’s yours?” He struggled a bit to get the “and” out.

You take a final drag, dig the butt into the dirt, and pull out a fresh cigarette. You stick your hand out to the boy, “My lighter.”

“That’s a pretty weird name!” He laughs, though it dies in the sight of your stony glare. His gloved hand, it’s too hot for gloves, still holding the neon yellow lighter, tightens. “Tell… Tell me your name first.”

“Are you fucking for real?” Coming out more like a statement than a question.

“Yeah.” His voice shifts in tone. Up until this point, he’s been awkward, somewhat goofy, yet relaxed. However, something about him had seemed to shift. His air becoming serious, almost sinister.

You roll your eyes, “Katie,” you lie, you tried to shake off the strange feeling bubbling inside of you, “now gimme.”

He hesitates, almost as if he knew you were lying, before grabbing your hand and placing the lighter in your palm. He holds your hand there for three whole seconds before you tear it away. Sweaty. Gross. You light the fresh cigarette, breathing it the warm smoke.

“Hey, um…” He speaks up again, serious, the tension in the air thickening by the second.

“What?” You groan, you can feel another headache coming on. You wondered if you should be fight or flight-ing right now.

“Can I, uh, bum a cig?” He adds a little chuckle at the end.

“Last one,” you lie, “sorry. Go find Jack Petrović. I’m sure you can get something real good from him.” You imagined him ending up with that other creep, trying to salesman-pitch him some all-purpose flour mixed with a back-alley “something”. Pete’s guys were probably Jack’s biggest, if not only, buyers, anyways. However, as you glance at him, you notice the twitch that extends from his hands, up his arms, and into his neck and shoulders. You can hear soft cracks at times, when you weren’t looking, the bones popping out and into place. Could he really have been one of Pete’s? People in this school were monsters, they’d overlook you, their favorite prey, to rip apart a kid like this. You felt a pang of guilt.

“Couldn’t I just,” he inches into your personal space, “borrow from that one?” his voice low and whispered, but not from any sort of bashfulness. He sounded ominous yet inviting, like he was attempting to lull you into a false sense of security. Whatever guilt you felt quickly dissipated in that moment.

You stare at him like he had just asked you to join him in assassinating the president (perhaps you aren’t that great with metaphors). You pause as you process the question, before sitting up quickly, “Yeah, no, fuck this shit.”

“Hey, wait!” He panicked, reaching out for you.

“Go find your own smokes, you… freaky… creep!” Wow, Jessie’s creativity certainly rubbed off on you. You grabbed your half empty backpack, shoving the lighter and cigs safely inside, and began to stomp away.

“Wait, wait, wait! I… I have something! Something you want!” He called out.

“Thanks, but I’m good! More than good!” Though you couldn’t help the slight curiosity that bubbled inside you. “Very, very good!”

“I’ve got good shit, I promise! Look!” That caught your attention. You paused and craned your neck to look back at him. He hadn’t moved from his spot in the dirt, as if he knew that would stop you.

“What?” The bait was glaringly obvious, but you couldn’t help but bite. You have a much weaker constitution these days.

He nodded frantically. He dug into his front pocket, the same pockets he had searched for his supposed “cigarettes”, and pulled out a fist full of something. You took a wary step forward as he beckoned you closer, like he was taming a wild animal.

“What is it?” you ask.

“What do you think?” he replies with a smirk, mischievous and inviting.

You move without thinking. Now, you are standing above the boy, your positions reversed. He opens his hand and reveals a small, dirty baggy filled with a beautiful shade of green. The stash wasn’t impressive, but it was something.

“How much?” You raise your brow; you’re holding your backpack tight over your chest.

You look down at him, and he looks up at you. “I won’t charge you this time but… you’ll owe me one?” He lowers his voice, the weirdly intense aura from before had returned.

Your withdrawal symptoms had dulled after puking, but the tempting sight of just temporary relief made you feel all itchy again. Itchy with want.

“Are you sure?” You tilt your head.

“Totally sure.” His voice is smooth, almost soothing.

“Really?” You furrow your brow, innocent.

His serious expression finally broke, a grin cracking across his face. “Uh huh, yes.”

“Fuck you.” You landed a swift kick to the boy’s exposed stomach; your legs are still strong despite the muscle deterioration. The boy doubled over, more in shock than in pain, and you took this chance to snatch the bag out of his hands. He grabbed your wrist, his grip strong but unsteady. “Ugh! Fuck off!”

Through his twitching, you manage to break away from his grip. Then, you ran. You had been on the track team before the drugs took their toll and, although your lungs and muscles aren’t what they used to be, you still had killer speed. You didn’t look back, just booked it. Your weakened lungs burned, your muscles ached with exertion, wind deafeningly whipped past your ears. It felt good, it felt painful, you missed this feeling. For a moment, as you watched the world whizz by, you felt like a kid again. You felt free, in a strange way. You looked up at the cloudy sky, when you ran like this it was as if the world disappeared around you. Should you take up track again? No, it was too late. You went straight for the school, and you could see a couple of your friends already meandering outside. Your cheeks ached as you couldn’t stop grinning and giggling, the rush of thievery excited you. Well, technically it was “free”, to an extent, but still.

You finally glanced back; the boy was nowhere in sight.

You look ahead and there, standing in the courtyard, stood six people. Jack Petrović, only a part-time piece of the group, stood tall above the other heads. He was the first one to spot you, so he raised a huge, sweaty hand to wave. Laney Walker, your closest friend (well, closest friend that’s still in high school), stood with her back turned to you.

“Hey!” You call, but before she can fully turn around you jump onto her back, practically tackling her into a hug. She lets out a yelp and you cackle.

“[ ]! Oh my god, you bitch, you scared me!” She whines. Despite her tone, she turned to hug back, “Where the hell were you?”

“Oh my god, you won’t believe the freaky fucking day I just had.” Your heart was pounding with excitement suddenly. There was an electric current running through your body, but you felt good, restless from delight.

Laney has thin, bright orange hair, and she’s shedding from the constant dye jobs. You’ve been acquaintances since the 8th grade, both of you senior failures. You have only become so close now since you were the only two left. She’s blunt, speaks her mind, and “brutally honest”, or so she claims. Laney clung to greasy playboy Milton Meaux, whose wandering eyes studied every inch of your exposed skin, though you didn’t notice. He’s a quiet guy, and as you told your story of the eventful morning his only comments consisted of “wow” and “shit”. How insightful. (Jack promptly parted once he realized you weren’t interested in buying whatever he was selling, not without promising a discount once you finally came around.)

“Ugh, Jessie’s such a bitch!” sneered Nate Patrick, a heavy-set wannabe-punk child of hillbillies and Milton’s best friend. He has a thing about women, especially pretty and popular ones, he seems to never get along with them. But the two of you got along fine enough, as the two most susceptible to getting in trouble. To you, he was just another annoying little brother.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she was some fuckin’ repressed lesbian.” Tack, or Markus Johnson, drawled in his heavy southern accent, a stupid nickname that you still didn’t know the origin of. He’d be taller if it wasn’t for his shitty posture, constantly hunched over with a cigarette hanging from his bleeding lips. The beginning of your friendship had been quiet, awkward, and based upon your mutual addictions; however, you’ve gotten much closer in the last year. Perhaps too close, as you leaned against him as you caught your breath.

“Are you like… okay? Mariah said you were sick and stuff.” Little Marcia spoke up. Little, because she is the smallest and youngest of the group. Marcia Johnson is Tack’s baby sister, and you had no idea why she hung around you guys. You had voiced your concerns to the group once, that some freshman shouldn’t be hanging around people like you, but no one gave a shit. She’s not a baby. Laney retorted. Yeah, not like we’re forcin’ her to do anythin’. Milton added, one of the first times you’ve heard him speak a full sentence. Tack shrugged, I tried to stop her, as nonconfrontational as ever.

You shrug and awkwardly nod at Little Marcia, crossing your arms as you begin to pace absentmindedly. “Yeah, just needed to puke, s’all…” you sniffed, cleared your throat, then shook your head, you needed to change the topic, “No, but forget that, listen to this…!”

Your hands sweeping through the air as you told your story, gesturing animatedly. You told the story of the events that had just transpired, though with added details for flair.

“And he was totally all up on me, trying to smoke my used fucking cig!” You exclaimed, and Little Marcia’s brow furrowed with worry.

“I think he wanted you, [ ], shit.” Nate teased, walking up to your side, and poking at your rib cage. You jerked your body away, swatting at the boy’s hands.

“Fuck off!” you shoved him, but he just cackled, an ugly sound. You paused for a moment as you thought, “… you really think that’s what it was?” You begin pacing, “Do y’all have any idea who the hell that even was? Okay, so, he was, like, lanky, pale as shit, brown hair–”

“Oh my god, [ ], don’t even!” Laney loudly groaned as her whole body moved with the strength of her eye roll.

“What? Huh?” Your wild mood suddenly felt dampened.

“This guy was creeping on you, and you totally fucking want him, Jesus Christ.” She brought a hand to her face and massaged the bridge of her nose.

“What the fuck? Who said that?” You startled at the comment, the last thing you had been expecting to hear.

“You’re getting real defensive, [ ].” Nate grinned at you, a shit-eating ugly fucking grin, as he followed your step to continue with his poking and prodding. You furrowed your brow in confusion, were you missing something?

“Right, Nate? Like oh my god, get some self-respect!” Laney added, as if she understood you better than you did yourself. The hell did she know about you?

“Don’t start twisting my words around, Laney, Jesus!” you exclaimed, your face heating up in a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

The girl only rolled her eyes in response, “Now you’re blushing!” she states, matter of fact. “Milly, what do you think?” Laney turned to Milton, hitting him with the most innocent doe eyes she could muster.

Milton’s brain seemed to struggle to comprehend the question, as he took forever to finally cough up his answer. “I think,” his voice low and rumbling, craning his neck to shift his gaze from your legs to the sky, “he just wanted a fuckin’ cig,” He lowered his gaze again, looking dead into your eyes, “and now [ ] is getting’ all excited.” Then he smirks.

Laney rolled her eyes again but couldn’t stop her smile. Nate burst into a fit of laughter, always Milton’s little henchman. Little Marcia didn’t seem to know how to react, and so she brought a hand to her mouth and suppressed a performed giggle. You stood there, almost in shock. Sure, at face value their words weren’t a big deal, they’re just teasing you about some guy. But you couldn’t help but suspect there was something deeper to things they say, some double entendre.

Tack had his eyes glued to the ground, focused on finishing his cigarette. He liked to act cool, act tough, but he feared the slightest signs of conflict. “Too mature” for “drama”, he sees himself as “above it”. But that’s a total lie, he’s just scared.

You rolled your eyes, “yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” You were used to this, and you played it off like their words didn’t sting. “But how do you explain that shit with the weed, huh?” You placed your hands on your hips, now you felt like you needed to get one over on them.

Milton shrugs, “Maybe he wanted you to suck his dick for it?”

If your face wasn’t hot before, you were burning now. Laney gasped and smacked the boy’s shoulder, “Fucking hell Milton, you freak!” She scolds, but you can see the grin tugging at her lips.

“What? That’s what she’s tryin’ to make it sound like!” He hisses through his malicious grin.

The group breaks into laughter once more, laughter at you. You shoved your clenched fists into your pockets, trying to hide any more weakness from them. Small, you felt small. Utterly insignificant. You might as well have been back in that bathroom stall, or back home. You wanted to leave, but you needed an excuse. You tried to play it off, any more signs of vulnerability and they might bite. You sigh, exasperatedly, “Uh, I gotta go, see y’all later.”

“What? [ ], did we hurt your feelings?” Laney frowned, almost as if she meant the words.

“Aw, c’mon, it’s just a joke!”

“We’re sorry, [ ], we didn’t mean it!”

“Don’t be such a buzzkill!”

“Guys, stop, she’s tryin’ to go find her man.”

“Milly, stop it! [ ], wait–!”

Your chemistry teacher seemed surprised to see you come in, let alone on time. You took your spot at the back of the class, immediately pulling your phone out. You scrolled, you texted, you scrolled, you texted. It’s an old, broken hunk of metal, but your dad couldn’t afford an upgrade right now. Your fingers caught and scratched on the cracks, and the screen had green spots and multicolored lines that blocked walls of text. You had a couple of good friends outside of school, the ones who had actually graduated. There were the ones who knew you before your life went to shit, but they all moved away or started families or whatever. Your “new” buddies, they’re all either high as balls on some street corner, working some dead-end minimum wage job, or dead. Or stuck in high school. It sounds bleak, a glimpse into the life that awaited you if you didn’t get your shit together. But, you loved these guys. Sure, they treated you like shit sometimes, but they liked you. As in, they actually want you around, and that was enough for you.

Wow, your standards are low, huh?

Speaking of low standards…

“Laney’s gonna be a super super senior if she keeps skippin’, huh?” Tack took the seat next to you, you’re tired of people just walking up on you.

You shake your head and roll your eyes, “Some fucking friend you are.”

He raises his hands, “Hey, it’s not my fault she’s skipping.” He attempts to lighten the mood.

“Not that, dickhead.” I glared at my phone screen, suddenly feeling alighted with anger.

“Ah, yeah,” Defeated, he shifted in his seat, “my bad… didn’t know it would get to you like that…”

You roll your eyes, “Whatever.” You spat.

