"If you keep staring at me I'm going to spit in your coffee."
It was only reasonable for you to be upset, especially at the fuckass who kept glancing at you every two seconds.
Tim stood at the kitchen counter, backside resting on the wood surface, mug in one burly hand. Outside the flurry of snow had calmed, something you could not relate to.
"Y-you can spp..spit in my coffee," Toby giggled, though his voice held actual admiration and earnestness. It made you sick and you immediately rounded on him, neck twisting so fast it was a surprise your head didn't pop off. You open your mouth to spit some insult at him for the fifth time that morning when Tim cut you off.
It was true, Tim was keeping an annoyingly close eye on you. No pun intended.
His lips were drawn into a thin line and he kept his distance, eyes flicking to your hunched over form whenever he thought you weren't looking. Now, when he spoke up you almost growled.
"Toby, stay out of this." He sipped casually on his black coffee, steam clouding his face. You knew deep down you should be grateful for Tim's scolding, as it got Toby off your back, sulking and slumping in his seat with a fierce glare.
But you weren't, grateful, that is. Truth was, every comment the man made was unsettling. You couldn't place a finger on the feeling, but it was foreboding. You felt cold, unsure, hunger dissipating as you stared into the droopy porridge they had provided you.
Brian had been gone for the entirety of breakfast, having disappeared when you tossed the eyeball and not returning. It was approaching late morning and the uncertainty of the men around you made you anxious.
"Hey." The gruff voice made you look up, eyes clouded with confusion. Tim had set his mug down, now with folded arms he regarded you. You don't respond, messing with the spoon between your fingers.
"You need to eat." It wasn't a suggestion, but it wasn't really a demand either. You had already picked up on the power dynamic at play here, and for some strange reason Tim was the boss. At least in the ways that counted.
"Can't," You respond a little helplessly, annoyance and frustration slipping into your voice. You rested your forehead on one hand, staring down into the tan sludge and stirring around the oats. Something pooled in your stomach, making you dizzy with sickness of some sort.
Tim squints a little, aggravated but trying not to snap at you. Toby perks up a little, leaning closer to you so you could smell his pine soap.
"T-Tu-Tim.. Do yu-you think..?" His voice is soft, almost nervous. It makes you look up, meeting his two-toned eyes.
Before you could utter a response you're cut off by Tim, "I think so."
They are both now staring at you, worry creasing Tim's face and a mixture of excitement and eagerness on Toby's. You drop the spoon with a clatter in your bowl, snarling despite how queasy you felt.
"Feel like sharing, assholes?" You spit, eyes narrowed harshly between the two of them.
Toby grins stupidly, bandage stretching as he shows off his sharp canines. Tim shrugs, quickly returning to his cup of coffee.
"Nah."
Your nose wrinkles, rage and confusion bubbling to the top. Without really thinking about it you lift the dripping spoon out of the porridge and fling it across the kitchen. It lands with a wet splat in Tim's greasy hair, sliding down it like a water ride.
Silence. No one speaks as the spoon drops to the floor, flinging food onto the wood.
Toby pops and tics diagonally from you, eyes wide and unblinking. Tim's face is darkened, hair messy with sludge as it hangs over his features.
You're breathing, hard. Anxiety lifting and then crashing back down. You almost let thousands of apologies spill past your lips, but don't quite get the chance as Tim's foot kicks the spoon across the floor. You don't see where it flies, but while your eyes are drawn to the floor two calloused hands slam onto the island, making you jump in your seat with your head snapping back up.
Tim's in front of you, hazel eyes deep and dark. His nose nearly brushes yours as he leans forward on his hands, his lips set in a firm autorotative line.
"Don't. You. ever. Pull that shit again."
His voice is a growl and it rattles inside your blank mind. Panic fills up every inch of your body so fast you can't move or respond, only staring at him with blown irises.
After a long moment he pulls away, glare lingering on you before he dumps the rest of his coffee in the sink and stomps away.
You see from your frozen state a glimpse of Toby, shoulder jerking to his chin as he worriedly mumbles to himself. He lifts a gloved hand to his mouth, gnawing on the leather as if trying to dig his teeth into his own skin and nail beds.
Your heart is thrumming, jumping so hard it touches your ribcage...or that's what it feels like. Your parted lips take short little breaths, lungs squeezing in your chest uncomfortably. It hits you again, these weren't some friendly annoying roommates who took care of your panic attacks and screw ups. They weren't helpful allies who comforted you after murders. They were the danger, the fear that spread like a disease in your mind. The cough that itches in the back of your sore throat.
And they could not be trusted.
Your fingers curl into your pants, knuckles pinching white as you tighten around the fabric.
"Thaa-that wau-aus stupid ov-of you..."
Your head snaps to look at him, watching as his bridge piercing moves up as he wrinkles his nose. You don't say a word, just staring at Toby as he chews on his gloved thumb and rolls his shoulders.
"He's gu-gonna g-gget you." He states plainly with a grimace, his back making an audible crack as his tics force his body straight.
