Five Ticks 'Til I'm Yours (Dark Ticci Toby x Reader)

An Unwanted Tour of the Mansion

You didn't remember falling asleep, but lately everything was a blur. You stirred for a moment, glancing around, noticing the thin rays of light coming from the blinds over the window in the far corner. Not entirely ready to get up, you turned over on your spot on the floor, curling up and falling back to sleep. When you awoke again, the lights at the window were more noticeable, but still you found yourself stifling a yawn and rolling over again. It wasn't until the third time that the gravity of your situation settled in. Now a bit more conscious, you began to get up.

Surprisingly fear wasn't the first thing you felt. Instead, rather calmly, you glanced around the room. There was no sign of anyone, the bed was empty, the closet open, the duffel bag gone. You then glanced at the washroom just to be sure, noticing that the door was wide open and the lights flicked off. So, you assumed Toby wasn't here. But that window was.

Simply out of curiosity you got up and headed over to it, hesitantly drawing the blinds away. There was a small handle beside it, and ever so slowly you turned it, almost gasping as it easily opened. You could see yourself reaching on your tippy toes, one arm after the other as you'd hoist yourself through the tiny opening. You could practically picture yourself trembling as you held the railing, scanning the drop to the ground below before easing yourself down. But you could not envision yourself surviving a moment on the ground below. There was no way an escape could be that easy, you knew that after the car incident. These psychopaths were too clever for that. If this window could be opened, it's because he knew it could, and he didn't expect it to help you.

A bit angry at how easily you gave up, you decided to head to the washroom instead. Perhaps after washing the sleep out of your eyes, you'd find it a lot easier to plan your escape. When you reached the mirror in the washroom, you expected to see a horrifying, bruised and battered being. Instead, you looked rather plain. Despite how skinny you were beginning to get, you seemed pretty okay. Yes, your hair was still in tatters, and your bruised cheek was doing no better, but all in all it wasn't so bad.

For a moment you just stood in front of the mirror, toying with your hair, running your hands over sore muscles. You felt strange, not like your self. The reflection in the mirror didn't look nor feel like a tormented and hunted hostage. And in a strange way that scared you. Quickly shaking the feeling off, you turned the tap on, once again appreciating the cleanliness of the washroom before washing the sleep out of your eyes. The stickiness in your mouth forced you to take some of the toothpaste you were surprised he had and squirt it onto your finger before rubbing it against your teeth. There was no way in hell you were going to stoop low enough to use his toothbrush, so your finger sufficed.

After a few lingering looks at the spotless bathtub, you once again considered the prospect of taking a shower. What would be the harm in it? Toby wasn't here, and besides, thought you did not trust him, you didn't expect him to barge in while you were in the shower. He honestly didn't seem interested in that. Still, was it a stupid idea? Was it worth it?

You stared for a few more seconds before pulling off the single shirt you had, glancing one last time at the unlocked washroom door before hopping into the tub. The first few sprays of water were cold, but you didn't flinch as you waited for it to heat up. The feeling of hot water against your shoulders was therapeutic in the best ways. So, for a few moments you stood there, enjoying the feeling as you watched the bandages around your thigh and finger get soggy. After a bit of searching you found a men's coconut shampoo, and decided to use it. Admittedly the feeling of scrubbing shampoo into your hair with only nine fingers was pretty odd.

When you got out of this, would you ever get back to normal life again? Wouldn't people ask questions. 'Hey, what happened your hand?' What would you tell them? 'Oh, this psychopath cut it off with a fucking hatchet.' It sounded pretty crappy. Having to relive the nightmare every time someone pointed it out. Still, you'd rather live to tell the stories than die.