Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE: Peak Visiting Hours 

A low hissing spewed out of the chunk of rubber in front of you with the deft flick of your wrist. The cool night air settled on your shoulders and chilled your skin, sapping heat from your very core. You shouldn’t be out here - certainly not with a knife, certainly not alone, and certainly not without a jacket - but some sacrifices had to be made in the name of justice. 

Despite the biting cold, sadistic satisfaction bubbled beneath your skin’s surface like lava. She deserved this. Mrs. Highland deserved every bit of paint you could force into her stupid, imposing body. Even if the pain came in the form of slashed tires. One day, you’d give her what she really deserved. Bestow upon her the greatest form of justice your tiny body could provide. But not now - you didn’t have all of your cards together right now. One day, you’d be out of here, and she’d be stuck working this wretched job at this wretched place. One day, you’d come back for her, and put an end to her reign of terror. But not now. 

One day, one day, one day. Empty promises kept you going, eyes locked on freedom like an apex predator, pressed against the bars of your enclosure. You’d get your claws on the ones holding the keys, on the bystanders that watched your misery, and, if you couldn’t help yourself, the very hands that fed you. One day. But not now. Because now, your only goal was scurrying back into the gap in the fence where you came from, tenderly clicking the links back into place. Every jingle of the metal made your teeth grind, adrenaline coursing through your veins and sparking an emotion you couldn’t quite place. Terror? Excitement? Were they both the same to you? Maybe. 

Behind the heater! The voice called, ricochetting off the walls of your head in a way that used to be nauseating. Now, though, the familiar tone softened something in you, comforted by its presence. Now! She demanded, kicking your brain into overdrive. You scrambled away from the fence, your work shabby and half-done. Your feet slid against the icy tufts of course grass under your feet, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as if the jig was up. You were going to slip, and be caught, and be forced to live the rest of your life in this filthy place. 

But she’d never let that happen. Not to the only thing she held dear. Miraculously, your foot gained traction on thin air and you flung yourself behind the water heater, slamming headfirst into the brick wall behind it. A quiet crack! echoed off the walls that surrounded you, and you couldn’t tell if it was the brick or your skull. The latter, probably, but it didn’t matter. You looked fearfully around the heater to the stiff woman patrolling the courtyard, but she was oblivious to your presence. The heater hummed away, masking the sound of your skull bouncing off the brick.

What felt like hours had to have been mere minutes. She paced and scoured the edges of the fenceline, as if expecting to see your form beyond it. Earlier, you would have sworn that Highland was able to sniff you out, coming out here for no reason just to catch you in the act. Maybe she wasn’t as smart as you thought. The stupid bitch was always accusing you of shit you didn’t do; aggressive and violent when you were completely innocent. 

To her, at least. She never had any proof of anything you did, but she knew. Always knew. Sure, she’d make herself look like a lunatic, accusing you of vile things a thirteen-year-old shouldn’t have been able to do. But who was going to stand up to her? No one. Their gazes were pitiful in a way that made you physically sick. They’d linger just until she started to hit you, and then suddenly, everyone was none the wiser. 

Every time you had gotten your hands on a phone, plead with the police to investigate the school, no one knew a thing. It didn’t matter how many times they interviewed the kids here. Ignorance laced every, “No, officer, I’ve never seen the staff get physical with any of the students”. Of course they didn’t. But they heard it. Saw the outline of welts across your skin. But, hey, if they lied to the cops well enough, maybe they’d earn an extra piece of candy at dinner. 

You know what? Fuck them. Fuck the cops, fuck Southgate, fuck Highland, and most of all, fuck their candy. You didn’t need it. Didn’t crave the taste of sugar on your tongue. (God, how long had it been since you had sugar? It didn't matter.)  You didn’t need their candy, and the praise that came with it. Anything you did that was worthy of praise in their eyes was a poison. Their approval rotted you from the inside out. 

Good job, she cooed after Highland had vanished from sight. She’s gone, but not far. Get back before she checks your room. Quiet as a mouse, you slipped out from behind the heater, heart thrumming in your chest. Your footsteps hardly crunched against the frozen ground, a practiced silence honed after years of sneaking around. Your movement was closer to floating than it was walking - deftly ducking under windowsills and seeping into deep shadows until you were beneath your window. 