You find your voice, eyebrows furrowing. "I'm not scared of Tim." Trying to make yourself sound confident, strong. It doesn't work much, Toby scrutinizing you with heterochronic eyes.
He stands, leaving his plate behind as he uses the wall for balance. "N-not talkin' bo-bout Tim."
You open your mouth, questions ticking like a time bomb on your tongue. But he slides his socks down the hallway, shuffling into his room and shutting the door.
A frown works its way onto your lips, sitting alone at the island with uneaten food and an unsettling feeling in the pits of your stomach. You remain seated, looking back to the window across from you that sits over the sink.
It's still flurrying, not thick enough to conceal the long trees that reach the sky. They're skinny, bark white with black and brown spots.
Deep black lines run up, the top of the trees hidden by more forest. A red bird, making no noise as it sits tall on the flat wooden surface.
Ringing...ringing...buzzing..
You groan, clutching your head miserably and tearing your gaze from the window. Head pounding harshly out of nowhere, eyes heavy and a thrumming in your brain. Like static, clouding any normal thought.
A cough you can barely register leaves your throat, burning and non-stop. Finally alone it's as if clarity is no longer possible, heaving over with your forehead pressed into the marble and hands bracing against the island.
Your ribs ache from the constant pressing and contracting, air restricted so harshly you begin to feel lightheaded.
And as your knees buckle and your body locks up,
It's gone.
Fresh sweet air fills your lungs, rushing into your bloodstream. TV static clears from your vision and the cough subsides, one hand flying to clutch your shirt as if you can restart your own heart with deft fingers.
It was something scary, something your ten year old self would cower about. Something you would sleep in your mothers bed about, whispering about monsters in your closet.
This was a different monster, one you weren't sure even existed. But it sure felt real, or at least the feeling did.... Like something was watching you. Waiting for you.
You take another couple moments, hands splayed on the cool marble and head tucked between your arms low enough to almost touch your knees.
The longer you stayed the worse danger you were in.
'I need to find Bailey. I need to leave. Help Riley..'
You lift your aching head, huffing out a breath you didn't realize you were holding in. Finally realizing for the first time they had left you alone, just you sitting in the empty kitchen.
Your legs are regaining feeling and you flex your feet against the floor. It was time for a little more exploring.
So with a dry throat and a nearly empty stomach, you stand. Hands slide off the kitchen island and fists curl at your sides. You weren't going to be a willing prisoner.
With wobbly footsteps you ran a hand through your hair, a sign of stress and exhaustion. Propping one forearm on the wall you moved forward slowly, eyes peeled open for any sign of movement behind the bedroom doors that lined the hallway.
Toby's was dark, a small stream of green light illuminating the floor. Tim had his light on and you could see him pacing the floor. Brian...
'Well what do we have here...'
His door was cracked a sliver, lights off and not a noise coming from it. Your head snapped to the end of the hall, sure enough the bathroom light was on and the door was shut. If you listened close enough you could hear running water. Now was your chance.
Knowing better than to waste a second you creeped up to the door, pushing it open and breathing a sigh of relief when it made no noise. Your eyes flashed to Tim's door...still pacing. Toby's still dark and quiet.
Furrowing your brows in silent determination you slipped inside, leaving the door cracked just as it was.
Breathing was a little easier, out of view from your stalkers and that strange static. You felt sweat bead at the base of your neck, likely from the adrenaline pumping in your veins.
But you spot it, the leather journal you hid from the giant blonde.
Throwing the clothes up from the pile it laid under you snatch the book and stuff it down the front of your pants, the cool leather feeling strange against sweaty skin.
You smile to yourself, accomplishment making you giddy. You weren't able to escape yet, but here was your entry into their minds.
Going still you listen for any noise or footsteps, and when you hear nothing but running water you scurry to the door and slip back out. Carefully cracking it to what you believed it was before you bothered it.
Feet hit the wooden floors as you silently ran down the hall and past the open kitchen, headed straight for the garage door. Sure, maybe they would be suspicious of your missing status...but you weren't stupid enough to try and escape again, and knowing them you were sure they were aware of that fact.
Opening the door and flinching at the low squeak you entered the cold concrete room, lack of insulation making you glad that you hadn't removed your layers.
Softly shutting the door you were left in pitch black, hand slapping the wall and fingers blindly reaching for a light switch. Finding it you flip it up and let out a quiet squeak of joy.
Standing before you is a washer and dryer, one purring softly as it tumbled clothes. Their SUV was expertly parked on the gray floor, stickers taunting you childishly.
Shaking your head you clear up the memories and begin to walk towards the other end of the room.
It doesn't surprise you to see a small work table, clean yet worn tools hung in their respective place, everything neat. You manage to roll your eyes, picturing Tim the lumberjack hunched over the desk tinkering with his little woodworking projects...
'Or sawing off fingers.'
Shivering you shift your gaze away, huffing at the thought. Though it wouldn't be shocking to learn if they really did torture their victims. You grit your teeth, stupid fuckers.