You can see him shrug from the corner of your eye, “I mean, to be fair, they were just teasin’…”

“Like hell they were, Markus! With those assholes, there’s always some deeper fucking dig that they’re trying to make! You know that, but you just like letting them get away with it!”

Tack sat staring at you, almost dumbfounded. You suddenly felt embarrassed, and the embarrassment only deepened your frustration. Shit, you were freaking out. Withdrawals got you like this, anything could set you off. Yeah, that’s it, withdrawals. You felt a wave of shame come over you. You hunched over your desk and rested your head in your hands. The two of you sat silently, you were bad with apologies and Tack was bad with your outbursts.

The teacher began her lecture, and you only half listened for about 5 minutes before Tack leaned over to whisper, “You need to let off some stress?”

“What?” Startled by the sudden proposition.

“Next Saturday, some of the guys are goin’ up North…”

“What, you guys migrating?”

He huffed a small chuckle, “Goin’ ‘window shopping’, wanna come with?”

“Are you stupid? After last time?” You furrow your brow at him.

Tack pursed his lips and tilted his head side to side, as if to communicate that you had a point, but… “Things’ll be different now.”

“Different?” You raise your brows, unconvinced.

He nods, “We got you.”

Perhaps he knew you were weak to flattery, and so you brought a hand to your chin, “Let me think about it.”

He presses his lips into a thin line, “Pay’ll be real good.” he added in a sing-songy voice.

“I said I’ll think about it, didn’t I?”

The day went on sluggishly, more sluggish than usual. You ended up avoiding skipping class for the rest of the day. Were you avoiding Laney? Were you avoiding that boy? Whatever it was, you didn’t want to let either of them control your mood, and so you walked with an overconfident step. That would show them that they had no power over you, right? (Ironic, considering they stopped you from skipping, hm?)

Climbing on the bus home was cathartic, just a taste of sweet, sweet freedom. But you were late, since you hadn’t skipped your last class, and so most all the seats were full. Well, all seats, except for Michael.

He ignored you as you plopped down next to him, and you ignored him.

In the beginning of this silent treatment, you had tried to get him to react. It started small, talking to him as if nothing had happened. You asked him about classes, how his day was, how his friends were. He ignored you. Then, you began speaking pointedly towards him, trying to encourage a response. Asking to help you with chores, inviting him out with your friends, offering to buy him things. He ignored you. It soon turned into blatant targeting, hoping to provoke him. Criticizing him, hiding his things, yelling in his face. He ignored you. You were no longer sorrowful, sympathetic, or patient. Then, you were only filled with resentment, frustration, and insecurity. How dare he treat you like a pest in your own home? In those days, you really turned into your mother. You would quickly become desperate, going far to get any sort of reaction, no longer caring if it would hurt him or you. You said and did things you still regret, though you never bothered to apologize. Now, you feigned indifference; pretending to not care, in order to make him care. It’s stupid, childish, and you knew it, but you stopped giving a shit a long time ago. Michael made you feel small, like an irrelevant speck. As did Jessie, and Laney, and Milton, and Nate, and everyone. You’re tired of being nothing. Just wait, you thought, I’ll show you, soon enough. But how?

The bus ride is long a silent, and you wish you hadn’t destroyed the earbud port in your phone. You wondered about the rest of the day; should you do homework, fuck off with your annoying friends, or get high at by the river?

River, definitely the river. (Uh oh!)

You shoved a hand in your pocket, thumbing the baggy. Hopefully, this will be the last you’ve seen of that creep. Thanks, though! You absentmindedly glance at Michael, and you can see him eyeing your hand in your pocket, and you try not to feel guilty.

Once off the bus, you immediately began walking in the opposite direction of Michael’s path. You went straight for the trees, Michael not bothering to call after you, though you hadn’t expected him to.

The walk is long, but scenic. You trudge along the gravel road that reaches the trees of the distant forest. During the day, it’s beautiful, and it almost makes you forget about those dead bunnies your dad made you hunt. Almost. A golden light shines through brown-green leaves, and the forest is alight with sounds of its creatures, making you feel a bit less alone. Not that much, though. You pull out your phone and play some music to distract you from the loneliness of the woods, though the broken speakers gave it a muffled and distorted sound. You walked until the gravel trail broke off into dirt, and you carefully followed the jagged path until the air felt moist. Well, moister than it already was. The trees reaching branches finally split to reveal the river, long, clear, and calm. You took a deep breath, feeling refreshed already. Is it dangerous to get high and swim? Definitely, but did you care at the moment? Not really!

You stripped, save your shorts and underwear, and sat down on the bank of the river. You dangled your feet into the warm water as you observed your stolen goods. You hadn’t noticed it before, but the guy gave you papers and filters too, the generous bastard.

“How sweet.” You mutter to yourself, as you rolled one up on your thigh. No one came to this end of the river, there were more scenic and swimmer-friendly areas downstream, and so you were completely alone. Though, even if someone stumbled upon you, you didn’t really care. You spread your sweater out on the rocks and dirt behind you and laid back, taking long drags of your fugitive joint. You considered smoking everything he gave you, as that deep itch could still be felt panging inside of you, but you held yourself back. The cigarettes and the weed wouldn’t quench that undying thirst, but they could distract you, for now.

“Tomorrow,” you say out loud, to yourself, “if I still feel like shit, I’m going downtown.” There was no real “downtown”, that’s what you and your buddies like to call the main town. “Downtown” that’s where the good shit is. That’s the place that can quench your thirst.

You sigh out a cloud of smoke and sit up, before languidly slipping into the stream. It’s somewhat shallow, and so you crouch down until the water reaches your neck. You have a hand above the water holding onto your joint when it’s not hanging from your lips. The stressors of the day melt away, all the tension held within your body releasing bit by bit. The soft strings of the guitar play through the speakers of your shitty phone, filling the air with static ridden harmonies. You wade through the water and think, simply think. Nothing too deep or mind numbing, you stick to the simple and the happy. What’s mom making for dinner? Hope it’s not spaghetti again. What’s Laura up to now? You wonder if she’s home yet. You should bring her and the kids here one of these days. Heh, wonder if you can make a point to not invite stupid Michael. You sigh, no, the kids would want him there, your parents too. You wondered about how the babies might’ve spent the day, probably just laying around, pooping. You missed them a bit, but you’ll be home soon enough.

You look up at the orange-ing sky, the setting sun sending sparkles across the water. You savored the joint, taking only a few short drags at a time, though you hungered for so much more. Beneath the water, you still scratched at your thighs. You look down, watching as your limbs distorted in the water. Your upper thighs and the crooks of your elbows were littered with old scratches and scars. When things got bad, you couldn’t realize just how deeply you would dig your nails into your flesh. You lean back on the bank, and raise your stomach, marked with similar scars. You remembered the pregnancy bullshit then and cringed. You couldn’t be a mother, even if you wanted. Sure, you liked kids well enough, but you couldn’t stand being around them for any longer than you needed to. You don’t like to cook or clean, and you don’t know how to care; motherly duties weren’t your forte. Hell, you couldn’t take care of a fish, let alone a baby. On top of that, the sheer horror of birth was enough to cure you of any level of baby fever. Sickness and pain, a growing mass within your core, for 9 months. And at the end of those months, you’re ripped open, and that fleshy mass is torn from your body. The doctors clean it up and hand it back to you, and now it won’t stop those skull-shattering wails. The tiny banshee never knows sleep, creates mini biohazards by the hour, and could die at any turn. No, you couldn’t handle it. You wondered how your mother did it so many times without losing her mind. Well, maybe she did.

“You’re getting to that age, [ ]…” Your grandfather once had the audacity to say, back when you were freshly 18. Now, you were nearing 20, and you knew people who had already popped out a couple of snot nosed brats. You could feel the eyes on you from your extended family members; some waiting for you to finally grow up, get your shit together, and continue the bloodline. Meanwhile, others watched with bated breath, silently petrified of the idea of someone like you coming home with a pregnant belly and no father, just as they expected. That, most of all, filled you with the most dread. If you had been a boy, would it still have been such a big deal?

“That age”? Shit, you still felt like a child. How could a child have a child? Your mind felt fuzzy, your brain heavy, and so you rested your head on the bank. You bring the joint to your lips and… nothing. It’s then you realize you had been taking deeper drags than you thought, the thing was a pathetic stump now. You moved to shove the remains into your bag (no littering!) but your body feels as if it wasn’t moving in time with your mind. A familiar feeling, it reminds you of the first time you tried an edible. Fucking shit. What the hell did that freak put in this thing? “Fucking cocksucker…” You mutter and dug your nails into the dirt of the bank, you needed to get the hell out of the water. Then, a snap.

You jerk your head to attention, the sudden movement making your brain swim. You hear a series of giggles, those damned giggles.

“Ooo, you skinny dippin’?” Jessie is grinning at you, with two other girls strolling about.

“Huh? Jessie? The fuck…” It’s difficult to think, it’s worse to move, “… are you… here…?”

She hums a small sound as she watches you from above. You can barely process what’s happening. “What? We can’t go for a little swim?” She replies innocently.

“I… uh… yeah.” You didn’t know what you were saying, your mind was going blank. You look up Jessie, patches of black begin to cloud your vision. Nothing felt real, you felt like you were dying. “Hey, mind… uh… helping… me?”

Jessie scoffs, then laughs at you. She’s standing along the bank, your hands only inches away from her boots. “You want my help?” she asks, dumbfounded.

“That’s what I said.” Even in this state, you could still cough up something snappy. The world felt as if it were growing distant, and, you had to admit, you liked the feeling. If you weren’t stuck in a river, begging one of your bullies to pull you out, you could’ve enjoyed this.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by a sudden sharp pain. You yelp, Jessie had dug the heel of her boot into your palm. It wasn’t agonizing, not yet at least. She would push down harder once you looked back up at her, before leaning over you. “Don’t start getting all sassy with me, you whore.”

“Hey, man… my bad, alright?” You felt sluggish, despite the pain, and so you laid your head down on your extended arm. “Please, jus’… drag me out… I’ll owe you one.”

Your eyes close, lids heavy, and you can hear that screeching laugh over you. Then, another voice pops up.

“My God, she’s fucking high, isn’t she?” The squeaky voice from the bathroom, Christina Hall. The orange-skinned, bleached blonde girl was at Jessie’s side now, crouching down to observe you more closely. You feel a sensation on the exposed half of your face, and it takes you a moment to realize Christina is pinching at your cheeks. “High in the lake?” River. “Are you stupid?” Maybe. You scrunch your nose and absentmindedly swat at your face, and so she moves on to tugging and twirling strands of your hair.

“Maybe she’s tryin’ to killer ‘erself?” A deep voice chides, Layla or Lyla or something, she’s too forgettable for you to keep up. She’s tall with jet-black hair, pasty skin, and creepy blue eyes that stared right into your soul. She’s nudging harshly at your naked stomach with a sandaled foot, a disgusted look painted across her unremarkable features.

“[ ]!” Christina whined, and you thought of Laney, “I heard you were quitting,” she pouts, “aw, poor thing!” She wraps her arms around you and throws her body weight over your upper body. Her stomach and chest are pressed against your face, as if she were trying to suffocate you to death. You can’t breathe and your body is limp, too weak to fight back. God, please don’t let this be how you die, of all things.

A sound that can only be described as utter disgust can be heard coming from somewhere outside the fleshy suffocation. “Christie, get the hell off of her! She’s a fucking dyke, you dumbass, she probably likes that!” Jessie yells, and Layla-Lyla breaks into a fit of giggles.

“Ewwww!” Christina yelps and pushes away from you, and you take a deep breath and begin coughing.

“What… do you want?” You pleaded through panting breaths.

Jessie shrugs, “I don’t know, what do I want?” You open your mouth to respond, but before you can answer, a swift kick is landed on your face. You can barely register the sensation, too hiked up on whatever the hell was in that weed now, but you can feel the blood trailing from your nose.

A round of impressed ooo’s and aaa’s sound above you, before another sudden kick is landed on your stomach. You let out a noise, the wind being knocked out of you, and you can feel your lunch coming up. The girls say something to you, but you don’t respond, too lost in the wave of pain and high. You lay like that for a while, everything feeling both overstimulating and far detached, until a sharp throb rings through your skull. Someone is pulling you by the hair, but your body was pure dead weight. You clenched your jaw and whimpered, body too limp and mind too gone to fight back. Then, through the chaos, a clear thought breaks through the haze, a revelation: he was part of this, wasn’t he? You felt a bit betrayed, for some reason.

“Pull her. Here, bring her here.” Jessie demands, and hands are suddenly tugging at your arms. You’re pulled away from the bank and into the rocks and dirt, sprawled out on your back. You try to protest, but another stomp landed on your stomach. There’s nothing for a moment, until you feel someone at your waist. You startle, your eyes attempting to widen as someone is ripping off your shorts. “Holy shit!” you yelp. With your eyes open, you realize Jessie is recording you, a grin plastered upon her perfect face. You flail your arms around, attempting to cover your body. Your sports bra was one thing, but this was a whole other level. Your body betrays you, as keeping your eyes open much longer proves near impossible, even in this state. You can feel your arms being ripped away from your body, exposing you once more. Even closed, your eyes burn with tears. You felt sick, violated, and out of your mind.