Your last obstacle, one you had no trouble overcoming. Highland had moved your room to the second floor years ago after realizing that you could pick the outside window lock and sneak out undetected. She told staff that the first floor was too easy to slip into unnoticed, and had you moved in less than an hour.  Word around the school was that the staff thought she was batshit crazy. Accusing you, ten at the time, of completing full stealth missions just to break into her room and move a few objects around. What a lunatic, am I right?

 You totally did it. The staff didn’t know that detail. Ortho had praised you handsomely for it, too. Said she was scared shitless. At you! Ten-year-old you! Rumors didn’t help you, though. You knew no real action would come of it. Your quiet terrorizing of the woman was for your and Ortho’s enjoyment. Nothing to gain, everything to lose. But, god, did it feel good seeing the fury in her eyes. 

Your small fingers slipped perfectly into the grooves of the brick, worn over the years to fit like a glove. Pulling yourself up was always a challenge, your arms thin from years of malnourishment. Curse this place and it’s aversion to eating meat more than once a week. Didn’t they know you have protein goals to hit? Didn’t they know you were bulking? God, so insensitive. How else were you supposed to bust out of this place? Short answer, you weren’t. They kept you all strong enough to keep up appearances and weak enough to keep you compliant. 

You were through your unlocked window in under twenty seconds, slithering up the side like a lizard. Adrenaline didn’t stop thrumming through your veins until the window was shut and locked, sealing you off from the outside world. You slipped under the scratchy covers and into the jacket that you had set as a decoy, willing yourself not to fall asleep before someone came in. You’d like to see the show; see how Highland blows up at not being able to foil your evil plans.

Heavy boots stomped down the hall, a quieter pittering following them. They stopped in front of your door, and you could hear tense words being shared, but couldn’t make out what they were saying through the thick wooden door. Speak of the devil and she appears. The lock jiggled once, twice…thrice? … It took them far longer than it should have to unlock the door. 

The she-devil threw the door open so hard it shook the walls, a spike of anxiety that gripping your heart. What if she knew? No way, right? She didn’t say anything when she was ten feet away from you next to the heater. Why would she be playing the long game?

“Headmistress, I checked on her five minutes ago. She is still asleep,” The young new guard pleaded.

“She’s not.” Highland growled, voice a deep tenor that resonated with hell itself. “That’s not her. She’s out … she’s out being insolent again! Look.” 

The woman stomped over to your bedside, and before you could react (which you wouldn’t have, you were supposed to be asleep!) a strong fist gripped the back of your fur-lined hood. She ripped it backwards, as if trying to tear the thing from your body. Hot pain shot through your throat as the zipper caught on skin, jerking your head backwards. 

You let out a gasp, whimper award-winning. Your doe eyes stared in terror up at the enraged woman, tears stinging your lids immediately. Poor, poor Y/N. Poor little teen being harassed and abused by a crazed woman. Jerking you awake in such a violent manner. The young guard rushed forward, hand tentatively on the headmistress’s arm. 

“I…I can’t…” She stammered, voice faltering under Highland’s gaze which had swung to her the moment she dared to put her hands on her. With a visible gulp, she steadied herself. “I can’t allow you to put your hands on this child.” 

Highland gaped like a fish, lips opening and closing at the sheer audacity. How dare she talk to her that way?! Didn’t she know who she was?! She’d have her fired for this! Her arm raised against the guard, palm flat and --

Clatter!

The noise brought you back to reality. Sitting in an empty store was certainly not the most entertaining thing in the world, especially since your phone was so old it could barely run Messenger, let alone mobile games. Even if it could, the thing’s battery only lasted a few hours. Ugh. You really needed to replace it. Though, what did you really need it for? Not like you had anyone to text. Still, doing something other than staring at a wall and waiting for someone to come in would be welcome. Maybe later you’d pick pocket someone and beg Ortho to find out the code. 

The clatter of your store’s bell only vaguely alerted you to someone’s presence. Like your phone, the thing was so old that the ringer had fallen off. Duct tape didn’t fix it, so for the past few months it could only pathetically bump into the wood of the door to make noise. Someone’s gotta fix that. Not you, though. You don’t get paid to do that ... kind of. You’re paid to take care of the store, and to “keep it running”. Well, it ran just fine without the damn bell. What did you look like, anyway? Some kind of Bell-fixer? No! 

Anyway, the customer. Kind of important, no?

