Beauty in Suffering | Split X Reader

tension - chapter one

You woke up but you're eyes were heavy. It was difficult to open them. Or move. You tried lifting your arm but it felt overly heavy. Whatever drug that man used on you must have hit you hard. Your stomach felt nauseous recalling the memory, and the fact you probably were kidnapped and moved to a new location.

Finally forcing your eyes open, you looked around to reveal that you're assumption was correct. You were in a small room with two twin sized beds. You felt your insides swell in a nervous fit as you screamed, jumping out of the bed and chucking a pillow across the room.

It took you a second to calm down.

You tried to control your body as you breathed in and out, gently thinking of a logical solution to leave. Or survive.

You didn't know why he had you here.

Eventually, you heard a loud door creaking. Your ears had become overly alert and you glanced in the direction of the sound.

Footsteps.

A slight bumping of something metal, against someone's thigh.

The door began to click and you prepared yourself for a fight. You hid under the bed, too nervous to see him.

"...a-alright, I know you're there. Just... just come out, please."

His words were more of a demand than a request. You still stayed there, trying to control your thoughts.

With a gruff noise in his throat, he became angered. "Listen, I-I don't want to hurt you. But if you test me, if you test us-"

"I just needed a moment." You cut him off, crawling from under the bed gently. Your mind was still swarming from panic. In your daze, you looked at the man.

It was the man from the car, you recalled. But you had a better look at him now. He was bald, and had a muscular build. He sat in his chair, tense, arms crossed. He had a stony look from behind his square glasses.

He looked like a substitute teacher. Not that now was the proper moment to voice that observation, though.

"Come with me."

You stood rigid. Making your voice as calm as possible, yet authoritative. "Why?"

Your questioning got to him. "You impure, you think you can look down on us like this?" He stood up and grabbed your arm, and you snarled and tried to snake it out of his grasp.

"Technically I can't, you're a great bit taller than me. If you think I'm looking down on you from my height, maybe someone has insecurity issues-" your sarcastic comeback was interrupted by being thrown into the bed.

"Damn impure." He growled, but he looked hurt. His eyes showed a fear in the stony cold gaze.

"Don't take it personally, Bucko. Just don't grab my wrist like that." You didn't know where this false confidence was coming from. It was a defense mechanism. Years of bullying and verbal abuse and heartache caused you to be somewhat rebellious.

Your confidence shocked him, too. But he wasn't wavered. "I'll be back later. But you don't make the demands, here."

He said before walking out of the door. As soon as you heard it lock, you jumped up and punched it with all you could.

You felt your knuckles crack as they swelled up. You didn't bother to check if whether or not they'd bleed.

"Bitch." You mumbled to try and calm down.

You slid down, and gripped your hoody at your arms. Closing your eyes, you silently cried.

You weren't trapped metaphorically, by expectations or emotions anymore. This was real.

And who knew when you'd get out.