The SouthBay Murderer

Chapter 17

Hey so it's been a bit, so I forgot a lot of details, but idc so deal with it hehe. Also, I'm switching perspectives, it's gonna be pov George.

Here I am, sitting in a bedroom, vacant of memories. The whole layout is unknown to me. Yes, I am vaguely familiar with it, but only as familiar as a prisoner is to the bars of his cell. This is not my home; this is a prison; a cage.

Dream stole me, he is the thief. He should be the one contained; imprisoned in a tight four wall room, needing, wanting, dreaming of fresh air.

Dream.

He makes me feel weak. Weak with fear, paralyzing my limbs. Fear that's intertwined with pleasure. He lets me know how drawn to me he is. Long gazes, light touches, kisses—so many kisses. I fear he'll break me.

My brain has been turned inside out and shook, scavenged by me; desperately searching for a piece of a plan to escape. I'm desperate. Anything is the plan. Anything I need to do I will. Some things, though I wish I didn't, I would do a little too willingly. I feel as though I should hesitate when thinking what I'll allow him to do to me. How much will I let him touch me?

How badly do I want him to touch me?

My plan so far contains bits and pieces of different puzzles, creating complete uncertainty of the end result. Drowning me in wonder. Questions drag through my brain roughly. Answers unknown. Feelings unprocessed. My mind and body are a blank canvas, waiting to see what will happen next; what colors will be painted. What textures, patterns, and shapes will be meticulously painted.

Footsteps.

He's here.

His presence remains at my door. I do not look up, I do not flinch, I only stare. Stare at the sheets, at my hands, at the wall.

Sapnap's words stay, clouding my brain in a confusing mist.

He will explode.

He is dangerous.

"Ghosty?"

I do not move. His eyes burn into my skin. I feel as though I might melt this second. I might as well say my goodbyes as he steps into the room. His strides are calculated but not predictable to an outsider.

Hands. Hand on my head. Gentle movements falling down. Down my head, behind my ear, to the back of my neck. He sits down in front of me. The bed sinks in, I feel as though I might go with it.

His hand carefully moved up to my cheek. Calloused fingers patiently move.

I think I preferred it when he was rough with me. It felt less intimate. When he was rough, I didn't want to melt into him and never leave. When he was rough, I was full of either pleasure or fear, sometimes both, not warm feelings bubbling inside me. I feel like vomiting.

Dream's hand lifts, lifting my chin, eyes, and lips. Lips that part from the sight of emerald eyes. Eyes, unlike my own, that could hold a whole story. A story of a forest—no, jungle. I want to venture through it. I want to know if the jungle has beautiful animals and flowers blossoming, or if it has creatures with sharp teeth and poison filled plants.

I want to know the story. His story.

"You're beautiful."

His whisper feels like wind. It goes right through me and makes me shiver. I can't look away from his eyes, not even when he focuses on my lips, not when his other hand comes to rest on the dip of my torso, not when he leans towards me.

My eyes get pulled shut like magnets, only when his lips brush against mine.

I suddenly don't know where I am. I feel trapped. Trapped in the arms of a man who is kissing me so softly, I feel like I'm a box with a warning. Fragile. Breakable.

Breaths, uneven and heated, dance across my skin for milliseconds. When he pulls away, he just looks at me. My eyes seem to be unable to remain shut. I swallow the fear climbing onto my tongue. It drags its claws as it goes down my throat.

"George?"

"Yes?" I say. My voice makes me want to shrivel up and die.

"I want to apologize."

Oh god. I just shattered. The way he looks at me is genuine adoration, he seems unguarded right now, right here in this moment. He wants to apologize. I wait and I beg my face not to betray my curiosity. It listens.

"I shouldn't have treated you the way I did." His voice contains the slightest wobble. "I don't have a lot of experience with relationships. It didn't hit me how important talking and just being there was after sex. I'm sorry."

Relationship? Suddenly the warm feelings that were bubbling are now thrashing against my insides. The warmth is no longer comforting; it makes me feel queasy.

I don't want to be in a relationship with him. I want to leave. I want to go back home. Home with Darryl, my job, my house.

I nod. He stares.

Stop, I want to say, I'm not yours and I don't want to be here. But I don't. I don't know if I can't open my lips because he scares me or because my body feels on fire when he touches me.

"Are you going out tonight?" I say quietly.

He hesitates for a second. "Depends, do you want me to go out tonight?"

"I—-I don't know." A question waits for a second before it slips between my lips. "Since when did my opinion matter to you?"

He waits. I wait. I want to know.

"It's mattered to me ever since you looked at me with a feeling other than fear. Since I felt you ease in my arms." His voice lowers and he leans impossibly close. Our noses touch. "Since I heard you scream my name"

I have to hold my body together. He lets out a short exhale of air that travels from his lips onto mine. I hate myself when I breathe it in. I hate myself when blood rushes to my cheeks. I hate myself when I close the minuscule amount of distance between us.

I hate myself as I love the feeling of his lips on mine.

"I'll stay home tonight."

"Ok." I whisper in return.

The silence swirls around us. My thoughts— splitting. Bad. Good. I don't know what to think of his decision. I feel crazed. So many things keep popping in and out but suddenly all I can think is—

Here.

He's touching me. Both hands now on my waist. Our foreheads stay connected even after our lips separate. His breaths are so uneven, he might even be nervous.

I clear my throat. The silence falls and breaks.

"I think I'd—I'd like to be alone right now."

"Oh." He says. The soft sound signaling confusion, possibly disappointment. But I can't help him, for my mind is a hurricane of questions, thoughts, and outcomes. "Ok. I'll come back and check on you in a bit."

A noise of approval comes from my mouth. I lean away first. I can no longer feel his breath. I see him swallow. His hands move achingly slow. Up and down, just slightly, before he pulls away. He stands and leaves. I do not know if he glanced back at me because my eyes went down. My hands, the sheets, the floor. I hear the door shut with a slight click and my mind quiets for a few seconds. The silence before the storm.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tick.

Boom.

I have an idea. I have an idea of how to get out and I hope—I hope with all of me, my legs, arms, chest, and mind—I'll make it out.

I hope it's crazy enough to work.