You’re in the darkness of the girls’ shadows one moment, then, suddenly, they’re gone. The sun shines upon you, the rays comfortably warming your wet skin. And, for the second time that day, you wonder if you’re dead. Perhaps, was this heaven?

“Oooh, cute bag!” Nope, not heaven.

You manage to open your eyes and see Christina holding your backpack, along with the rest of your things. “Hey, guys, hold on…!” You manage to get out. But it’s no use, and the girls are cackling and scurrying away. Shit. Your parents would freak out if you came home like this, freak out at you and at the girls. Mostly you. You watch as the girls disappear into the trees, deeper into the wood rather than out of it. You struggle as you force yourself to your feet, like a baby deer learning to stand. They had taken your shorts with them, along with your shirt, shoes, sweater. Fuck. The wind chills your exposed body, and so you wrap your arms around yourself and begin your trek.

Clumsily running through the winding trees, high as a kite, half naked, with the setting sun, was torture, to say the least. You hadn’t lost sight of the girls; you could see them in the distance. There were times where you would get close, causing them to notice you, break into giggles, and speed off all over again. And you would follow them as best you could, until they slowed down, and you could attempt to reach them again. It was a never-ending cycle, it was hell. Perhaps you really did die? You’ve heard stories of hell, how for some people it’s an endless repeating cycle of the worst day of their lives. Was this your worst? Maybe not, but it was up there. Did that make the current situation feel any better? Not in the slightest.

Your lungs burned and you felt like you were constantly on the verge of toppling over. As the sun lowered on the horizon, the wind gradually became more and more freezing. You could barely feel your legs, the aching so intense they had been practically numb. Zombie, that’s probably the best way you could describe your state. Why hadn’t they given up yet? Why haven’t you given up yet? You had been following them for what felt like hours. (Though, it had only been a couple minutes.) You’re tired, were they not? At some point, you had begun to smell that familiar stench in the air. You look out at the girls, clouds of smoke surrounding them. Fucking bitches, they were smoking your stolen tricked out weed! Sure, it made you feel insane, but that didn’t mean you didn’t want it! You let out a groan and considered finally turning around. They could have that fucked up weed, it’d teach them a lesson! (Didn’t you steal it first, though?) And your shitty phone, dirty clothes, knife, wallet… shit. Yeah, okay, you needed that stuff back.

You tried to sneak up on them, hiding behind trees or within bushes, but your awkward body never moved how you wanted it too, especially now. You peak from behind a tree, watching as the, now stumbling, girls came to a halt. You could hear them talking, and you assume it’s amongst themselves. However, you soon realize there is a fourth voice among them, a deeper one. You squint and strain your eyes, and you notice a taller figure among them. You assume it’s a man, his features indistinguishable. You take this chance to get closer, and so you crouch down and carefully step towards the small group. Before, you could only hear the distant sounds of their voices, now, you can distinguish their tone. Someone is angry, most likely Layla-Lyla, and Jessie is backing her up. The man in defensive, voice low and muffled. Now, you can see him; blue jacket over a tan hoodie, hood pulled over his head, alongside a strange black mask and a pair of bright orange goggles. At his sides, two red hatchets, perhaps he was a hunter? Or a psycho murderer? You didn’t know which one you were preferred, at this point.

The man doesn’t stop moving, speaking animatedly and constantly shifting on his feet. His mannerisms distantly remind you of that boy, but you don’t dwell on it for too long as the argument seems to heat up by the second. At some point, Layla-Lyla shoved the man in the chest, causing him to fall back a couple steps. Your body tenses, as you expected him to fight back, though he didn’t. Did you want to see them get hurt? Part of you felt as if you should be cheering for something bad to happen. But you’ve seen pain, in many forms, and you could only be filled with dread in that moment. You can’t help but remember Jessie as a child, her love of ponies and princesses. You grew up together. Perhaps she had forgotten your history, but your childhood is something you hold dear, and Jessie was a part of it. You dug your nails into the bark of the tree. No, that Jessie was gone. When you thought of the Jessie from your childhood, it was as if you were mourning the death of a loved one. The Jessie you loved was dead, has been dead for a while. Now, in her place, stood a young demon, possessing her corpse. Jessie now jumps in, raising her voice at the man, while Christina attempts to hold her back. All of them too high off their asses to properly handle an armed freak. You think of what just happened to you, minutes ago. You think of what happened this morning, what has happened for the last 5 years. Jessie was your own personal hell, though she was just another name in the pile. What has she done to deserve your forgiveness, besides being nice to you as a child? She was just another asshole that made you feel like shit.

This is what you told yourself in an attempt to not feel so bad as you watched the man reach for one of his hatchets and swing at the girls in one fell swoop. The hatchet landed in and tore through Jessie’s forearms, as she raised them to block her face, and the forest was suddenly alight with screams. Your eyes widened and you ducked behind the tree, covering your mouth as to stop any sudden sounds. You heard a thump as someone fell to the floor, Jessie was crying hysterically. You could hear footsteps approaching at a rapid pace, until Christina had come into view. You watched her as she tried to flee, but it was no use. A whirring sound flew through the air, and then there was a hatchet lodged in her skull. Her death was quick, and she fell to ground, her demon blood pooling around her. You stare at her body for a moment, it’s been a while since you’ve seen someone die. But she doesn’t keep your attention for long, as you can hear another loud scream, followed by a short yelp, come from directly behind the tree. Then, it’s quiet, save the man’s breathing, Jessie’s whimpering, and the pounding of your own heart. There are steps, shifting, as the man seems to be making his way back to Jessie. You think of chancing a glance behind the tree, but a soft thump on the opposite side of you grabs your attention. You carefully lean over, finding Layla-Lyla slumped over behind your hiding spot. The pooling blood slowly inches towards you, and you flinch to move away. Her face is unrecognizable, almost split in half from the gash that spans the top of her head to her jaw. Her eyes are popping out, and for a moment you think one is staring at you. You felt sick, you wanted to puke, again. Ironic, is the only thing that you can think to yourself, even in a time like this. You strain your ears to listen for Jessie, you can still hear her whimpering. She’s still alive.

You let out a quiet, shallow breath. Your body is shaking, vibrating, and you can hear your pulse rushing in your ears. You stay still for a while, listening for any sign of the man having left the scene. There’s nothing, no steps, no screaming, no nothing; just Jessie. Had the two of you escaped death? You relax a bit; he left Jessie behind, and he has failed to spot you. You feel a sense of relief, for yourself and, oddly enough, for Jessie. Was this a sign? God had a funny habit of getting you in and out of shitty situations by the skin of your teeth. The thought comforted you, to an extent; your misfortune went hand in hand with luck. And so, with a level of newfound confidence, you lean around the tree.

Your body seizes as Jessie’s deafening wail reaches your ears, cut short by the man driving a hatchet into her neck. Before you have time to react, he is lifting his head, his gaze seeming to land on you. He was waiting for you, his audience. Your body freezes, and so does his. Time stills, as if you had been locked in this morbid staring contest for hours. Your brain is still swimming in your skull, the dark spots infested the corners of your vision. All you could sense was the pounding of your heart, the sound of the wind, and the feeling of a cold, jagged stone held tight in your palm. Someone had to make the first move. You had to make the first move.

You scramble onto your feet and make a break for the main trail. Your panting breaths are loud in your ears, and you struggle to not trip and fall on exposed branches and rocks. The effects of the drug were beginning to wear down, however you were nowhere near sober. The wind had strengthened northward, pushing against your side, as if to knock you down. You can hear the steps behind you, hot on your tail. Tears streamed down you face, this was it; this would be how you died. Murder, it didn’t surprise you, though you hadn’t expected it to be someone so random. At least you wouldn’t be alone in hell, even if it was Jessie. You looked up at the sky, a deep purply blue shifting into black. The moon and stars were already peeking through the clouds, you hoped this could be your last sight. What happened to your lust for life? What happened to that fighting spirit? You were tired, tired of the weight of the world on your shoulders. Maybe it was the drugs talking, but you felt as if you were ready to give up.

Before you know it, your body is meeting the dirt. You had tripped on an exposed root, landing you on the forest floor. You grunt, but you make no move to get up. Instead, you pushed yourself onto your back and watched as more stars scattered the darkening sky. Out here, countless stars filled the sky, being so far from civilization. You laid there, waiting for the end, now. Although the effects had dulled, the drug was still running rampant through you, further lulling you into a calm state. There’s a moment where you’re alone with only the sounds of the forest, and you almost believe he had left you alone, until you hear the crunch of sticks under heavy boots. Although you make no move to escape, your body tenses in fear. Steps slowly approach you, then stop at your feet. You brace for impact, keeping your eyes glued to the stars.

Suddenly, something lands on your chest. You jump and squeeze your eyes shut, before realizing it is your clothes, rolled into a ball. You slowly open your eyes and lift your head. The man’s form is towering over you, his silhouette alighted by the moon’s rays. He drops your bag and shoes at your feet, and you can only assume he’s staring at you.

“Huh?” Your voice is gravely and rough as it breaks the silence. You can see him shrug and give you a thumbs up, then he’s gone.

God really really loves fucking with you.

#toby rogers x reader #ticci toby x reader

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ultramegagigamax3 · 5 months

Text

Hey guys :3 quick little thank u for the likes and stuff i really appreciate it, i made these fics to get back into writing (so i can start writing my own stories)

Im working very slowly but surely, i have chaps for each series almost fully written, just needs more editing, its exam season!! Ah!! So ive been focusing on classes

Leave comments and suggestions! Tell me which series you enjoy! Tell me what you want to see/what you expect from the series! Although i have the general main plots and endings planned out alr, it would still help a lot if i got suggestions and critiques

Wishing u the best of luck this exam season, ttyl

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ultramegagigamax3 · 5 months

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2: my heart, i never feel /ej

i never see

i never know

oh, heart

and then it falls

and then I fall

and then I know

masterlist ~ last ~ next

It felt as if I had been awoken by my alarm as soon as my head hit the pillow. I let out a loud groan, just lying there as I let my alarm ring. I allowed myself about twenty more minutes before grabbing my phone and shutting it off. I push myself up, I had fallen asleep in the same clothes as the day before, the folds of my jeans and the wiring of my bra digging into my skin. I look down at my wrinkled white T-shirt, it had a corny Jesus pun on it with tacky imagery, a gag gift I had gotten from a nun after I graduated high school. It’s probably one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen, why the hell do I still have this? I let out a yawn as I drag myself away from the comforts of my mattress, not bothering to change my sweaty clothes. I grabbed my big old puffer jacket off a pile of laundry and my backpack out of whatever corner I had thrown it in. I lazily brush my teeth before dry swallowing my morning pills, almost gagging myself in the process. After slipping on my work shoes, I finally grab my keys and white coat before rushing out into the blinding outside. The white coat smelt like death, literally, but I had no time to wash. (God, I’m disgusting, aren’t I?) I get in my car, it takes too long to start. Traffic is heavy, despite the short commute. No time for breakfast, stomach growls. This is my routine, this has been my life for the past year.

Despite my past childish philosophies about life and death sciences, I had become an overly qualified mortician. The path to my career had been rocky, complicated, and ultimately anticlimactic. Although my childhood and teenage years had been volatile and dramatic, my college years had passed in a monotonous haze. There isn’t much to say about it, I got accepted to a Christian university on a crazy good scholarship (thank you to my depressingly pathetic life story). I studied anatomy and physiology, spending my time throwing myself into schoolwork. My original plan had been to go into the medical field, to become the hero I dreamed of being as a child. But alas, I lasted about 6 months in med school before I dropped out. It was over, just like that. The dream of medical school was completely squashed, or at least that’s how it felt at the time. The story of my dropping out had a slow buildup of many different factors, all coming together for a cocktail of stress and mental deterioration. The overwhelming workload, peers and professors who had been particularly ruthless, a loss of innocence, a letter from my birth mother, and Jack disappearing. I had somewhat of a mental crisis before enrolling in mortuary school, to say the least. It had been impulsive, and I had only been half sane. I feel ashamed admitting it, but in my haze, I had chosen this profession in the hopes I would come across Jack’s body, closure. I don’t know if he’s dead, no one does, but something within me felt it. Well, the “me” who had been going through a manic episode felt it, however trustworthy she is.

Nonetheless, I got help, I got more meds, and now I am stuck as a mortician’s apprentice. I’m sure there was a way for me to drop out, but the prospect of being a failure again filled me with an overwhelming sense of shame. I had no passion or care for the field, my goal since childhood was to be seen as something akin to a hero, and yes, I know how stupid that sounds. But doctors saved lives. What did morticians do? There are temples in the name of God, and in these temples, you pray for healing. In turn, they answer your prayers, he saves your or your loved one’s life. A hero. Or they don’t. If they don’t, you can’t fault them, as this is the will of fate, something unshakable, uncontrollable, beyond our mortal comprehension. If doctors are proxies of God, then morticians are proxies to psychopomps. What is a psychopomp? Think Charon, the ferryman of Hades; A being that must be bribed by gold in order to ensure your loved ones gain safe passage. No one worships Charon (he doesn’t even have a statue, I think). Not only that, but he is also a worker of Hades, God of the Underworld, and the equivalent to Hell itself. Charon is a demon; Charon is an echo of Grim Reaper, an apathetic antagonistic force in the world of modern media. Sure, there are sympathetic or even cool interpretations of Grim Reaper everywhere. Artists and thinkers all have their own idea of Grim Reaper, or Death; demon with a heart, beautifully evil maiden, a tragic worker doomed by fate, the greatest enemy of man, a benign God, the one true God, an old friend, the ultimate muse. But no matter in what light you paint him, or Charon and other psychopomps, you would never want to actually associate with him, would you?