A young man stalked in, head low and gaze scanning the store - almost as if he was looking for other people. Alarm bells were ringing in your head already, and although Ortho was silent, you knew she was thinking the same thing. You had never seen this guy before, an oddity for Vincennes and it’s quaint population. This guy had to be some kind of crackhead, stumbling in from a land far, far away, with his odd twitchy demeanor and sunken cheeks. Your hand gripped the switchblade in your hoodie pocket, ready to be whipped out in a moment's notice. 

Not your first choice in weapon, but it’d do. The owner didn’t like you bringing weapons into the store - said it “scared the customers”, whatever that means - and this thing was the only one small enough to be smuggled in discretely. You hopped off of the leather armchair you were lounging in, on your feet in seconds. You weren’t openly hostile, but didn’t welcome the man to step any closer either. He didn’t see to care, stalking up to you until he stood just slightly too close for comfort. 

You’ve got to hand it to him. For a tweaker, he was definitely easy on the eyes. Tall and built just enough that his hoodie didn’t hang off him loosely. Cinnamon hair sat a mess on his head, desperately in need of a haircut (evident by the way he kept tossing his head to the side to get hair out of his eyes). He wore a large flat bandage on his cheek, nearly invisible against his skin. He glowered down at you, looking at you through the tip of his nose. 

“Hey, man,” You hummed through tight lips. “This ‘s a tattoo shop. Seven Eleven’s a block down.” 

He didn’t reply, holding eerily still save for the occasional sharp jerk of his head. Regardless of how his head moved, his gaze returned to you with the same predatory glare. He seemed to be trying to read you, eyes scanning your frame. You did the same, in what was possibly the worst attempt at asserting dominance.  After a tense silence, and you deliberating whether or not to drop his ass, the man finally responded. 

“I’m nnot here for the s-sseven--” His head snapped forward and you instinctually flinched, knife halfway out of your pocket. The man didn’t lunge like you thought he would, though, and instead continued as if he hadn’t seen you move. “Seven Eleven.”

God, this guy must be higher than hell right now. Maybe you should point him to the rehab center. ‘On the corner of 11th and Hart St’, you had to have said it a million times to others like him. But you refrained. His eyes weren’t far away and cloudy like you were used to seeing with addicts, and he spoke so clearly despite the odd stutter. You waited for him to continue, knife slipping back into your pocket, but he didn’t. He looked at you expectantly. 

“Okay.” You hummed, taking a step back nonchalantly as if to check something on the counter. The man stepped forward with you, long legs eating up more ground than yours, far too close for your liking. He turned, body angling towards the corner, effectively caging you in. 

Your gaze turned hard in an instant, thumb gripping your hidden blade. “Back up, man. This ain’t funny. You don’t just approach someone like that.” You growl, heart picking up the pace in your chest. He said nothing, looking down his nose at you. A small smile twitched on his lips, but it was gone just as soon as it appeared. Seconds ticked by like minutes as you glared up at him, the silence stretching thin until you were just about to pull the knife. As if sensing the incoming danger, he slinked back away from you. 

“I’m here ff-ffor a -- god, no -- tattoo.” His tone was off - way off - in a way that made your skin crawl. He said such a plain sentence as if he was lying about it, like he said something ridiculous. You half expected him to burst out laughing like this whole thing was a big joke. But he didn’t. Just kept staring at you with those piercing eyes and weird movements that seemed to interrupt him every other word.

Oooooh-kay. You’d seen worse. Weird tattoos, weirder piercings… One time, you had a hundred slapped into your hand and were told to put as many piercings into a man’s dick as you physically could….anyway. You learned to stop asking questions. Vincennes was an odd little town, with odd little people. Money was money, and soon you’d be out of this place. 

“Alright… I’ll be right back. Need to grab something,” You explained slowly, as if talking down a wild animal. You slid out from his presence awkwardly, pressing against the back of the counter to avoid getting any closer. His gaze followed you as you slipped into the back room, shutting the door slightly. Only when you were completely out of his line of sight did the chill in our spine ease slightly. You stood there for a moment, feeling as if you could finally breathe for the first time since he entered the store. 

You didn’t know why he made you feel… like that. You had all but gotten over his odd speech patterns. Could look past the weird jerking he did with his head. Vincennes was chalk-full of oddballs like him; you learn to live with it. Sink or swim… or assimilate. They never mention that third option, do they? You found yourself getting weirder just living there, picking up the habits of those around you. Like, when would you ever say “pop” instead of soda? Totally off the wall. Doesn’t get much worse than that. 

