Wonder ~ Patrick Jane "the Mentalist" One-Shots

Turned

Summary: Patrick Jane x Platonic!Fem!reader. When you get hypnotized, your life hangs in the balance. Can Jane save you?

Warnings: Death, murder, hypnotism, angst, but it gets good! There's fluff at the end of the tunnel I promise!

A/N: I wrote this for my friend's birthday! She is a growing Mentalist fan and loves Jane but she likes him in a platonic sense so I made this especially for her but I thought I'd post it since I've been very innactive on this book! Hope you all enjoy!

Words: 2086

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The last thing you remember is a sinister voice, low and threatening, murmuring words in your ear as the world ran red. The words are a mystery to you, but they were there, and now, you're here, in an office building, marching down a dark hallway with a gun clasped in your hand. The firearm feels cool against your burning skin. You grip it tighter, feeling your brow furrow as you relive the most distinct memory:

A photograph of a young man is flashed in front of your face. He's dressed in a suit. His purple tie compliments the gray of his blazer and pants and the dark circles under his eyes. You study his wavy brown hair, timid gaze, and hear a voice murmuring. Always murmuring. You feel the sudden urge to kill. To hunt. You reach for your belt and leave the room, craving blood.

That man's face has led you all this way. From wherever you were, to this strange building. The lights are out. Not a soul stirs but you, giving you total freedom to stalk down the hallway to a door marked Stairs. You quietly slip into the stairwell and hurry up the steps, gun hanging at your side. Your memory clips back and forth, like a broken tape, switching between the stairs in front of you and the photograph. Everytime you see him, your jaw clenches, driving your teeth further into your tongue. Blood embraces your senses. You want to vomit, but there's no time. As the sickness hits, you're busting through a second door, five flights of stairs from the previous. The door clangs shut and you pick up a trot-like pace, flying past locked doors. The crack between the glossy floors and the door is pitch black on everyone except...

The door at the end of the hall.

Your hands start to sweat.

The lobs of perspiration weaken your hold on the gun.

You grimace, adjust your posture, and creep silently towards the ray of light streaming from underneath the door.

Inside there's humming.

Soft, peaceful.

Unaware.

You don't smirk.

You don't even frown.

You're starving.

And that hum sounds absolutely delicious.

You reach for the doorknob –

Distant, but urgent, a pair of footsteps echo throughout the stairwell. You jump, nearly setting off the gun. Fear courses through you. That dark, twisted voice closes in around you, telling you they're coming for your meal. They're going to take you away before you've filled yourself. They'll make you starve. Your stomach groans in agony just thinking about it.

No.

The first clear thought you've had since the voice.

No!

You feel you could belt it at the top of your lungs if your tongue weren't trapped to the floor of your mouth.

Drinking your blood and dripping with enraged panic, you lift a leg and break down the door.