As a young adult hiked up on too many pills, this is how my mind, that has only ever known Catholicism, worked. It’s stupid, I know. But when you have been raised with only the guidance of the Catholic church (and, maybe the internet), that’s all you will ever know: God (and the internet). Becoming a patron of Charon was something I didn’t want for myself. But one thing scared me more than violating my personal philosophies: disappointment. Disappointing others was not uncommon for me, but I was tired of it. At one point, during the fog of the weeks that lead up to my registration, I had gone back to my Church to consult with the nuns of my decision. I was clearly manic, I’m sure, but I can still remember the looks of hope on their faces. Just months prior, I had been here to tell them I had dropped out of medical school. They looked at me not with disappointment, but as if they had seen this coming. As if they hadn’t expected me to do much with my life. But now, they had hope for me. And so, I decided I would turn my life around, I would commit to mortuary school. Perhaps this change of pace would teach me something of humility, change my mind about my sense of self, and fix my personality for me. If I could finally succeed in something, I would succeed in this. This would mark the beginning of a new era of my life. I would become a better person.

I ended up getting to work completely late. My clothes a mess, my hair even worse, I was starving, I was half awake, I was cold, I was achy. God, I complain a lot. I burst through the front doors of the funeral home, immediately being met with a group of my coworkers hovering around the entrance. The 3 women and 1 man jumped in surprise at my sudden appearance, and I quickly bowed my head as I attempted to scurry past them. The only thing on my mind was getting to the Director’s office, I had no time to entertain their mind-numbing small talk. Nonetheless, I heard a soft “woah, there” and felt a hand grab my arm. I was spun around to meet my colleagues, feeling small in the presence that seemed to metaphorically tower over me.

Leonardo Nguyen, grinning playboy, stood in front of me, still holding onto my arm. “Morning, [ ]! Not even gonna say hello?” He seemed to always have a smug look about him, like he knew something about you that no one else did and was ready to exploit it whenever he had the chance. He had been one of the few men working in the funeral home, a rare sight. Perhaps that had gotten to his head, in one way or another. We, unfortunately, work under the same mortician.

“Leo, stop.” Margo Shwartz, a wolf in wolves clothing, lightly tapped Leonardo on the arm, tone utterly ingenuine. Don’t let her alternative appearance fool you, she looked like a punk and acted like a total high school mean girl, almost comedically so. I had a sneaking suspicion she had been bullied in her high school years and developed a complex about it. If I had to work with her, I would’ve killed myself by now.

“What? Can’t say ‘hi’ to my favorite doctor?” Leonardo was mocking me.

Isabella let out a giggle and rolled her eyes, “Whatever, Leo.”

I glanced nervously at the two other girls, searching for a way out. “My apologies, Leo, but I’m running late and really need to clock in. Please, save this for another time.” I begged. He would shrug and release me, and I give him a curt nod, a “thank you”, and hurry down the main hall. I could hear the group break out into giggles behind me, childish as always. Most all my fellow apprentices were between the ages of 20 to 25, while I had been nearing 30. It was strange, how cruel they are, and frustrating. I wondered if I had done anything wrong to them, besides being quiet and avoiding long conversation. Maybe it’s because I’m “old”? They seemed to have an endless supply of half-witted age jokes at their disposal, if they ran out of med school dropout ones. That’s how kids show their love these days, Samanatha had told me once. If I had been the same person I was in my teens and twenties, I probably would’ve fought back. I was no stranger to altercation. But alas, I’ve lost my bark and my bite, defanged and declawed beyond recognition. I let out a small sigh as I reached the funeral director’s office.

“Hello, Director Drake.” I avoided her gaze as I hurried over a board in a corner of the room. There, old fashioned punch in sheets sat in uniform rows pinned to a cork board, both stress inducing and comforting, paradox.

Vanya Drake sat with her arms crossed from her desk, her stare burning a hole in the back of my head. “[ ].”

“Yes, ma’am?” I grabbed my sheet and began to fill it out with a pen that had already been laid by the board, my back is to her as I’m too nervous to meet her gaze.

Drake let out a deep sigh, as if she were trying to keep her composure. “I keep telling you…”

I placed my punch in sheet in its respective pocket, then let my head drop in defeat. I was hoping she would let me off the hook this time (again), “I know, Director, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, I had an appointment, then I overslept, and the traffic…” I turned and rushed up to her desk, my hands held up in a prayer position, force of habit.

She raises a palm at me, gesturing for me to stop. “[ ], if I continue to let this slide, you know what the consequences will be…” I felt my heart sink, my stomach turned, I felt sick. “…But. I have a proposal.”

My ears perked up, and suddenly I was standing straighter. “Yes, ma’am! I’m all ears!” My hands flailed a bit before I shot them back down to my sides, an aborted attempt at seeming enthusiastic.

“Finish your shift. Then meet me back here.” She looked how I imagined a mother trying to hide her frustration might look. One of the head nuns would look at me that way. She even shooed me away with a flick of the wrist, like a dog. I nod frantically, bowing and muttering more thank you’s and whatnot.

Her words would linger about my mind my entire shift, making it difficult to focus. I had a suspicion she enjoyed making people suffer. Oh yeah, and my stomach was growling. Luckily, I was assigned to paperwork instead of a cadaver for the waxing hours of my shift. The apprentices had no real office “yet”, so we were told to take up tables in the employee’s lounge, a glorified breakroom. Nothing about this funeral home ran the way it should’ve, probably (its thing only thing I’ve ever known). There are two directors, Drake and James Bernard. From what I know, Bernard used to run the place with his late wife, then hired a young Drake to take her place. But then, with Drake’s stern attitude and unwavering ambition (and Bernard’s aging mind) she basically took over the home. There were a handful of morticians that worked under the two of them, and they each had their own set of apprentices, give or take. I don’t remember very many of their names, though I do know most of the other apprentices, unfortunately. Leo and I currently worked under a Ms. Mehrab, an eccentric older woman with a passion for her work. She isn’t a catholic, unlike most everyone else who works here, and I, in my weak faith, got along with her fairly well. I enjoyed her presence, despite how odd she is, and her long spiels about whatever topic came to mind. I tried to become closer to her, perhaps she would become my friend, but she favored Leo. Like, a lot. She tended to send me off for paperwork and kept Leo for cadavers, said that I brought down the mood. (we’re morticians, what else would the mood be?) I’m currently sitting by a window, staring out at the busy street and the forest that lay beyond it. The trees are tall, skinny, and have lost most of their leaves by this time of year. Would my life always be so mundane? Was I destined for eternal boredom? My thoughts are interrupted by a loud thud on my “desk”, and I nearly jump out of my seat. I curse under my breath as I look up at Leo. I hold in a groan as I force a polite smile.

“Leo.” I mutter.

“Here, Mehrab wants you to work on these too.” He looks as smug as always. I look down at what he had just pushed in front of me; a white binder filled to the brim with papers, and a protein bar. “Oh, and, uh, that’s for you.” Leo suddenly seems less confident now, though only a bit, as he gestures towards the snack.

I’m taken aback, speechless, for a moment. “Oh, thank you.” I nod, feeling uneasy. Leonardo? Being nice? Was I dead and sent to a parallel universe?

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” He looks uncomfortable as he stood there for a moment, as if he had more to say. But whatever he wanted to say he didn’t say it, as he just gave me a nod and trudged out of the room. Something about the strange interaction feels familiar, and something within my twists, feeling confused, weirded out, and empty.

--------

I had been a good chunk of the way through the never-ending stream of papers when Leo showed up again, this time not catching me by surprise.

“You’re needed in the basement, doctor.” He chided as he languidly stepped into the room, making a beeline for the coffee pot. He was back to his usual, annoying self. I roll my eyes and gather my things, pulling on my white coat and tying back my hair as I hurried out of the room. I know it’s strange to say, but the prospect of seeing the new cadavers filled me both with dread and excitement. Although I had long since abandoned most of the ideas and philosophies of my youth, something within me still felt as if I were on the cusp of finding Jack again. Its morbid, its fucked up, but I still wanted my closure.

“Young John Doe,” Mehrab sighs and pouts, “how tragic.” Her words don’t match her demeanor as she moves around the room, setting up tools and what not, methodical and clinical, totally detached emotionally. I stare at the boy as I pull on my gloves, he’s unbelievably pale with buzzed black hair. He’s young, most likely in his late teens or early twenties. His face is soft, chiseled like a statue, and his body is long and skinny, his movements probably awkward when he was alive. There are brown, bruised, and rotting little holes all along the bicep, forearm, and the crook of his elbow of his left arm, junkie. I study his face and wonder about the life he may have lived, and perhaps searched his features for glimpses of Jack. It was stupid, he was much too young to be Jack, and, on top of that, corpses are almost unrecognizable in comparison to the way the looked in life. But I can’t help it. I can see Mehrab reading off a small stack of papers, is it a police report? I don’t think she’s meant to have access to those… “Overdose, found by a young couple walking their dog…” She shakes her head.

“They know the cause of death?” Something doesn’t seem right.

“Yup!” Mehrab continues to flip through the papers.

“So, he’s visited the coroner already? So why is he here?” I’m utterly confused. “If this is a fresh John Doe, isn’t there an investigation going on? Why would they send him off to be embalmed? Shouldn’t he be with, like, a pathologist or examiner or something?” At least he wasn’t being cremated…

Mehrab sighed, placing a hand on her hip, like a teacher fed up with a dumb student. “[ ], we are morticians, not detectives.” She walks over from her desk and picks up the mouth stapler, my least favorite tool, and grabs my right hand, placing the tool on my palm.

“Yes, right, my bad, ma’am.” I sputter, shaking my head and pulling myself out of my trance, “It’s just… I’ve never been assigned a John Doe before.”

Mehrab smiles, seeming pleased with my response. “It’s fine, I totally get it!” She says this with the cadence of a teenage girl, despite being nearly 50 years old, “The night shift boys usually get these ones, but” she draws out the ‘but’, “they’ve been a little shorthanded, as of late.” She walks back to her desk, throwing herself into her plush chair.

I attempt to smile back, trying to lighten the mood. “So… we’re picking up their slack?” I try to seem more comfortable and less awkward than I am.

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” She turns away from me, focus already totally on her computer, paying me no mind. “Now, I’ll be at my desk if you have trouble, okay?” She was patronizing me, and I just look back at her stupidly. I nod, a soft okay, and turn back to the body.

The boy’s skin is cold, who knows how long he’s been dead. I open his mouth and see his teeth, stained and rotting. The stench wafts through my mask, past the peppermint essential oils that I drenched it in, and I feel like gagging, but I don’t. I still felt bad when I did this, like I was hurting him. I tried to be gentle and imagine myself a doctor giving a patient a painful, yet lifesaving, treatment. Shh, it’s alright, I would soothe, you’re just gonna feel a liiiittle pinch, then you’ll be okay. He would fall asleep (I would glue his eyes shut) and I would give him his shots (I would fill him with embalming fluid) and when he awoke, it would be as if he were never sick. I tried not to feel as if I were violating the boy as I moved his body around. I checked all injuries, realizing I had finally broken my eerie silence as I listed off every bruise I found to Mehrab.

“Ah, you’re so quiet! So focused!” Mehrab spoke, I think trying to come off as playful, but I could sense her masked unease.

The procedure was over as soon as it started, and I wheeled him to the room where he would be staying. I looked up at the walls, rows of little steel boxes lined every side. The more I looked at them, the more they looked like aisles of ovens, and now I feel sick. I took you John Doe to an empty box, open and ready to swallow him up, and put him inside. I wonder if anyone will come looking for him, perhaps a worried mother or a band of hiked up junkies. After I closed him away, I look over at the other boxes.

“Don’t forget Jenny!” Mehrab’s voice startles me as she calls out from the main room, probably wondering what the hell was taking me so long. There was a funeral later today, for a woman named Jenny Woodrow, and her body would need to be prepared. She was placed just next to my John Doe. I wheel my cart over to her box before opening it up and pulling her out. She’s a pretty blonde with a near perfect figure, perfect teeth (before I shut her mouth), and perfect eyes (before I closed them up), such a shame. Well, she was almost perfect, save for the fact her lower body, past her hips, were missing. I remember the police report as I took her to the main room, she had been found out in the woods, not too far from here, her bottom half never recovered. Looking at bodies like this used to make me sick, but I’ve become desensitized, more or less.

--------

It’s now nearing 1:00 pm, and I am once again standing in front of Drake. My legs hurt, I still haven’t eaten anything, and I was exhausted.

Drake smiled at me when I first walked in, now she’s just staring at me with her lips pressed into a thin line. We got formalities and what not out of the way, now I was just waiting for her to spit out whatever “proposal” she had for me.