Pop aside, it was the man’s eyes that threw you through a loop. The sharpness, the gleam in them as if he found everything you did amusing. Like he knew something you didn’t, and you were an idiot for not being in on the joke. Power radiated off of him subtly, in his stance and broad shoulders. Though, maybe it was his appearance and not his confidence that made it feel like he could snap you like a twig. You knew it was illogical but couldn’t help the feeling. You weren’t praying - you were trained. Had dabbled in the art of hospitalizing people occasionally. That’s more than most did. So why did it feel like he was far more capable than you? 

The thought sent a chill down your spine and had you reaching for the fire escape. But you didn’t, steeling yourself, telling yourself that if you left on one more unscheduled break, the owner would finally make good on his promise of locking the back door. You’d get through this, show that asshole what’s what, and be done with it. You turned on your heel, ready to face the man again.

Ahead of you, standing in front of the now wide open door, was the man. He stared you down, disdain evident in the way his lip curled ever-so-slightly. He stood broader now, and you half expected him to be wielding some sort of knife. But he wasn’t, instead towering between you and the door with nothing but his balled fists. You backed up slightly, words catching in your throat. 

What the fuck? When did he get in here? You hadn’t even heard the door creak. Why hadn’t you heard his approach? You’d think that he’d make at least a few footsteps. But no, his creepy little ass was silent. 

Ortho! You called fruitlessly. Little issue here! Help me out? There was no response to your pleas. Perhaps she believed in your ability to weasel yourself out of situations like these, like you had done hundreds of times before. But this one… this one felt different. This man was dangerous, like actually dangerous. Not some imbecile cop or aggressive drunk. His stare was calculated, and the longer it went on, the faster your heart beat. 

Your tongue finally caught up with your brain. “Uhm, ex-cuse me? This is employees only,” You hissed, venom seeping into your words. You stood taller, willing yourself to look bigger. “Get the fuck out of here and stand in the lobby like a normal person.”

In response, the man took a step towards you, sneakers silent on the dirty tile. How was he doing that? It didn’t look human. You backed up, thoughts whirling. It only took one more imposing step of his for you to see clearly. This man was a threat. Backing you into a corner like you were some kind of animal. Grinding his teeth at the thought of his next meal. 

Not you. Not now. You had worked too hard to stay alive to let some twitchy freak kill you. You slipped the knife from your pocket, feeling foreignly light in your grasp. Your feet shifted into a better position, ready to take him on. He didn’t seem surprised. 

But as your eyes darted towards the door, he knew exactly what you were doing. Your feet flew over the tile and ate up the distance between you and the door, freedom within your grasp. Your fingers skimmed over the cold metal of the door’s pushbar, ready to break into the cold night air. Screw the owner. Your life was more important. The bar clicked and slammed into the open position, your entire bodyweight pushing into it.  

Nothing happened. 

The door didn’t budge, and instead you were pushed face first into the door with the man on top of you in seconds. It seemed he expected the door to open. Well, that made two of you. You shrieked and wriggled out from under him, scrambling to flick the knife open. The quiet fwip of it catches his attention, his eyes darting over for a millisecond. His hand is on yours in a second, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. There was a flicker of sadistic satisfaction in his eyes, flickering almost imperceptibly from indifference to delight. With every passing second his grip tightened, dull pain exploding from your wrist until your fingers threatened to release the knife.  

“That's a ff-ff,” the man interrupted himself with two quick gasps, head jerking painfully up with a crack that didn’t down natural, “fire hazard,” he sneered, eyes bright again with that sadistic pleasure. 

“Fuck you,” You hissed, scrambling to buy yourself time. You had to think of something - something witty, and clever, and able to outsmart him. Your head rushed forward into the man’s, knocking against him so hard your brain rattled in your skull. He stumbled, grip going weak for a moment, and you took the opportunity to burst from his arms and into the main room of the store. Okay, not so elegant. Fuck, that hurt! You threw the door closed as you skated past, but the sound of it slamming never came. Just the quiet Fwip! of it being ripped open and bouncing off the rubber door stop. You could feel his presence behind you, buzzing with rage and growing. 

A splitting headache erupted from where you hit him, thoughts jumbled with pain and dizziness. You considered for a moment dashing for the front door, but the distance between you two was quickly closing. You veered off to the left, snatching the phone off of the wall, holding it threateningly to your ear.

“I’ll do it!” You bluffed. “I’ll call the cops on your freak-ass!” 

