Bloody Knives in My Leftovers

Chapter 12: Squirming and Writhing

The two of you co-exist in silence for a while, your eyes watching tiredly as he cooks eggs and meat. Eventually he sighs and his eyes wander back to you, despite his obvious attempts at ignoring your persistent staring.

"Take a picture, it will last longer." He grunts, shaking the pan lightly on the stove. You nearly choke on your juice. That was flirting... was that flirting?

"What?" You croak, fingers over your mouth as you swallow back spit.

"Stop staring at me, it's disturbing." He says, voice low and almost embarrassed.

You blink a couple times, slightly bewildered. "Sorry..." you bite your bottom lip and can't seem to shut up, "Your glasses are cute."

Holy shit, if you had anything in your stomach to vomit up you would have.

You just called a fucking serial killer cute?!

Well, you reasoned, you called his glasses cute... nothing about his stupid gruff face or warm eyes. Fuck him.

He's stiff, lips parted in surprise and the smell of burning eggs fills the air. You jump up, quickly rushing to his side to make sure your breakfast was ok.

You move the pan away from the burner and turn off the heat, hips pressed closely to his as he still hadn't moved.

You can hear his heavy breathing, feel the warmth from his skin and mouth fan over your skin, raising goosebumps.

You don't think he does it on purpose, but a heavy hand lightly brushes your side, two fingers feather light on your waist for a split second. You can almost feel him... move closer.

You clear your throat and shuffle away, leaving his hand outstretched and empty and his neck slightly craned.

"Sorry. Eggs were uh, burning..." you mumble, standing in front of him awkwardly.

He seems to snap out of it then, blinking and letting his hand fall as he straightens and coughs. "Right."

You meet his gaze for only a moment before he completely turns his whole body away from you, moving his hips first and the rest going along with it.

Watching as he fumbles for a second you squeak out a tiny, "I'm gonna use the bathroom." And scurry off, leaving him and his issues alone.

Running down the hall and almost sliding into the bathroom you try not to slam the door shut. Your hands fumble for the lock and as soon as your fingers lock it into place you collapse into the door.

Forehead pressed into the wood you groan, internally hitting yourself over and over.

You feel shame, completely enveloping you as you slide down to the floor and land on your knees.

Tim doesn't follow after you, still probably drifting around in the kitchen awkwardly. You groan again, what were either of you thinking?

Turning, you press your back up to the door and stare blankly ahead into the shower.

It's cold, the insulation lackluster.

It's like there's nothing saving you now, a knife twisting in your gut. These actions, they couldn't be yours.

You're not betraying your friends.

... but you haven't asked about them. Haven't even tried looking for them.

You can defend yourself, saying you can't. It's impossible, you'll claim, they have me held against my will. I don't want to die.

Pain pierces your brain, eyes squeezing shut as you try to block it out.

Hazy memories of sleeping figures, rotting meat, something solid in your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling.

Round, brightly colored... dull and—

'Tap tap.'

You scramble, sliding away from the door. The tapping was light, but it still was alarming.

"Breakfast is done," he mumbles, and you watch as his shadow disappears from the crack of the door.

You swallow, blinking with a frown etched on your face. Didn't want the food to get cold.

Opening the bathroom door and peeking around you figured Tim already left for the kitchen again, letting you collect yourself before you followed after him.

The food he has set on the island is warm and looks promising. Bacon and scrambled eggs, slightly burnt toast slathered in butter. Your mouth waters at the sight.

Forgetting all about the little incident you slide into your seat and pick up the fork beside your plate. He had done you the favor of filling up your mug again and sprinkling your eggs with salt.

Digging in, you pay no attention to his brief looks at your face. No attention to his uncomfortable expression and the way he seems conflicted.

It's quiet, only the sound of silverware hitting plates to fill the room. It's awkward, of course.

He coughs, you immediately stall and peer over at him like a curious child. Hoping, waiting for a conversation to cover up the feelings swirling in your chest....Nothing follows though and your eyes shift away once more.

Placing more egg into your mouth you swallow and your voice interrupts your thoughts.

"Where'd they go?" It was bugging you a little you suppose, the absence of the other guys. It felt weird and a little...lonely in a strange way. Like you were missing a dynamic you had expected.

Tim has his glasses pushed into his hair, fork picking through his own yellow eggs. "Where'd who go?" He doesn't make eye contact with you and you restrain from huffing.

"Brian. Toby." Another bite of warm food. It's good.

"Mission." He takes a sip from his coffee.

Your eyebrows furrow, a 'mission'? Is that what they called their stalking escapades? Were you just a mission to them? You weren't sure how to feel about that thought but rocks seem to sink into your stomach.

"What uh...what does that entail?" Maybe asking for details over breakfast wasn't the best idea, but the thought was gnawing at your brain and was driving you crazy. You had to know more.

Now Tim looks at you, briefly, and with scrutinizing eyes. He sighs and shakes his head, fingers tapping the side of his mug.

"What do you think it entails?"

This gives you pause, letting Tim bite into his toast with a satisfying crunch.

"Murder." Your mind jumps to it quickly, images of blood sprayed across snow and fingers broken by hammers. Knives between teeth like dental floss.

He seems to hide a smile, shoulder trembling with a humor that you didn't seem to mind. A small laugh escapes you.

Your eyes meet dark brown as he finally looks at you. He's smiling, if only a little. It's like the two of you found some cute little joke in the thought of his partners, your kidnappers, slaughtering people for fun. For a mission.

Instantly the smile melts off your face. His disappears seconds after.

"I want you to understand. I need you to understand." True genuine worry makes your heart lurch, turning away from him so he doesn't see your expression.

"Understand what, exactly?" You mumble, pushing away your plate.

"You're like us." He sounds almost as if he's pleading with you, leaning closer. You can smell his aftershave and the coffee on his lips.

You don't answer, not wanting to know what he could possibly mean. You weren't like them. You couldn't be.

Images flash over your mind again and you wince, fingers curling around an object that wasn't there. Gorey scenes that made your skin tingle. Mind buzz.

"I'm not like you." Deny it, a voice whispers. Keep living this lie. You remember hands squeezing your throat, frenzied eyes, clawing fingers.

"You killed them."

When did he get so close? Leaning in on his stool, eyes searching your face as if he could see right into the mind that made you–

"That wasn't me! You made me kill–" You rush to your own defense, defiance crawling under your skin like worms and roaches. It's all you were made of, you knew who you were. You didn't kill that clerk, you didn't–

"You must have really liked her eyes."

The round object in between your fingers, no longer invisible. Startling blue, always in contrast to...

Oh Fuck.