She was assessing my face, searching for something, but I wasn’t quite sure what. “We need someone on the graveyard shift…” My expectant smile drops, “You remember Paula? Well, she quit. Baby on the way. Now there’s a big opening in need of urgent replacement.” Paula Kent, a 23-year-old apprentice who had a husband before I had a lover, and now a baby, apparently. “You’re going to be working with Director Bernard and Mr. Hunt.” James Bernard and James Hunt, two elderly, bordering on senile, peas-in-a-pod. Drake went back to just staring at me, waiting for my answer.

I would have to change my meeting times with Dr. Trembly, or perhaps get a new therapist altogether. The thought filled me with dread, but I needed this job. Bad. I had no other skills, I had no drive to pursue anything else. If I quit, or if I was fired, I would probably just stay at home until I rotted away into nothingness (and then, I would be right back over here… God, I couldn’t stand the idea of Leo looking over my dead naked body, yuck). I stayed quiet for a moment as I thought. I allowed a beat to pass. “Okay.” I replied, feeling defeated.

“Okay?” Drake didn’t seem sure.

“Uh, yes. Yes, ma’am, I can do it. When do I start?” I stuttered, attempting to seem surer of myself than I was.

Drake’s face would break into a wide smile, customer service-esque. “Excellent! I want you here later tonight.”

I was taken aback, “Wait, what? Tonight? But…”

“Don’t worry,” Drake sat up and began shifting papers around her desk, indicating that she had work to do and wanted me gone, “You’ll get compensation. Now, hurry home and get some rest, okay?”

… “Okay.”

#eyeless jack x reader

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ultramegagigamax3 · 5 months

Text

1: paint the child to entice / ej

what is night without the stars?

what is dark about the heart?

what's in the park? we're not there anyway

masterlist ~ next

When we were 7, I pushed him off a slide. It wasn’t a long drop, it had been a slide meant for children less than half our age, but he still cried as if he had been stabbed. That’s how we met; the nun that had been assigned to watch me that day forced me to apologize to him. I refused, of course, since he was being mean to me first.

“Girls can’t parkour,” he snorted, “you’re too weak… wait… are you even a girl? But you’re ugly!” He cackled.

I didn’t miss a beat before shoving him into the woodchips. I had never seen him before in that park, and he didn’t seem to have any friends, so I took a shot at attempting to be his. He ended up being a little shithead, despite how cute he may have seemed. No wonder he didn’t have any friends, he seemed to think he was too good for anyone else to play with. Unfortunately for him, I hated bullies and had a violent sense of justice, even at that age. But alas, I was wrangled over to the boy, after he’d run away to tell his mother, and forced to apologize. His mother sneered at me in disgust, but made him accept the apology, nonetheless. I think she resented me ever since then; it’s been 2 decades now, and she still couldn’t hold eye contact without turning away in disgust. At first, I hated her back, thinking her such an immature woman-child to have such a deep grudge against an actual child. Now, in retrospect, perhaps she knew something about me that I hadn’t realized yet. This didn’t quell my spite but fueled it.

After that incident, he had learned not to mess with me. The playground in which we met was just outside the Catholic orphanage I had grown up in, while he lived blocks away. This playground wasn’t very close to his house, but his home neighborhood, from what I remember of his stories, wasn’t exactly safe, and so his mother felt safer bringing him over here. Maybe that’s why she resented me, because I was also dangerous. Despite that, he kept on coming. He was tall, pale, and skinny, with round cheeks and fluffy brown hair that seemed to always be greasy. He was mean and territorial, but he seemed to heed my word. Samantha, a small and pretty girl with blonde hair and a broken arm, once took his swing unknowingly after he had gotten up to get a drink of water. He was furious, and so he grabbed one of her little pigtails and pulled. I hopped off the rock wall I had been climbing and quickly ran over to them, punching the boy as hard as I could in the face. He let her go and she scurried away, holding his cheek and choking back tears. I told him not to mess with anyone anymore, or else. He looked at me with watery eyes, quiet for a moment as he studied me, then huffed out a small whatever and walked away. After Samantha had told the nuns of what had happened, he was heavily scolded. However, when questioned about his bruise, he simply said that someone had accidentally kicked him as he was walking past the swing set.

After that, we became something like acquaintances. We had always found ourselves playing alone, although I was fiercely protective over the other children of the orphanage none of them seemed to really pay me any mind. I was a wallflower, quiet and unnoticeable. If I had been a specific breed, perhaps something poisonous or unpleasant, as my very being seemed to repel children and adults away from me. I didn’t understand what it was, and I still don’t, but something about me had made people want to hurt me. Nothing severe, as far as I can remember, just mean remarks or harsher punishments. I was mild mannered, aside from my fierce sense of justice. Perhaps I thought if I acted like a hero, others would finally treat me kindly. (As for him, I’m sure you can guess why no one wanted to play with him.)

His mother wasn’t fond of the idea of seeing us together more often, but he never listened to her warnings. We weren’t friends, not even playmates, just two lonely children with no one else to go to. We had brief conversations, about school, about family, about movies. We had almost nothing in common, he liked reading and writing while I loved science, he had tons of friends at his school while I had none, and he hated scary or violent movies while they were some of my all-time favorites. Where we did somewhat connect was our familial issues; his mother was poor and he hadn’t known where his father had gone, and I had been in the orphanage all my life. Then, after we had reached the age of 9, he just stopped showing up. It wasn’t unusual for him to not come by for days at a time, I hadn’t expected him to be there all the time. But days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and then I felt I had grown out of that playground. I was back to being completely and utterly alone. That was the first time I began to really miss him.

A year later, I started middle school. I wasn’t very good at school, but I was accepted into private catholic school on basis that I went to the elementary school (and I only was able to go there because I lived in the catholic orphanage). And, of course, I was alone. Some of the children I lived with went there, and in the beginning, we would eat together at lunch, until they were able to make their own friends, of course. Samantha still spoke to me, probably the closest thing I would have to a friend. If we happened to have classes together, she would give me brief waves or give me the answers to homework. She sat with me at lunch occasionally, most likely when she felt bad for me. She had even invited me to sit with her and her friends once, but that just made everyone, including myself, extremely uncomfortable. She had been adopted, twice, but she had been given back up both times. Once when she was 7 and I was 8 (he had laughed at her when he overheard the conversation on the playground, and I punched him in the face again), and she had come back 2 years later. She didn’t seem any different, if not a bit more spoiled. However, when she turned 10, she was adopted again. This time, she came back after just a year. She was different this time, though it’s hard to explain how. On the surface, she seemed to act like the same girl, but there seemed to be something lurking underneath. She wouldn’t tell me what happened, not until years later (and even then, I would be the only person to know), but that’s a story for another time.

The only honors class I took was science, and that’s where we would meet once again. I tried to pretend as if I didn’t recognize him, but he sat down next to me with a loud thud as he dropped his large theology textbook on the desk.

“Well, well, well,” he would say, a smug smirk on his face, “look who it is.”

He was taller now, his voice slightly deeper though it hadn’t dropped quite yet. His hair wasn’t as greasy as it was before, and in my astonished haze that had been the first thing I pointed out to him.

“What the hell, did you finally learn how to shower?”

I didn’t want that to be the first thing I said to him, I really did miss seeing him at the playground, greasy hair and all. His smirk dropped and was replaced by a disgusted sneer, looking like his mother, as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. I was stunned into silence after seeing him, as if I had seen a ghost. He acted as if nothing had changed, as if almost 3 years hadn’t passed since we had last seen each other. Looking back, I admire that about him, how he hung onto every memory. How he hung onto me. Though, 12-year-old me didn’t like it one bit.

He was a total asshole, just as he had been as a kid. He scrutinized my every move, telling me I was too lazy, too lame, totally unapproachable, and an utter loser. His words hurt in the beginning, though I tried not to show it. There was a time when I had shown up to school without taking my morning medications. I felt as if I were on the verge of becoming catatonic, my mind and body felt like they were replaced with cement. I felt nothing and I felt everything, I was fragile. I walked into our science classroom, the first class of the day, and laid my head down on my desk almost immediately. The teacher and my peers ignored me, this wasn’t an unregular occurrence for me. He ended up walking in late, taking his normal seat beside me. He seemed to be upset about something, perhaps he had an argument with his mother, and had decided to take it out on me. Usually, I took it on the chin as best as I could, not allowing him to see any sign of weakness, but today was different.

“Oh god, [ ], did you even shower today? What is up with your hair?” He whispered. My body tensed and I bit my lip, already feeling my chest begin to seize. “What, is that the style? Is that what you emos do?” He chuckled, poking at my skull. There was a pause, he had been waiting for me to spit insults back at him, the usual song and dance. But I didn’t. It was a stupid thing to cry about, I had heard much worse from people whose opinions I valued much more than him. But my small body felt as if it were holding the weight of the universe on its shoulders, and this had been the tipping point. My sobs were quiet at first, so he didn’t notice until my shoulders began to shake, and I began to sniffle loudly. He let out a soft “Holy shit.” Before standing up and grabbing my arms. I was a deadweight as he pulled me out of the classroom, I could feel my peers’ eyes burning into me. The teacher made a feeble attempt at getting us to stop and explain, but we just kept walking.

We would escape to an empty stairwell, sitting on a couch with a painting of Mary and her child hanging over it. I didn’t wail or sob, I simply sat with my face in my hands and bent over into my lap. Tears streamed down my face, and I clenched my jaw tightly, only allowing shaking breaths to break through. He was frantic at first, asking me what was wrong and that he was sorry. I ignored him as I tried to get myself to calm down, but my eyes were broken faucets. Eventually, he resigned to just rubbing my back in an attempt to comfort me. I would come to my senses at some point and look over at him. Through the curtain of my wild, unbrushed hair I could see his round little face. His eyes were watery, and his nose was red, he had been holding back the urge to cry too. I forced out a weak laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but I felt too numb to enjoy the humorous sight. He looked shocked as I caught his attention, his wet gaze darting back towards me, but before he could get any more words out, we were discovered by our science teacher. We would get sent to the office, the nuns would be called, he would be sent back to class, and I was made to take my pills and go back to the orphanage.

It took him months before he could build up enough courage to throw a mean quip my way, and he was only able to do so because I started it. I insulted the way he wore his uniform, like a wannabe jock, and he shot back with his usual “emo” comments. Though now, something seemed to shift, and I tried my best to ignore it. I didn’t want change.

He had always tried too hard to look cool, leaning back in his chair, wearing his uniform wrong, cussing out loud, but he was all bark and no bite. When I made demands of him, go get the scissors, throw away my trash, don’t talk to the teacher like that, he still listened. I became his only “friend”, reluctantly. Sure, I had missed him at the playground, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hang out with him every day. He was quiet at first, although he was practically shadowing my every move, when he sat down next to Samantha and me at lunch (she sat with me when her real friends would piss her off or upset her). Samantha was uncomfortable, but made conversation, nonetheless.

“So, you don’t go to West Point anymore?” That was the public middle school down the street.

“Nah, my mom’s, like, super religious, so she wanted me to go here,” he sniffs, trying to be nonchalant, "or whatever.”

Samantha nodded, feigning interest but also not being able to stand the awkward silence. “You must be totally smart to get in here, all my friends had to have super high grades,” she giggles, “well, expect me and [ ], LOL!” Yes, she had said “LOL” out loud, and yes, she spelled it out. I rolled my eyes as he began to laugh at my expense, saying shit like well duh! and I already knew that!

Although he hated to admit it, his grades were almost perfect. He tried to hide it, but he spent all his free time studying, unlike me. I wasn’t stupid or anything, despite what he might say, I just couldn’t stand to do homework, I couldn’t stand to do much of anything. A child psychologist had once told the head nun at my church that I had depression, you know what her mother was like, they whispered, things like that can be hereditary. I was treated with prayer and an exorcism. You heard me. A Fucking exorcism. It wasn’t that big of a deal though, I couldn’t even tell you what happened, I forgot about the whole experience. Anyways, I tended to spend most of my free time sleeping or playing video games, unless it was science. Like I said before, I loved science. I didn’t study very often for science, though it was more often in comparison to other classes, but I was one of those kids that didn’t need to study to get good grades. It was my only honors class, while all his were honors. I was better than him at science, but the teacher always seemed to praise him. He was constantly getting compliments on his hard work and his intellect, and he hated it. He constantly complained about how humiliating it was, while I was fiercely jealous. This was my strong suit, my talent, my thing, this was the only thing I had. It was the only thing I could own and be praised for, and I felt as if he had taken it away from me. That added to my resentment towards him, but he never noticed, he just continued to follow me.

We had the same science teacher throughout our years at that school. She was young and pretty enough, with her brown hair cut into a blunt bob and always wearing thick rimmed glasses. She was always overly friendly with certain students over others, looking at the way she treated him and I it was obvious. He was somewhat athletic, he ran track and sometimes played, like, baseball or something, I couldn’t tell you. She always asked him about it, his games, his races, and whatever else. She told him that she would show up, take him and his mother out to dinner if he won, or, if she’s okay with it, then we could go alone? Through my jealous haze, I never realized anything was wrong. That was until he had invited me over to his house for a study session. Were now in the 7th grade, he was still twelve, but I was now thirteen. We had fallen into a similar dynamic as to what we had when we were 7, we were mean to each other; picking fights, butting heads, and benign fights for power. But we stuck together, or maybe he just stuck to me. I kept him in check, more or less, and he made me seem like less of a lonely loser… more or less.