Yeah, right. You knew damn well you weren’t going to. Anything to do with the cops was out of the question. Ignoring the fact that you were currently on the run for grand theft auto and literal murder, you lived in Vincennes under a fake name. With a noticeably bad fake ID. You kept telling yourself you’d replace it eventually, but god, were you lazy. Over a picture of your smiling face was the name Anita Carr. You thought it was funny at the time, but the cops back in Missouri didn’t find it all that amusing. That, and the fact that the car was registered as stolen. Oops!

Now was not the time for reminiscing, though. The man in front of you stilled for a moment, eyes flickering over your dishevled form. For a brief, hopeful second, you thought maybe your attempt to regain control had worked. But the look in his eyes wasn’t fear - far from it. He seemed like he was drinking in your terror, relishing in the quick breaths you took. He was quiet for a long, long moment. And then he stepped forward. You dialled a 9 on the pad. He stepped leisurely towards you again. You dialed 1. Another step. Another number. Your finger was lingering over the call button when he lunged at you, large hand slamming you against the wall by the throat so hard that you dropped the phone. It swung uselessly by the cord, clattering against the wall. 

His fingers dug into the soft skin of your neck, eyes bright with the thrill of the hunt. His hand was unnaturally hot, suffocating you in a way that made you feel sick. He leaned in close, forehead just barely touching yours, his breath hot on your face. Everything in you screamed to keep struggling, but the shock of him being so blatantly willing to kill made you freeze. You cried internally for Ortho to do something, to save your sorry ass like she always did. 

“You -- I’ll kill you -- you can’t be the pp-person I’m looking for. Oh, well.” The man hissed, baring his teeth at you. Spots erupted in your vision, colors of the man's face swimming together. Was this really how you died? Alone, scared, and in this dinky ass shop? God, so embarrassing. You wondered what Ortho would think. 

You didn’t have to wonder. The pressure on your neck was gone in an instant, the man ripping his hand from your throat as if you had burned him. Your vision pooled back, and you watched as he stumbled backwards with glassy eyes. As suddenly as he had pulled back, his body crumpled, hands flying to his ears as he let out a window shattering screech. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched the man writhe in agony beneath you. You weren’t alone. 

Yes! You cheered internally. Get him, Ortho! The woman did not respond, working her magic on the man beneath you. You weren’t sure what exactly that magic was, but oh well. You hoped silently that she would kill the gutter rat. You scrambled away from him, stumbling over your feet. You waited with baited breath, flinching at every sudden jerk of his body. It felt like forever until he slowly rose to his feet, eyes flicking up to you with a contained rage that made your skin crawl. Just as you tensed, ready to fight him off, he turned on his heel and walked wordlessly out of the door. 

“Yeah!” You hollered, flying dangerously close to the sun. The shake in your voice betrayed just how terrified you were, but you swallowed it down. You couldn’t look weak in front of Ortho - not when she just saved your ass like that. “Get! And don’t come back! I’ll fuck your skinny ass up!” 

The man stopped dead in his tracks, fingers twitching in a way that felt more like self control than anything he had done before. The air stilled for just a moment and you waited for him to turn around and lunge at you. But he didn’t. He paused for just a moment, murmuring something under his breath, and leisurely walked away, disappearing into the thick fog that perpetually shrouded Vincennes. 

----

You spent the rest of that shift anxiously watching the door from behind the counter, waiting for the man to come back armed. No matter how hard you squinted into the fog, though, the man didn’t materialize, even as the sun dipped below the mountains, casting a dull orange glow into the shop that faded over time into black. 

Just you and the sterile white of the overhead lights. Like always. The shop had no business closing as late as it did, but money’s money, and every hour you spent spinning in your swivel chair was another $14.50 in your wallet. The shop’s lights had always flickered, but now, every time they did, you expected them not to turn on again. Expected the man to pull the plug on the generator and appear behind you like a cheap slasher movie. But he never did, much to your relief. Mosquito-like buzzing from the lights filled the shop as you wiped down the counter a final time, double checking that the supplies were properly locked away in their cases. You slung your bag over your shoulder, glancing towards the door. No one. But the thought of stepping out onto the street when you knew he could be lurking sent shivers up your spine. 

But, whatever. You (and Ortho) could handle a tweaker. Even if the tweaker was eerily aware and sickeningly fast. If you saw him, you’d put him down just as quickly as you had earlier. No biggie. So why couldn’t you force yourself to move towards the door? Why did your stomach lurch at the thought? Must be indigestion. You didn’t get scared - not with Ortho by your side (in your head? Same difference).

