Where The Hornets Nest

// Gettin' Dirty //

*GORE WARNING*

Where The Hornets Nest

Your Story of Living

April 6th, 2020 ? ? ?

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4 : 56 am

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// BRIAN THOMAS'S / HOODIES POV //
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I space out on the map, the red circle on the location of our mission. The place Y/N will spill blood by my side.

"Hoodie?" Tim's voice brings me out of thought, making my smile behind the mask melt into a straight line.

I hate when he calls me Hoodie.

"Go wake up Y/n, tell 'em if their not ready by Seven thirty we're kickin their sorry ass out to the shed." Tim mutters, not taking his attention off of the map below him. He wears his mask, his work attire as do I.

The boy is leaned against the kitchen counter, his eyes glazed red, obviously intoxicated. Katelyn is in the bathroom, makes me wonder why she takes so long in there.

"Yeah." I fake a playful smirk towards Tim, and head off to the staircase. I feel his stare on my back, making me straighten my posture.

The house is surprisingly quiet, no yelling, no crying.

As I walk down the hall, I feel myself go cold. It's a normal thing, to lose all emotion when just myself. When I'm with the others, I feel myself put on my mask and play clown for them, because all of my life it has been deemed necessary.

"You have autism, hun. It doesn't mean your sick, your just..." Mom squints her eyes, trying to think of something. Then, she waves her hands. Like I do, whenever I'm stressed.

"Different."

When I reach the turn to my room, I can almost imagine Y/n's sprawled out body, on my bed. It charms me for them to trust to sleep by me, to be around me.

We've slept together, felt eachother, so why does it surprise me now that they trust me? Do they not see past this colorful wall?

My brows furrow, my face is monotone.

"Brian has Anti-Social Disorder, Mrs. Thomas. Your son's a sociopath, he does not feel guilt, and his emotions are brief." Dr. Heighman whispers, bowing his head as if my mother lost a child, me.

I remember just sinking into the chair in the small office, looking at the pictures on the doctors desk as my mother cried, 'God, his children are ugly.' Is all I thought.

More attention to the ugly children than my own crying mother.

Coming out of thought on the far painting, a simple landscape I was gifted, The plants an odd shade of red.

I feel my heartbeat quicken as I reach my room, where they sleep, peaceful. Peaking in through my wooden door, they are wrapped in the sheets of my bed, so... vulnerable.

Slowly I walk in, full of stealth. Finding the empty bottle of moonshine on the kitchen table last night was an obvious sign to a hangover, which makes them less hyper aware.

Eventually, I reach the side of the bed. I tilt my head, taking in all of their features. They sleep heavy, hair messy, face looking as smoothed clay.

I can feel myself urge to just, touch them. Caress their face in my hands, lean down and kiss them. But they would wake up mad, uncomfortable, sore, and having to explain to my vulnerability wouldn't be fun at all.