Despite that, I was nervous and terrified out of my mind. This was my first time going over to a stranger’s house, let alone a boys, and I was pretty sure his mother still hated me. The reintroduction was awful… though, perhaps I’m being a bit over dramatic. It felt awful, anyways. She instantly recognized me and, although she greeted me and welcomed me into her home, she didn’t drop her glare. Nonetheless, I pushed through, with an awkward smile and curt nod, and scurried as I followed him to his room (I wouldn’t be surprised if she had been standing outside the door and tried to listen to our conversation).

I sat stiffly in a big green beanbag on the floor, while he sat with his legs crossed in front of me. He was about a foot or two away, but I couldn’t help but feel flustered.

“[ ], I need to tell you something.” His gaze was fixed on his lap, it was difficult to read him.

My heart dropped. This was a completely foreign situation to me, something I only heard about from Samantha’s stories; what the fuck was he about to say? Was he going to confess to me? Had he tricked me into coming all this way to tell me that he liked me? Had he trapped me in here? I felt sick, my body breaking into a cold sweat. My mind was racing with a million questions, but one stuck out the most; how the hell do I get out of this?

“It’s a secret, so you gotta swear you won’t tell, on your life.” He was deathly serious, and I was frozen in place. When I didn’t immediately answer, he spoke up again, “I said, do you swear on your life that this will never leave this room?” His voice was quiet, but stern.

I viciously nodded, then spoke up a soft, “Yes, yes” when I realized he couldn’t actually see me nodding. He let out a soft sigh, staying quiet. Seconds passed but they felt years before I heard him begin to sniffle. A moment later, tears began to drop in his lap. My fear was instantly replaced with panic as I leaned over in a feeble attempt to comfort him, though I didn’t know how. I flailed my arms awkwardly, unsure of whether I should touch him or not, before he jerked his head up. His eyes were puffy and red, the sight filled me with dread. I moved off the beanbag and onto my knees in front of him.

“You know Miss Cox, right?” He shook his head and cut me off before I could answer, “Well, no shit you know her,” she was our science teacher, “well she…” I had a feeling I knew where this was going. I stayed silent and fixed my gaze down at his trembling hands. They used to be so small, and they still were in comparison to a grown man, though they now had slight callouses and blisters. I placed one of my hands, nails bitten and cuticles torn from picking, on his palms without thinking, and, before I could pull it away, he grabbed it with both of his own. He paused and took a breath, before continuing, “Well, you know how she took me out to dinner, right?” He struggled to get the words out, “After that, she said she would drive me home and…” He let out a small sob, paused, then continued, “then I got in her car. And she said she needed to stop by somewhere, but I told her it was getting late, but she didn’t listen.” He let go of my hand and wiped his eyes, I felt as if I were about to puke, “She parked in some parking lot…” He trailed off and then giggled, surprising me, “Actually, it was the parking lot of that park that we used to play at…” He trailed off again. I was hanging onto every word, hoping this was a misunderstanding and that this wasn’t going where I thought it was. But I was wrong.

He keeled over, breaking into quiet sobs, holding my hand over his face. I could feel the warm tears on my palm, but I didn’t move away. I broke out of my trance and leaned over him, placing my free hand on his back before wrapping it around his shoulders, resting my body weight over him. We stayed like that for a while, me awkwardly hugging him from above as he cried into my hand in his lap. I told him to go to the police, and he said they wouldn’t do anything. I told him that I would tell the school, the church, his mom, someone, but he vehemently refused. I couldn’t stand it, how he was willing allow this woman, this monster, to slip through the cracks. I was furious, and I told him so. I went on a rant at some point, about how he could ruin the life of the person who had ruined his. How revenge would be sweet, and how he would save other children from having this done to them. It was dramatic and childish, the youthful hero complex so many of us have at that age. I was under the impression that I, a measly thirteen-year-old girl, had any power to cause real change. Looking back, the rant had been embarrassingly cringe, it astonishes me how he was able to look on at me with such awe. He sat back up at some point, and I had noticed how he had been gently tracing his fingers over my palm, but I decided to just ignore him. When my speech concluded, he was just staring at me.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I spat, suddenly feeling insecure. He giggled, seeming more lighthearted than before. It’s amazing how, as children, we were able to switch our moods so quickly.

“[ ]?” He spoke up.

“Yeah? What?” I attempted to hide my bashfulness.

“I don’t want you to fix my problems… I just want you to… be here for me.”

If he hadn’t told me what happened to him that evening, I would’ve told him fuck off, but I didn’t, obviously. He went on as if nothing happened, though maybe he became a bit clingier. We both dreaded that class; he even began skipping. His grades would drop steadily until they took a full-on nosedive during the first months of our 8th grade year. I was terrible at comforting people, but I tried my best. He wouldn’t come to me very often with his troubles, he never even spoke of Miss Cox since, but when he would I forced myself to bite my tongue. I was constantly trying to fix his problems with my extremely limited wisdom, but he either shot me down or pretended to take my advice. At some point, we began just hugging. Away from anyone’s sight, of course, I would die of humiliation if I was seen being that friendly with him of all people.

“Don’t you think it would be better to, like, get a girlfriend and hug her instead?” We had been exploring the small forest that surrounded my church, where I was still living, and the playground. We had stopped by a small lake, not really speaking to each other on the way over unless it was to call the other stupid for going in the wrong direction. Then, as we reached the water, he stepped in front of me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I let out a small huff before placing my hands on his shoulder blades.

“I don’t want a girlfriend.” He sounded like a stubborn child. He was thirteen and I had just turned fourteen. He had a drastic growth spurt, and so had though not as extreme, so he had to lean down a bit to hug me.

I rolled my eyes, “You know that I’m not your girlfriend, right?” I could feel him nod furiously. Good.

It was a strange relationship; not quite a friendship, not quite enemies, and nowhere near strangers anymore. When I recounted my experiences to Samantha, she had assumed that something had been going on between the two of us then. I thought for a moment, the relationship was wholesome and mostly platonic, as far as I knew.

“Obligate parasitism is when the parasite can’t live without its host.” Miss Cox was unfazed and friendly as always, “Then there’s facultative parasitism, that’s when the parasite doesn’t really need the host. However, if a host comes along, they wouldn’t be able to resist.” He had skipped that day, but I didn’t. I hadn’t fully lost my passion for science, but I had made a point to give Miss Cox an attitude. (I noticed my grades took a small dip then, go figure.) I didn’t know what I wanted to be yet, I just knew it had to be science, obviously. I allowed my mind to wander as Miss Cox lectured; I could study plants, explore their medicinal properties. Or I could be a doctor or surgeon, though real blood made me squeamish, I could get rich. Or I could go in a completely different direction like astrophysics, but that needed a lot of math. The world amazed me, humanity, life, technology, space, all of it. I wanted to become educated on every facet of what it means to be alive on planet Earth. It was ambitious, but at that age anything seemed possible.

“I think I wanna be a cop.” Samantha spat it out like it was a confession. We had been at lunch, and she had quietly come up to me without a word before her strange little outburst. I hadn’t seen her around the orphanage as often, she had been spending all her time with her boyfriend and his friends.

I raised a brow, “Uh, you sure you can handle that?” I inquired. She let out a huff. She was a smooth talker, perfect for costumer service. But she was as ditzy and clumsy as they come, and she was lazy and hated anything that made her feel bad. She didn’t enjoy questions that made her think any more deeply than she already did. She was also fragile, her skin bruised with a strong wind and her bones broke with a short stumble. We were both ambitious beyond our limits, to say the least. But, between the two of us, she was the more likely to have the courage to chase hers.

“Think about it: catching criminals, being respected, fixing the system from the inside out? I can totally do that! I could be a fucking hero, [ ].” She was suddenly confident, if not defensive.

I took a bite of my cold ravioli before I replied, “Could you kill someone?”

She hesitated, “I can learn!” It was morbid, or, dare I say, almost unethical. It was sad, it was gross, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Could you handle dead bodies?” She nodded; confidence unwavering. “Dead animals, dead teens, dead kids, dead babies?” She pauses, thinking for a moment, before nodding again. “Could you rip someone away from their crying families? Could you kill them in front of their families?”

She nods again, “If they really deserve it, then absolutely!”

I couldn’t help feeling disgusted, but I kept pushing; “What makes them deserve it?”

“Well, if they committed a crime, duh.” She sipped on her Capri-Sun.

“What about people who steal to help their families? Or people who kill their child’s rapist? They’re committing crimes.” I don’t know what had come over me, but I couldn’t help myself.

She was quiet for a moment as she contemplated. A beat passes before she speaks up again, “…No, I couldn’t kill them…” She looks somber, as if coming to a crushing realization. Was she crushed because there are people in the world who suffer that way? Or was she crushed because she wouldn’t be able to properly kill them? I didn’t know, I didn’t want to know, and I was so over this conversation.

“That’s good…” Was all I could say in response, and she seemed to light back up, as if she had the approval she had been looking for.

“You should be a forensic scientist.” She seemed back to her happy, ditzy self.

“What? Why?” I was baffled, she never really cared to talk about my future.

“So, we can work together! And Jack can be, like, a lawyer or something. We all work together to catch the bad guys.” She bent her fingers into the shape of a gun before shooting at me. I tossed the idea around in my head; it would be called death science, I would assume. I was fascinated with the wonders of life; I had also wanted to be a hero. I wanted to save the environment, or save sick people, but working with the dead? What could I do for them? Sure, I could aid in bringing closure to their families, but in the end, they would still be gone, and that family would still have to live with the horrors of losing them. I was the type of child that believed the best way to help a dead person was to bring them back, which was impossible, obviously. Besides that, working with him? Having to see him for the rest of my life? It was a strange thought, what would we be like when we’re older? Would he really stick to me forever?

I shrugged my shoulders in response, letting out a soft I’ll think about it. Samantha then changed the subject, but as she spoke, I scanned the cafeteria for him. It had been the waning months of our 8th grade year, soon we would have to take an entrance exam before making it into the catholic school’s high school division. He had been studying for weeks, he was determined to make his mother proud. She had been frustrated with his drop in grades, she even tried to blame me for it. If only she knew.

I couldn’t see him anywhere. I became filled with worry and dread, and then I felt stupid. He was fourteen, we were almost in high school, he wasn’t a child I had to watch over. He was free to go and do whatever he pleased; he didn’t need my permission.

The next day he was still gone, but the day after that he was back at my table. We continued with our strange symbiotic relationship until the last week of school, however he seemed to be avoiding me outside of class. He didn’t invite me out to the woods, to his house, or even out to eat. I tried not to feel a bit heartbroken, but I did, and that was humiliating. I felt like I was 10 again, alone even though he was still near me. It was in that final week that I saw them, that I saw her.

I spent my summer at the orphanage, depressed as ever. Samantha spoke to me when she was around, the nuns tried to keep me company, and the younger kids never failed to invite me to play (a little late for that, now). But that didn’t change anything, I felt like human trash. All my summers were spent the same way: wake up in the afternoon, eat in bed, talk to a nun, try not to kill myself, stay up playing video games, wash, rinse, repeat. I heard whispers of another exorcism, but nothing ever came of them. Every day felt the same. He had invited me out a handful of times during the past summers of our middle school years, but now he was completely off the grid as far as I knew. We never gave each other any contact information or anything, he would either talk to me at school or show up to the orphanage. Now, I began to regret it. I have to admit, I may have lost my mind a bit during this period of my life. I started my period way later than any girl I knew, and I was suffering, badly. Missing him turned into longing, and before long it had turned into yearning. It was a simple crush, but it felt revolting and embarrassing. I didn’t know if I felt so grossed out because I had known him for so long or because I had grown up in such a restrictive catholic environment. But I am alone, completely alone, when I am in here, I thought to myself as I lazed about my room, what do I have to be afraid of?

"- - - - - - -

“Wow, this is a very… moving introduction to your memoir, Miss [ ].” Dr. Paul Trembly is my therapist. He’s looking over the paper I had thrown together this morning. He had told me a couple visits ago to do this, write out my childhood experiences, especially surrounding Jack, for him to look over and scrutinize (though he didn’t say that part). I had trouble speaking out loud the things I wanted to tell him, so he suggested writing them out instead. He was the 3rd non-child psychiatrist I had been through now; all my others were short lived and became unhelpful by the time I came around to the “Jack and high school” chapter of my life. He didn’t seem all that impressed by my writing, though I hadn’t expected him to be. We talked for a few minutes more, discussing the details of what I had written and the ”due date” for my next writing assignment, before I was finally dismissed. I give him a curt nod and stiff smile before I swiftly escape the suffocating office. I hated seeing therapists, I hated how they feigned interest and kindness in order to properly dissect your mind for subsequent diagnosis. I trudged outside, the air hot and humid, and got in my car. The drive home, an apartment along the forest in which my old church-home is, was long and treacherous, elevating my stress levels higher than they already were. I had work later tonight, and I needed all the sleep I could get before heading to the funeral home.

#eyeless jack x reader

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ultramegagigamax3 · 5 months

Text

now you feel so alive | eyeless jack/reader

ive watched you change

i took you home

set you on the glass

i pulled off your wings

then i laughed =-=-= I was 18 when my best friend disappeared. Now, I'm 29 and working as a mortician after dropping out of medical school.