You forced your wobbly legs to amble forward with all of the grace of a newborn deer. Just as you made it to the door, a familiar voice chimes in for the first time today. Turn left. The intervention made you jump out of your skin, letting out an embarrassing squeal that you really hoped she didn’t hear. You calmed yourself and accepted the comment, fumbling with the keys before locking up and turning left. Usually, you went right and then down Ferris Street, but left would take you home all the same. 

Finally, you show up you purred internally. A steady smile played on your face, affectionate to someone you’d never see, or feel, or have anyone else experience. Maybe you were going crazy afterall. Thanks for fucking that guy up for me. Was really in a pickle there. 

Ortho didn’t respond, but you took her silence as humble acceptance. Why’d you want me to turn left today?

It took her a while to respond, but after a while she echoed in your head again: Look down that alley. You increased your pace, scampering towards the closest alley. It was a full thru street, leading directly to Ferris. Despite the dense fog, the lights showed through perfectly fine - flickering red and blue, bleeding into the atmosphere. Cops. With their lights on and no sirens? Odd. 

Maybe they caught that freak, you commented cheerfully. No response. She wasn’t feeling very talkative today, was she? That’s fine. She’d spoken to you plenty throughout your years with her. Had to give her a break sooner or later. Besides, she worked a miracle for you today. She deserved a break from your constant pestering. 

Ortho had been there for as long as you could remember. Past that, actually. You don’t quite remember when she appeared, but one day, she did. You could remember vividly telling your parents about her. You remember crying to them, begging them to listen to you. You told them that there was a voice telling you to do bad things. That you didn’t want to be bad, but that she wanted you to be. They waved you off, hissing that if you kept talking of her, they’d send you away to a very mean, cold place. So you shut your trap and pretended like you didn’t have a not-so-imaginary friend whispering in your ear. 

You didn’t understand it then. How could you? You were four, maybe five. A tiny terror. Kicking, biting, bullying. Despite what you told your parents, you don’t think Ortho ever truly pushed you to do something. She told you what you wanted to hear - how to give in to your sadistic urges, and how not to get caught. She taught you how to push a classmate off the swings and how to cry to shift blame afterwards. How to slip makeup into your pockets unnoticed. And eventually, how to break into Mrs. Highland’s house and stab her through the chest. You looked back on it fondly, how she guided you through muscle and sinew and bone.

The bitch went down swinging (clawing, to be more accurate). It was messy, and drawn out, and god, did she deserve it. You can’t recall anything being so cathartic. The details get fuzzy after the act, but you could remember fleeing into the thick woods beside her house. You remembered the stolen newspaper headlines. School Teacher Murdered by Former Student! They found the body; of course they did. Hard to miss when it was splayed out on her bed. They found your DNA caked under her nails. Because of course she had to get one last victory over you. Ortho couldn’t save you from your own stupidity and carelessness, but she could tell you where to go to avoid capture by the police. And for that, you’ve been eternally grateful. 

Eight years you’ve been on the run now, and you’ve been doing her bidding all the while. She told you a while ago that she is strongest when observing suffering. That if you supplied her with enough of it, she’d be able to help you better. With what, you still weren’t entirely sure. Sure, she helped you avoid jail time and helped you beat up crackheads, but what was your end goal? What was hers? You didn’t have an answer to either question. But you obliged regardless. Who wouldn’t? Ortho had been, and still is, your everything. Your mother, only friend, guardian angel… the list goes on. 

So you’ve run all around the northern US slashing tires, cyberbullying, getting into the occasional bar fight, and most recently, purposefully blowing out tattoos. You realized that digging the needle in too far would be an easy way to generate the suffering she craved, if your client’s strained faces were any tell. Despite how horribly your tattoos hurt, the residents of Vincennes kept coming to you. Maybe it was your good looks and charms, or maybe it was because you were the only tattoo artist in 100 miles. There’s really no way to tell. 

The street you were on ended, merging with Ferris and leading into Vincenne’s one and only skate park. A dingy thing that hadn’t been touched by the city since its creation. Cracks marred the concrete surface and rust ate up the bars, making the entire thing a safety hazard. Hit the wrong spot and your wheels would catch, rocketing you towards the ground faster than you could process. It was a miracle it hadn’t been ripped out yet. 