You certainly wouldn't mind hammering nails into their skulls...maybe pulling out a couple teeth. Lord knows they'd deserve it.
A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it and you swallow down the horror at the implication.
Unwilling murder....sure. But torture? Long painful motivated torture? No.
No that wasn't you.
'Yet.'
A little voice nagged, snickering in your ear. You frown, intrusive thoughts becoming hard to ignore.
Whatever.
Finding an unoccupied corner beside the washing machine you holed yourself against the wall, sliding down the concrete until you sit on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest. You stay still and quiet for a second, making sure no one had noticed your absence yet. Once you were sure no one was coming for you, one cold hand was drifting to the waistband of your fluffy pants, yanking the journal out and resting it against your clothed thighs.
The light was hard to come by since you hid yourself in the furthest corner so your eyes strained to focus on the leather book. Fingers peeled at the cover, unwrapping the tie that held it closed and spreading it open.
You were met with neat hand-writing, slanted and medical. It reminded you of the therapist notes you were forced to take home and tack to a bulletin board, lists of medication and group therapies. You wrinkle your nose at the thought of being in another beige room with a collaboration of people haunted by nightmares.
Frowning you sigh and begin reading the contents of Brian's writing, skimming over unimportant parts.
Then, you catch your name.
'(Y/N) has been increasingly entertaining to the others. Scattered and losing patience with us.
I stalled her at the bus stop today, she is beginning to look like a startled deer. I'm sure Toby would find it funny, or even stupidly endearing. I find it obnoxious.
Reminder to follow up with an application for Toby.'
You flip the page, brows furrowed.
'I looked more into Tim's ramblings from last night. Most were nonsensical but I managed to pull up more information regarding Him.
I've begun to wonder if this has a traceable root besides his persistent seizures and schizophrenia.
This went sour when we were sent to eliminate Dennis, everything was self contained so why did-'
The light is blocked by a large shadow, making you squint at the words before you realize–
"I believe you have something of mine."
You didn't even hear his approach, eyes slide upward, towards the towering figure standing in front of you. His voice is murderous, deep and calculating. There is a lack of light, shadowed by his large form.
You can only see his large outline as something wet and cold drips on the pages of the book and on your splayed fingers.
He shifts his head forward and you hold your breath, mind racing for an excuse.
"I don't want to hear it." He silences your parted lips and the words die in your throat.
As he moves you can finally see the details of his body, smell the Irish Spring scent of body wash and shampoo all in one.
He's shirtless, dripping water onto the gray concrete. Loose black sweatpants hang on his hips and his hands are curled into fists at his sides. His wet hair sticks to his forehead and as he ducks closer to your curled up figure.
One muscular hand flies forward to slam the journal closed, pressing harshly on your thighs and forcing them flat to the floor. He slides the leather book across the washing machine and leaves it there, focusing his full attention on you as he steps on either side of your flattened legs.
You swallow painfully, mouth dry as you avert your gaze from his. You don't even manage that though because his hand reaches out again and grips your chin so roughly you think he might crack your jaw. You feel your teeth grind together as he forces your head up.
You expect threats, murderous promises to lay you out and torture you 'til you plead for death. Instead, he doesn't utter a word, just stares at you with a blank emotionless face.
A groan of pain is pulled from your vocal cords as he tugs your chin up, stretching your neck uncomfortably until you are forced to scramble to stand.
Now your back is pressed against the wall, the blonde giant letting his hand leave your sore jaw as he cards his thick fingers into your hair. Then, he fucking tugs.
He tugs so hard your skull slams into the rock solid wall, making a pain shout leave your lips as you squeeze your eyes shut. He tightens his grip, a wordless command for you to peel your eyes open.
You do, wincing as you feel his hot breath fan over your face. His eyes bore into yours, unblinking.
The tension is so thick it feels suffocating, the tightness in your throat making everything unbearable. He doesn't move an inch, just keeping you sandwiched between his body and the wall.
It's like he's wearing the mask again, that taunting red smiley face covering his freckles and tooth gap. He's a killer, a stalker, a hunter who has you trapped in the forest with a shotgun pressed to your forehead.
"I'm sorry," you gasp out, cracked lips sticking together. You feel like you mean it, you hope he can see it in your wide watery eyes.
Brian blinks once at you, then he reaches his other hand up. It's damp as he strokes roughly over your tear-stained cheek, head dipping towards yours until his lips are pressed hot and heavy against the shell of your ear.
"You will be, darling."
Your head aches and spins as he releases your hair and lets you drop to the floor. He doesn't spare you a second glance as he snatches his book from the washing machine and leaves the garage, door shut like nothing had happened.
Panting, your fingers dig uselessly into the cold ground. Of course it doesn't make a dent, but you don't find yourself caring, trapped in a staring contest with a slate gray wall.
You notice your sweating, extra salty as it slips past your parted lips and mixes with stray tears. Getting drunk off of fear and adrenaline. A million questions went 'round and 'round in your spiraling mind.
Who was 'Him'?