After all these years, I still thought of him. When beautiful unidentified cadavers with soft brown hair and dark eyes were delivered to my funeral home, I couldn't help feeling a mix of dread and excitement. It was sad, disgusting, even. But I missed him, I yearned for him.

My chronic loneliness and routine mourning was interrupted by a scraping at my door. I fed it, out of pity. Now this thing won't leave me alone.

chapter 1: paint the child to entice

chapter 2: my heart, i never feel

to be cont...

#eyeless jack x reader #reader insert #dark romance #cannibalism #religious imagery #catholic guilt #creepypasta x reader #childhood friends to lovers #fanfiction #medical gore #romantic thriller

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ultramegagigamax3 · 5 months

Text

1: its just not my year / toby rogers

but im all good here

sunday morning

hands over my knees in a

room full of faces

im sorry if i seemed off,

but i was probably wasted

and didnt feel so good

masterlist ~ next

!Content Warnings!: homophobic slurs, bullying, references to drug use, vomiting

Somewhere, rural America

Your mother says that God is always giving signs, to never be surprised, always be prepared, and take whatever He gives you with open arms, no matter how you may hurt. You had believed it as a child, but after that day, you aren’t so sure. It had been a day like any other, as generally excruciating today as it would be tomorrow. Perhaps the maddening repetition of each passing day was a sign in and of itself? God had made the rising hours of the day so excessively same it had crossed over into the unusual, therefore being a supernatural sign, right? Repetition is said to drive anyone insane, let alone a tweaker like you. You splash your face with water, then grip the edges of your dirtied and broken bathroom sink; yeah, you think, that has to be it. God hasn’t abandoned me yet.

Earlier that day

You were lazing on the couch in your living room, one of your younger siblings lay across your chest. You were resting your head back on one arm rest and your legs dangled over the other; there had been a time when they didn’t hang like that, and you had begun to miss it. The 4-year-old is resting his little head on your collar bone, turned to the side as he has his eyes glued to the T.V. He had drooled on your pastel yellow tank top and was fighting to stay awake, so as to continue watching whatever garbage was playing. He is small and very chubby, making him heavy on your lungs. You didn’t mind though, a fat baby was better than a starving baby, you knew that better than anyone else. You stare up at the popcorn ceiling, an expanse you have studied a million times over. You had pulled an all-nighter, as per usual, and so you had been the only one awake to catch Joseph, the boy, crying from the living room. You didn’t know how to comfort him, you didn’t know how to comfort anyone, you just gave him a hug and turned on the T.V. Your eyes drift to the wall above the couch, every corner filled with tacky crosses of various styles and designs. You had stared at these crosses many times, during lectures and scoldings that you tuned out. You had once been in awe at the wall, when you were a child, but the novelty and charm was lost on you long ago. You have been like this for about an hour, and you would continue like this until the boy fell asleep. Staying still for long was a challenge for you, constantly twitching, cracking, rubbing, and itching at your hands. Your feet twist and bend in their sockets, your legs swing, bounce, and kick at the air. It was as if there was a constant electrical current going through your body. No part of your body felt relaxed, at ease, eternally nervous and tense, even in your own home. You could feel Joseph’s little heartbeat against your stomach, and you wonder if that’s what it feels like to be pregnant. You squirm at the thought, and your mind and body are filled with dread. Just the idea of it makes you feel sick, fills you with the sort of existential fear you might feel when thinking about death. Your brother’s breathing slows, and now you can finally push yourself off the couch.

You hold the sleeping body tight as you bring him to your room. Well, yours and three of your sisters. You place the boy in your bed, not your choice but waking your mother now would raise hell, and tuck him in. The sheets are baby pink with an outdated brown pattern, totally 2000’s. You placed your stuffed childhood lamb against his chest and swiftly escaped. It was early in the morning, about 6 am now, the time you should be waking up. Your steps are near silent on the stained grey-brown, once white, carpet as you begin your morning. You push open the door to the family bathroom and lock yourself in before showering and brushing your teeth. You track a trail of water back to your room and grab the first pieces of clothing you see, quiet as to not wake the tiny beast in your bed. You make your way back to the bathroom, trailing more water, and, again, lock the door. Theres a small window high above the shower, to let light in while still having privacy. It was never glazed over or given a curtain, and so you had a habit of staring at it, as if you would catch someone trying to peak in. You assess the clothing you had grabbed in the darkness: a pair of small jean shorts, a red T-shirt, and your underwear. It would have to do. You dress quickly and turn to the mirror above the sink, the countertop littered with makeup. You decide on something simple; makeup is a habit drilled into you by your mother. It wasn’t about liking or disliking in this house, it is about what Mother and Father want. You finish and slip on your white socks, escaping the bathroom to search for a pair of shoes.

When you exit, a couple of your brothers and sisters are already scurrying about the house, rushing to get ready. You dodge and weave both small and large bodies, making your way into the kitchen. There, you find the 15-year-old Laura, the second oldest girl, after you, and the second mother of the household. She has made seven bowls of cereal, all the children excluding the two babies. Laura is dressed in a private school uniform, the smartest kid in the family, and is making quick work of tying the twins’ long hair into ponytails. Savannah and Violet, a mischievous 8-year-old duo, are whispering to each other about some anime or whatever they had watched the day prior. You silently chew at your Fruit Loops as you watch Laura struggle.

“You know, you could actually, like, help, you know?” She spits, earning a small yelp from Violet when she pulls her hair too hard.

You shrug, even though she doesn’t see it, “Uh, maybe later.” You lie.

The 10-year-old Zack barrels into the kitchen, snatches a bowl off the counter, and makes a break to get away. “Zack!” Laura hisses, and the boy stops in his tracks, “What are you doing?”

“Breakfast.” He replies, innocently.

“Eat at the table.” You demand, though more casual and less irritated than Laura, gesturing in the table’s direction.

“But I don’t want to.” He states, matter of fact, as if it were stupid to even think of giving the boy a command.

You walk over to the boy and place a firm grip on the back of his neck, marching him over to the table. He sits with a defeated huff and begins to eat. You raise your brows at Laura. “There, I helped.” You smirk, before leaving the kitchen and ignoring whatever little witty quip she spat back. As you walk out, you’re almost run over by Benny, 12, followed by your mother. A strange silence falls over the kitchen.

“Get the hell out of the way.” Your mother pushes past you as she shoves Benny, still in his pajamas, into the kitchen.

You don’t bother to stick around and find out what she’s so pissed about, just keep your mouth shut and move on. Behind the muffling of the door, you can hear Laura talk back to your mother, thus beginning the first argument of the morning. Back in the living room of your tiny, dilapidated house, you find Michael, 17-years-old. He is sitting on the couch, fully dressed but not making any move to go to the kitchen.

“Food’s ready.” You slur, mouth full of cereal. He doesn’t reply, he either didn’t hear you or is just straight up ignoring you. Most likely the latter. If life had gone back to the way it was 2 years ago, you would’ve pulled his hair or pinched his cheek. But that was then, and this is now, and things between the two of you wouldn’t ever be the way they were before.

You feel itchy. You ignored it as you walk back to your room, but the ache persisted. It felt as if there were little bugs beneath the skin, crawling and mating and birthing and multiplying. Your flesh and bone suddenly felt illuminated by something like an electric shock. You shakily place your bowl on a messy dresser in your room, rubbing your hands together frantically, like a nervous fly. You knew this feeling all too well; you needed to get high. You told Laura you would stop, for her sake, but she wouldn’t notice, would she? You absentmindedly grab at your hair and scratch at your belly, no, you couldn’t do it, you wouldn’t. But you needed to take the edge off, at the very least. You grab your backpack, a brown sweater, and your beat-up converse, not bothering to finish your cereal. You leave your room and enter the living room, the whole house suddenly alight with noise. Laura is holding the youngest sibling, baby Mary, while juggling with dressing Violet, meanwhile Michael is handling Savannah and Zack. Your mother disappeared, your father now in her place, and Benny is left to frantically dress himself. You pull your phone from your backpack, an outdated and beat up little thing, checking the time, 6:40 am. Normal kids who didn’t live out in the middle of nowhere would be getting up now. The walk to the bus stop took almost 20 minutes, 10 on a good day, meanwhile Laura got to leave in your father’s car.

“Why don’t drive all of us to the bus stop?” Michael had asked once, years ago.

“Nah, I’m not doing all that! Waste of time!” Your father dismissed, the same response he would give for years to come.

You’re out the door before anyone could notice you, and the thought of rolling one up now doesn’t fail to fill your mind. You pull your arms through your backpack straps, backwards, the bag hanging off your chest. You put the hoodie of your sweater over your head, not fully wearing it, the pressing humidity (and rising heat within your body) making it too stuffy to adorn. If Laura or Benny (or Michael, if he still talked to you) were out here, they would’ve said you look stupid. You had stopped worrying about how you look years ago, a premature ego death, before you even had an ego. You gripped the sides of the bag, to distract yourself from the overwhelming desire for a hit. In the distance, you could hear the gaggle of children finally leaving the house. Distant giggles, obnoxious laughter, muffled words of conversation and “I love you”. And there you were, meters away and alone. With you gone, it almost seemed like a happy family. You hear a car come up behind you, and a loud honk pulls you out of your thoughts. You jump, your heart almost stopping, too edgy from the withdrawal. You look at the offending vehicle and spot your father and Laura waving and laughing. You can’t discern whether you feel humiliated, gawked at like a clown, or loved, noticed. That fades, and then the only thing you feel is that deep, distant itch, begging to be scratched.

Violet is running up to you, followed in tow by Zack then Savannah.

“Why you so emo.” Violet pokes at your side.

You force an offended scoff, “Shut up, ugly!” You pitch your voice in a whiny tone. The poke feels like a stab, and suddenly you’re sweating. Shit.

“[ ], can you carry me? Michael doesn’t wanna carry me!” Savannah pulls at the sweater hanging from your head.

“You’re too big. You’re a big kid, right? You sound like a baby.” Your head feels dizzy, the world begins to sway.

Savannah continues to whine. Zack pipes up now, “After school, can you take me to the skate park? Please please please please…” He continues, his little fists pulled into a prayer position.

“I dunno, we’ll see.” There’s a pounding in your head, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

“Wait, [ ], I wanna go too!” Benny suddenly appears as he chimes in, giving up his too cool to engage act.

“We’ll see.” Your body is buzzing, you feel wired. You don’t even notice that you had begun scratching at your arms, and although it wasn’t violent by any means, it certainly wasn’t gentle either.

“Why was Josie crying last night?” Savannah.

“How did you get up so early, LOL.” Violet.

“Did you even go to sleep? You look sleepy,” Savannah.

“My legs hurt, I’m tired…” Zack.

“[ ], can we skip and go to the gas station instead?” Benny.

“Benny! That’s bad!” Savannah.

“Yeah, mommy’s gonna spank us!” Violet.

“Mom’s gonna spank you.” Benny.

“Why would she spank me, stupid?” Violet.

“For being so ugly, ugly!” Benny.

“Nuh uh! [ ]! Mommy’s not gonna spank me, right?” Violet.

Yeah, you’re never having kids. You couldn’t even itch your arms anymore, as there were children hanging off each one, begging for your attention. Well, you don’t blame them, the only time they ever see you is early in the morning and late at night. Perhaps, to them, you were something special, the way a two headed rat may be special. You’re clenching your teeth now and struggling to walk straight. When you’re like this, it’s difficult to stay calm; there have been too many times where you have lashed out, saying and doing vile things. You held onto whatever sanity you had left, to stop yourself from doing something you would regret. You wondered if Michael could tell; was he just watching, waiting for you to slip up so he could call you a stupid piece of shit again? Or was he just a fucking idiot?

“[ ]?” Zack spoke up, almost tripping you as he got into your space.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you still in school? I thought you had to go to college already?”

Oh god, the dreaded question.

“Guys, come here.” Michael finally demanded, pulling the children’s attention away from you. You let out a sigh, immediately bringing your nails to your arms once again. You continued to walk quickly at your own pace, tuning out the world around you.

You look up at the sky, it’s a gloomy grey, but the wind was warm. The moist air clings to your skin, making you feel dirtied. Mosquitos have already begun their biting, leaving red spots along the exposed expansions of your arms and legs. You look out at the fields, vast and almost endless, save for the thick tree line in the distance. You liked the fields, although ugly and littered with red necks, only because of the childhood memories you had made here. You hadn’t been out in that distant wood until you turned 16, begging your father to take you hunting. You had killed a rabbit out there, and you cried, and now the ghosts of the dead cute little animals seemed to haunt that area. Dramatic. You look down at your feet, you had been walking along a gravel path, lined with wire fences meant for cows. Bugs scattered the area, a grasshopper jumped past your feet, went down the trail, and landed on Savannah. You only know it landed on Savannah because of the shrill scream that followed. You jump, again, at the sound.

The grasshopper sits calmly in your palm, Zack and Violet leaning over you as they observe the creature. Michael and Savannah are sitting on an old concrete bench, having reached the bus stop, the older boy wiping at the girl’s tears. You’re holding the pest in your left hand, meanwhile your right grips the left wrist, tight as to control the shaking.

“Can I hold it?” Zack asks, polite.

“Wait, no, me first!” Violet butts in.

“No, me! Back off, stupid!” Zack snaps, polite façade gone in an instant.