On that topic …maybe you lied. Ortho wasn’t your only friend. That’d be sad. You had two! Ortho, and some skinny highschool kid with a tragic backstory … God. Maybe you were sad. You glanced towards the bowl of the park and didn’t see the familiar figure sitting there. Makes sense; on Tuesdays neither of you showed. Nico had to go home eventually, and so did you. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, your roommates were out of the house for work (thank god), so you both had decided that those days you’d go home. 

As soon as you passed by the park, the hair on the back of your neck raised. Your stomach sank in a way you knew so well - you could feel the trace of eyes on you. The feeling brought you back to the man from earlier, feeling the same pit in your stomach as when he watched you stalk into the back room. As nonchalantly as you could, you slipped a glance over your shoulder. Nothing but fog and distant street lights, getting progressively dimmer the further they got until they disappeared into the atmosphere. That guy could be following you from a hundred feet away and you’d be none the wiser. Fuck Vincennes and it’s perpetual fog, even if it did make you feel mysterious sometimes. 

You dismissed the feeling as paranoia. If someone was following you, Ortho would tell you. She was intuitive like that. You didn’t know if her astute observations were something beyond rationalization or if she was simply more aware of your surroundings than you, but you accepted it either way. You’d seen worse than a woman with eyes in the back of her (your) head. 

You kept your promise of silence towards Ortho, hoping she appreciated your restraint. It was certainly taking everything in you not to complain about the strange feeling. Despite trying to brush it off, the pit in your stomach only grew as you got closer to your house, and you found yourself stumbling over your feet trying to catch glances behind you. You were sick of it. Sick of fear. You had no reason to be scared; Ortho would save you even if the situation did get dire. You stopped dead in your tracks. 

“I’m armed,” You called out behind you, staring straight ahead. Your tone was even and cold, but anyone with eyes could see how your hands shook. No response. Silence stretched over the landscape, fog swirling everything into a blur of oranges and greys. “Keep following me, and I’ll lay your ass out.” 

Crickets. Maybe you were crazy. Maybe there was no one beyond the fog, no watching eyes waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Maybe you were talking to yourself like a lunatic. Maybe, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. When was the last time that your gut was wrong? Never. Not since you knew Ortho. Sometimes you thought that the gut feeling was her, indirectly telling you what the right decision was. This time wasn’t any different. You stood there for far longer than you should have, daring the attacker to make an appearance. No one emerged from the fog. 

You continued, guided forward by dim street lights that only fully emerged when you stood directly under them. Your pace was leisurely, inviting, but internally you were shitting bricks. You knew Ortho was with you. You knew she was more than capable. But ‘what-if’s clouded your thoughts, jumbling them into an anxious mush on the tip of your tongue. You wished desperately to talk to Ortho, and had even broken your silence to ask if someone was following you. No response. Guess she was really serious about the silent thing. You prayed inwardly that she wasn’t mad at you. 

By the time you reached the door of your dinky old apartment, your clothes were plastered to your body, soaked in condensation. The cold wasn’t what was giving you the chills though - it was the fact that the feeling lingered even after you had gotten home safe, even after you locked the door. You shut the blinds extra tight for good measure, praying the feeling would subside. It did not. 

See, now you were being dramatic. Watching you in your own home? That’s absurd. There was no natural light streaming through the apartment - absolutely no way to peak inside and see you. So why was there still that stomach churning anxiety? Had to be indigestion. Couldn’t be anything else. Now that you mentioned it, food actually sounded really good right now. You had left the house too late to make yourself breakfast, and hunger had caught up to you at lunch, but your encounter with the crackhead pushed any thoughts of eating from your brain. Now, though, hunger pangs tore through your stomach with a vengeance. You supposed that almost getting murdered works up an appetite. Huh. The more you know. 

You stumbled into the kitchen, hastily ripping open the fridge, ready to sink your teeth into the leftovers you bought yesterday. The fridge’s light flickered to life, illuminating the bare glass shelves. The takeout box that you distinctly remembered putting on the second shelf was gone. The only thing in the fridge was a single gallon of milk - that you bought - completely empty save a few drops. You couldn’t help the name that slipped from your lips:

“Monica.” You groaned, slamming the door shut so hard that the walls rattled from the force. God, you hated her. Why couldn’t she do anything right? Was it so much effort to keep her greedy little paws off of your food? Was it so much effort to throw the damn milk away when it was empty? Your milk! Greedy bastard. God, you hated her. 

