{Reader's POV}
Photo after photo of Jack filled the computer screen, the scroll-bar appearing tiny due to the sheer number of them as I slowly scrolled through the file. Some featured Jack wearing his mask while others had it removed, showing his eyeless sockets and razor-sharp teeth. On impulse I changed the settings so the photos were arranged by date, and the thumbnails instantly rearranged so the oldest were at the top. Arranged chronologically, I could slowly start to see a story unfold.
At first, Jack was defiant. The very first photo showed him unconscious in the back of the pickup truck, duct tape covering his mouth and binding his wrists and legs, his mask sitting next to his head. Once he woke in the basement he scowled at the camera, the photos capturing him pulling at the chains restraining him to the wall. Many of the earlier photos were like that, just Jack trying to break free. None of them showed him wearing his mask, allowing a clear view of his expression, filled with rage and anger.
One photo in particular caught my attention. His head was tilted back, his hollow eyes squeezed shut and his mouth gaping open in a silent scream. As I stared at it I imagined his scream from last night, and then his panicked yells in the clearing not even two hours ago. I could hear them now, coming from his mouth in the photo and ringing through the air. How could I have not heard him?
Time stamps in the bottom corner of each photo revealed that these were all taken in a single week. During the second week he stopped visibly struggling and scowling, instead staring at the camera and Buddy warily. It was at this point Buddy started experimenting, setting the camera on a tripod to photograph himself forcefully feeding Jack. He'd tie food to a stick and stand at a safe distance off-screen as he forced Jack to eat it. A series of photos showed Jack refusing but being forced to open his mouth and eat it anyway, and then vomiting the results.
It wasn't until later in the week he was finally fed a kidney, and Buddy clearly used a rapid fire setting on the camera to capture a stream of photos of Jack ravenously devouring it, his teeth shredding the organ as he ripped off large chunks. A shudder ran down my spine as I stared at the photos and I felt bile rise in my throat. Jumping from my seat I raced to the bathroom and knelt over the toilet, the cuts and bruises on my neck throbbing as I vomited my lunch into the bowl. This was the first time I'd seen Jack eat, even if it was just photos of it, so of course I was filled with disgust and horror, but it was more than that. A bigger question hung in my mind, one I couldn't shake:
Where did the kidney come from?
Buddy couldn't exactly go to a local grocery store to buy a human kidney, and based on how weak Jack's arms were when I freed him I doubted he was released to go hunting. Only Buddy could have gotten the kidney, and the question was where... and who it belonged to. I knew. I just knew that Buddy killed someone to get it, to feed Jack. As early as April, I'd been living with a murderer without even a single clue to his true nature and what he really did when he went to town. My stomach lurched even more as I thought about it, and this time I puked stomach acid.
Eventually I stopped and leaned back, my breathing ragged and shuddery. Wiping my mouth, I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, not looking as the contents of my stomach swirled down the bowl. I headed to the main part of the cabin to get something to drink to wash away the taste, but before that I paused by the laptop and quickly closed the window and logged out. No more. I couldn't look at the photos anymore.
Pouring a tall glass of water I downed it eagerly, spitting into the sink and then swallowing the rest. I returned to my room silently, casting a glance at Jack's closed door. Thankfully he never came out while I was using my laptop, but my relief was more for his sake than mine. Sure, he might think I was trying to get help, but for some reason I was more concerned about his reactions to the photos. They showed some of his darkest moments, after all. If he had PTSD like I thought, I didn't want to trigger another episode.
As I sat on my bed and began leafing through my novel, looking for where I'd left off last night, I found myself unable to concentrate. My mind kept wandering back to the photos, the pain in my neck, the kidney... Too much. This was all too much. The words on the page began to blur as tears welled in my eyes, and before I knew it I was crying, curling on the mattress quietly sobbing to myself.
Everything I knew, every memory I had, my entire life up until this point...
I couldn't trust any of it anymore.
{Jack's POV}
Grunting, Jack rolled over in bed and rubbed his eyes, yawning as he glanced around his room. His sleep had been devoid of dreams but strangely restless, making him feel tired even after waking up. Automatically he reached for his mask on the end table, but his hand only touched the smooth wooden surface. A frown tugged at his lips, faintly confused for a moment, before his his memories slowly returned. A shudder ran down his spine as he recalled awakening tied to the tree. His reaction was so pathetic, he couldn't believe how [Name] had to help him back—
[Name]!
Jack bolted upright in bed, his eyes wide. That's right, he'd attacked her. Shakily he got out of bed and walked to his door. The cabin was dark, to the point it would have been almost impossible to see without his night vision, and he glanced around. Creeping towards her closed door he quietly took the handle and pushed it down, slowly pushing it open. Light flooded from the crack and filled the hallway, and he peered inside to see her form curled on the bed in a small ball with a novel at her side, her eyes closed and her chest rising slowly with every breath.
Staring at her silently for a few minutes, Jack finally crept into the room, taking care to make no sound as he stopped by her bed. Setting the novel on the end table, he gently pulled the blankets over her sleeping form. She shifted and he tensed, expecting her to wake up, but her eyes remained closed and after a few moments he quietly pulled the blanket the rest of the way. Once she was covered he knelt by the bedside, examining her sleeping face. Dried tears stained her cheeks, and he started to reach to brush them away only to stop himself upon noticing the blood on his finger. Instead he quietly turned off the lamp, shrouding the room in darkness, and silently closed the door.
Exhaling softly, Jack leaned against the wall when he suddenly became aware of a sharp pain in the back of his head. It was then the rest of his memories returned: while he strangled her she'd kneed him in the nuts and then hit him in the head with a rock. Quickly he entered the bathroom and switched on the light so he could get a clear look at his reflection and tend the injuries. As he twisted his head to the side he grimaced upon glimpsing the bloody lump on the back of his head. She really hadn't held back. He didn't hold it against her, though.
A pang of guilt filled him as he recalled the dark bruise and bleeding cuts covering her neck, grimacing at the memory. He didn't mean to hurt her like that. After killing the camper and finding [Name] gone, he'd panicked and thought she ran away. In retrospect, it was obvious that wasn't the case—there was no where for her to go, and there were signs she'd been working on the dummy while he was gone—but at the time he was too panicked to notice the signs. Anger got the best of him, and as a result he'd ultimately hurt her. Awful, horrible, cruel. That was what her face said as his hands wrapped around her neck. A monster, that's all he was in her eyes.
And for some reason, that hurt.
While he saw her as his pet, in the end [Name] was still his savior. Jack had silently sworn to never harm her physically, but he let his anger get the best of him anyway. Guilt gnawed at him as he opened the cabinet to remove the first aid kit. Sure, he liked to scare [Name], but he always tried to make up for it later. She was the angel who had pulled him out of darkness and into light, the one who had given him hope after so long of feeling helpless. He didn't want her to actually hate him.
Why hadn't she run away? Why hadn't she tried to finish him off then? Why had she come back for him? Why had she brought him back? Was it just fear? Or was it something else? It made no sense, and somehow he got the feeling she didn't necessarily know, either. All he knew was that he had messed up, big-time. Sighing, he opened the first aid kit to begin tending his injuries.
As he did so, he couldn't help noticing that the pain in his head was nothing compared to the hurt when he remembered that look on her face.