You still feel twitchy, though now you’ve gotten better at ignoring it. The three of you are crouched down, careful not to ruin your clothing with the damp grass. You knew that they knew what was going on, but you and the children all decided to collectively ignore the elephant in the room, apparently. They had asked questions in the past, only to be met with being shut down or lashed at, and so they now knew better. Benny is standing over Zack, half disgusted, half fearful, and totally trying to play it cool.

“Ugh, just kill it!” He sneers.

“I’m not gonna kill it, you little psycho.” You observe the creature for a little while longer, not placing it in either child’s hand.

“It’s just a bug! What is it gonna do, huh?” Benny talks down to you, totally too cool. He reminds you of how Michael had once been, and you begin to rub your wrist.

You stand, rather suddenly. Zack and Violet whine, a chorus of small pleas break out, and Benny takes a step back, hiding his terror of the creature. A beat passes, the bus begins to approach from the distance.

“Bus is here.” You nod toward the vehicle and the children turn around. Benny is trudging away from the scene when you grab the back of his school uniform, shoving the bug inside. He lets out a scream, and the kids burst into laughter. There had been a small congregation of students and parents standing around as well, all turning to witness the commotion. Benny is cursing you out while he rips off his backpack and sweater, batting at his back. You cackle, wicked and evil, as the boy panics.

“Ugh, you fucking bitch!” Benny snaps as the grasshopper finally escapes.

“Language!” You retaliate, the laughter making it difficult to get the word out.

“I’m telling mommy!” Violet yells at Benny through her giggles as she runs off to the bus, hand in hand with Savannah.

“Benny, hurry! Before we lock you out!” Zack teases and cackles, your little clone.

Savannah is still rubbing at her reddened eyes, “You guys are so mean!”

Benny flees the scene, not before flipping you the finger, and hops on the bus.

The bus leaves you and Michael there, and you hold your stomach as you try to catch your breath. Once your laughter finally dies, you find yourself standing in silence. Michael is still ignoring you, and the other highschoolers waiting by the curb are in their own little worlds. You stare at the back of Michael’s head, and you feel alone once more. You sit down in the wet grass, not caring about the stains, and scratch, twitch, and jitter in silence.

You hurry to the back of the bus, Michael in the front. Even on the bus, he tries to stay as far from you as possible. The front is quiet, nerds and losers, but the back is rowdy, losers in denial. You sit next to a girl, a skinny little thing. She’s engulfed in large hoodie and sweatpants, light grey with the school’s name plastered in red. You plop down next to her and pull off your hoodie, pulling it over your front like a blanket.

“Who’s the father?” The girl exclaims, bringing her hands to her face in fake shock.

You glance down at your backpack, still hanging off your front, “Shut the fuck up.” You reply, though with no real bite.

She is Mariah Smith, local pothead and one of your few friends. You aren’t the best of buddies, she had been a friend of a friend, but you were beginning to grow on her. She has dark skin, a rarity in this side of town, and wore short braids. She has a nose ring, done at home by one of your other friends, and had a girlfriend in the city. You two had met in pre-calculus the year before, when she was a junior and you were a senior. Then you failed, obviously, and now you two are in the same grade. You had a feeling she was trying too hard to seem cool because you were older? The thought of being respected, although slightly, filled you with both pride and dread. Pride, because someone thought you were cool. Dread, because you knew you were destined to disappoint. You almost wanted to turn to her and warn her not to get her hopes up.

“Did you see Kay?” You inquire. You had begun to dig your nails into your thighs, the overwhelming sensations of the bus would get to you if you couldn’t distract yourself.

“Yeah, fucking long ass drive, though. But her mom let me spend the night,” Mariah smirks, “very much worth it.” A beat passes before you force out a small laugh, forgetting you had to respond. Mariah goes on to tell you the story of her eventful weekend, trying to look cool despite her giddiness. “…And then we went downtown, and holy shit [ ], we…”

You can’t help but wonder at the feeling, being loved like that. Sure, you’ve had boyfriends… in the 8th grade. That last “relationship” you had was with some new kid in marching band when you were 13, and that never moved past awkwardly standing near each other. But, as far you knew, no sane male has attempted to even look at you since then. There was a time when this would eat you up from the inside out, and there was a time when you were happy to be finally left alone. Now, you feel as if you are better off not burdening your existence upon someone for longer than necessary, even if that pang of longing still runs within you. Maybe just once, with a shitty guy whose heart you wouldn’t mind breaking once his body has done its job… But what if he wants to kill you? Men are always killing their lovers after being tossed to the side, you’ve seen it. You wonder for a moment… you’ve dealt with worse at this point, there’s no situation you couldn’t snake your way out of. How much worse could it really get?

You don’t even know the half of it.

Suddenly, you realize Mariah is silent, you are silent. “[ ]?”

“Yeah?”

“You, uh, okay?”

“Huh? What? Never better!” You shake your head and rub your eyes, “Pulled an all-nighter s’all.” Among other things.

Mariah nods, not seeming convinced but not wanting to dig any further. An awkward silence falls over the two of you for a moment. You’re biting your lips, tearing off the dead skin. Mariah eventually moves her attention to other kids on the bus, making lighthearted and shallow conversation with the boys sitting in front of you.

Suddenly, you’re overcome with a wave of sick. Your eyes are squeezed shut, you’re breathing hard, and your leg is jittering.

“Fucking shit, [ ]…” She wasn’t angry, but she disguised her worry with frustration. “Are you good? What the hell is going on?”

You shake your head, slowly, always quick to give in.

“You sick?”

You shrug, kinda.

“What, is this fucking morning sickness or some shit?” She chuckles, trying to lighten the mood.

You let out a huff through your nose, then shake your head no.

“Flu?”

No.

“Uh… cold?”

No.

“… Cramps?”

No!

There’s silence for a moment. “Did you, uh, relapse?” There is something strange and awkward in her voice. The tone you use when you get dumped with the burdens of a (near) stranger.

No, and she lets out a small sigh.

“Oh… is it, like, withdrawals?” She whispers, too ashamed on your behalf to risk being overheard. You nod. You’re terrible at keeping secrets. Mariah is different from the rest of your friends; unwavering cool with an underlying softness, and little experience with anything harder than a “special brownie”. She’s more innocent than she seems, more innocent than a creature like you. Mariah doesn’t know what else to say, so she doesn’t say anything.

You were clenching your jaw as you got off the bus, leaving Mariah behind. She calls after you, but it’s no use. She doesn’t follow or chase, and you disappear into the crowd.

You lock yourself in the stall and lean over the toilet. You’re leaning a hand on the eroding brick wall and bring the other to your thigh. You open your mouth, and the vomit just slides out, leaking like a faucet. It had come up somewhere along the bus ride, but you weren’t about to just start puking all over yourself. You had swallowed as much as you could, but now you could feel it coming back up. You drop to your knees, probably bruising against the dirty tiles, and hunch over the toilet bowl. Your mouth suddenly tastes like milk and cereal again, and you look down at the rainbow mass in the toilet. At some point during your little puke sesh, the empty restroom became alight with noise. A giggling and gossiping cancerous mass infect the dingy room, only quieting when you begin to gag and puke up some more of your breakfast. Keeping quiet is no use, and you know the bitches outside the door can hear you now. Someone gasps and another giggles, soft mutters of holy shit and what the fuck fill the empty spaces between each gag and cough. When you were done, you stayed there, silent, for a moment, until someone began banging on the door.

“[ ]? That you in there? You okay?” Jessie’s hick accent is so thick, her stupid words so slurred, it’s difficult to discern what she’s saying.

“How did you…” You slur, some bile still coating your mouth.

“We can see your ratty little backpack.” A squeaky voice whines, making you cringe and bring your hands to your head.

“Maybe she’s like anorexic now.” Mutters a friend.

“Or pregnant!” A shrill voice squeals.

“Oh, hell no!” another voice gagged, and the group breaks into laughter.

“Not… pregnant…” You reply, what is with you and pregnancy today? Was that a sign? Please, God above, don’t let it be.

“Get out of there, fat ass, puking isn’t gonna make you prettier.” Jessie bangs on the door. Their words shouldn’t hurt, by now you’ve been hurt worse, but they still haven’t lost their bite. You feel so utterly small and insignificant in that restroom stall. It’s not as if you aren’t aware of how unimportant and infantile their words are, but that doesn’t stop them from sinking under the skin like venom. You aren’t sure when things became this way. Jessie had been your friend once, as children, but things took a dramatic shift in middle school. Her parents are hardcore conservatives, lived in the “nicer” side of town, your dad used to work for them, and you go against all their values. Now which one was it? Is it because you’re poor? Because your dad quit? Because you aren’t cousin-fucking hick? Hell, Jessie could be in love with you for all you know.

“Are you doing this because of some,” Your mouth started running before you could stop it, like vomit you couldn’t swallow, “like, weird sadomasochistic lesbian… fetish… thing?” The words were pushed out of you with each heavy breath. There was a mix of laughter, surprise, and disgust behind the door. You rested your head on your palm, holding your skull to dull the throbbing, but it was no use.

“Ew! I’m not a nasty fucking dyke, unlike you! You fucking… dyke!” The girl screeches.

You reach around for your backpack, thrown off in your haze. You rummage around, cigarettes, weed, something, anything. “It’s okay if you are…” You mutter to yourself, bringing a cig to your chapped, dirtied lips.

There is more screaming and banging, and Jessie had even gotten down on the floor to crawl under when a teacher barged in.

You were all sent to the office, luckily you were able to hide your cigs in time, though. They question you lightly, send you to the nurse, and she sends you to class. No true effort is put into your wellbeing. Jessie and her friends are given a stern talking to, lunch detention, and are sent back to class. No justice served, like the movies, just simply moving on to class. Utterly anti-climactic.

A counselor walked you to class, so you couldn’t skip. You walk in late to pre-calculus with Mr. Davis, being met with giggles and snarky remarks by your peers, which you try to ignore. You scurry to your desk in the back corner of the class, pulling your hoodie over your head to escape the prying eyes. But it’s all in vain.

“Alrighty, students!” Mr. Davis’ voice is booming. You could puke, again. “My apologies, Miss Jones, but I need to have a very important talk with the class.”

You hid your face in your arms, as the classroom quietly erupted into stifled laughter at your expense. Your brain was spinning, and your face was hot with humiliation. The only thing you could do was lull yourself into a dreamless sleep.

The sound of the bell pulled you from your nap, the sound knocking through your skull as if it to crack the bone. You stand so quickly you almost knock your desk over, haphazardly pulling on your sweater. You zip it up to the collar, feeling exposed, and clumsily throwing your backpack over your shoulders. You speed out of the room, sweet escape. You make a B-line for the other end of the school. Through the commotion of rushing waves of students, you are able to slip out of the building and towards the football field.

The sun has risen on the dewy landscape, beaming down on you with bright hot rays. The wind chills, but the sun burns. You keep your hoodie on anyways, unable to help the bubbling insecurity within your veins. You hide away under the bleachers, practically tearing your backpack apart as you search. And, finally, you bring that little cancer stick to your lips, and inhale that nicotine infested cloud, feeling your body become warmed by the smoke. It’s not enough, obviously, it’s just a fucking cigarette. What you really needed was leagues harder than this. But you’ve quit, cold turkey or whatever they say. You’re running on pure love and spite… well, mostly spite. You were gonna prove to your stupid parents and stupid brothers and sisters, stupid Jessie and all her stupid friends, your stupid teachers, your stupid classmates, your stupid counselors, everyone you aren’t a pathetic fucking loser. Despite what other might say about you, you had a lust for life and a childishly ambitious mind. Sure, you had ruined your life two years ago, witnessed and committed many sins before you were old enough to even go to the bathroom without permission, but your life wasn’t over… was it?

You pull out your phone, you needed to call someone. You thought of the dealers on campus; Mariah, who only sold weed, and one Jack Petrović, a tall, creepy guy and the one of the other “super seniors”, besides you. Jack dealt with the heavier side of the scale, and, frankly, had some pretty shit product. You stare at the contacts in your phone; Mariah! Smith:) And Jack #6. You don’t know how long you sit there just staring, until you realize you’ve already smoked your whole cig. You groan and grab your crappy little black backpack again. It’s old and falling apart, you’ve used the same one since the 5th grade now. It’s then you notice the ringing in your ears. It’s not an uncommon occurrence, that metallic shrill is a familiar guest. However, the squealing in your skull is persistent, and only grows louder. The sound becomes so intense, you’re grabbing at your skull and pulling your head between your knees. Is this it? Is this how you die? After smoking a fucking cigarette? Eh, you had expected a worse death, but that didn’t mean you didn’t wish for a righteous one! You wanted something gentle, surrounded by your siblings and their children (like hell you’d have your own), if not, you wanted to go out with a bang, something to be talked about for years to come. But no, you were going to die with your cigarettes in your high school football field, probably to be found by a couple trying to fuck or your other junkie friends looking to get a hit before 3rd period, how ironic.

You’re squeezing your eyes shut, bracing for impact. Then it’s over. The ringing, that is. You’re not dead, though you think you are for a second. You looked up at the bleachers, “You fucking kidding me?” You hiss to yourself, “God, I really am in hell…”

“You… You could say that again!” A voice chirps up behind you.

#toby rogers x reader

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