The woman didn’t have the greatest track record. The worst, actually. You didn’t know how one person could be so gluttonous. You had drilled into her head not to touch your food countless times. And yet, every time you brought food home, she’d snatch it up within days. Days! Was she hiding a family of five in the walls?? Who eats that much food? How did she eat so much food? Ugh. And never once did she do the dishes. Your dishes by the way. Hers were all in her room, covered in rotted food and maggots. How did she live like that?? When you left this place, she was so dead. You didn’t fancy being a murderer, but you already did it once. What was another? What a terrible thing to think. Ortho would probably praise your initiative. 

Hope wasn’t all gone, though. You still had your pretty little secret - bought (stolen!) for when times were the toughest. You ambled out of the kitchen, away from your anger and disappointment. The hallway’s carpet was crusty on your bare feet, and you shivered at the thought of what the mystery stains were. What could she have spilled in here? Actually, you didn’t want to know. You took a sharp right, opening your closed door and slipping inside. 

It was like a breath of fresh air. The apartment, dirty and fly covered from Monica’s horrible habits, was a stark contrast to the room you stood in now. (You’ve always been pretty tidy / You were never the cleanest,) but moving around so often had inspired you to be even cleaner. Your room was barebones and hardly held more than the essentials, but you liked to call it Chic. Made it sound less… sad. The newest addition to your room sat on the floor in front of you, idly humming under a blanket.

A (f/c) mini fridge, decorated in stickers you stole from the tattoo shop. You hardly put anything in there, not wanting to draw suspicion as to where you were keeping all of your food. Besides, it wasn’t big enough to hold most essentials, but it worked well enough to keep snacks and water in. The holy grail that you had been waiting to eat was sitting in there, untouched. You told yourself that you’d eat the Flan Nico gave you the day before you left Vincennes for good. A little parting gift. You decided not to tell him that - the kid would be in shambles if he knew you were leaving without him. Oh well, good things don’t last. 

Now seemed as good a time as ever. You’d be leaving this boring ass place soon enough, especially with captain-crackhead on your tail. Your mouth watered as you ripped the blanket off of the fridge and opened it gingerly, reaching in for the nearly hand-sized flan. The plate slid from the rack and into your hand. That’s weird - you thought it came with a lid. 

In front of you wasn’t the glory you expected. The dessert was cut nearly in half and crustily dry from the fridge’s stale air. On the plate beside it, half drenched in pooled syrup, was a sticky note covered in scribbled red pen. 

Had a peace. Hope u dont mind. Will pay u back

-Ry

Oh. My. God. You have to be fucking kidding me. The anger that was simmering in your veins bubbled over in less than a second, and you let out a scream that sounded more animal than man. After a second of silence, save for your ragged breathing, three bangs shook the wall beside you. You could practically hear your neighbors yelling at you to shut up. You should kill them, too.

Ryan fucking Hensley. Monica’s sleazy boyfriend that practically lived here without paying rent. Nasty, disgusting slop that didn’t know the first thing about cleaning up after himself. If you knew anything about him, it was that he was a self proclaimed “sweets addict”. Probably why he thought it’d be appropriate to break into your room and steal your food. He was an addict, alright. Selling crack to half the town. Probably where that guy from earlier got his drugs from. And, really? You were no loser in school but peace? It’s Piece, you idiot!

You need to kill him. Ortho! Finally, she was talking again. 

I KNOW, RIGHT? Tomorrow. Then I skip town. You were a little too giddy at her command. You were thinking it, but if Ortho thought so too? Practically a done deal. 

Not Ryan. The man from earlier. 

Disappointment settled in your stomach. If you thought about it too much, maybe you’d feel guilt for being disappointed at not being about to murder your roommate. But you weren’t thinking about it too much; there were more important tasks at hand. Oh. Okay. How? I kicked him out today. Doubt he’ll be back. 

He’ll be back. Bring the gun with you tomorrow. 

Fuck. ‘Kay. Can I kill Ryan after? 

There was a long pause, and you could imagine Ortho pinching the bridge of her nonexistent nose. Afterwards, go crazy. Don’t dump the bodies all in one place. 

Done, and done. You slipped the dried Flan into the trash and fell face first onto your bed, thick mattress cushioning your fall. You’d pick breakfast up tomorrow morning and ignore the hunger pangs for now. You rolled over, pressing a pillow to your face to stifle a squeal of … was it fear or excitement? Were they both the same to you? Maybe.