Gretchen tapped her index and middle finger against her lips as she stared out into nothing. She sat on the floor, her back pressed against the bed in the bedroom she decided would be her art studio. On her lap was her still unfinished drawing of Michael's face. Her heart pounded in her chest.
He'd stayed. He'd fucked her in such an intimate way, not once but twice, and stayed. And she saw his face. Her emotions were all over the place. Going from pure excitement and giddiness to anxiety of the future. So many questions flooded her mind. Was it a one-time thing? What had possessed him to be nice? Would he do it again? Why?
She tentatively reached her hand up and stroked her neck. When she'd asked him "why", his eyes and hand immediately went to stroke her neck. Had her nightmare somehow integrated with reality? She tapped her sketchbook for a moment. That seemed odd, but even so. Why did he care that she stopped breathing? Wasn't she the bane of his existence? Sometimes she felt like she was. The conflict that he wanted to get rid of but couldn't. At least, she had felt that way up until last night.
Other than that sweet kiss after she tended his wound, he hadn't really given her any clues that he was going to be nice to her. Hell, he'd gotten angry at her request to take off his mask. She knew he liked having sex with her, but he also wanted to kill her. Wouldn't he have rather she die? Yet, he, for whatever reason, changed their dynamic.
Or was it her kiss? The simple one she gave him before he was going to leave. She was no longer sure what to expect from him. He confused her and caused her heart to flutter. It gave her hope. It was so wrong, so dangerous, and yet so right.
"What have you gotten yourself into, Gretchen?" she asked herself.
She turned her attention back to her drawing. Her fingers gently touched the page again, running along the words that framed the border. To anyone else, they looked like fancy symbols, but she knew they were words. Two words and the third version seemed like a combination of the two. They repeated after each other. She should have recognized them. But she was so confused and surprised that Michael stayed she didn't give herself time to examine them.
She hadn't drawn them in years. In fact, she'd almost forgotten about them. She used to draw them a lot when she was a kid. Usually on the days that were most stressful to her, up until her parents died.
She frowned. Some knowledge nuzzled at the back of her head. Something that seemed to be the answer she needed that would explain everything. But it was shrouded. She let out a loud drawn-out sigh. They were a mystery, but she didn't want to dwell on them. At least, not right now.
She focused on Michael's unfinished face. She could complete it. Her heart thumped hard in her chest at the thought; Revealing his face, drawing out the very thing he wanted to hide. Placing her pencil on the page again, she stilled.
He kept his face hidden, but he let her see him. Fuck, he let her see all of him. She started to lightly draw a line.
"No," she said softly as she started to make an outline. It didn't take her long to finish the rough sketch of his mask. "Your face is only for me to see." There she went again, respecting his privacy. But she didn't mind this time. It made her feel special. He took off his mask for her. She didn't want him to take it off for anyone else. Why would she draw it in her book for some random person to see?
Closing the sketchbook, she set it to one side and stretched. Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn't eaten in some hours. With a loud sigh, she got up and made her way to the kitchen. She'd need her energy for when Michael came back.
Gretchen bit her lower lip at the thought as her pussy tingled with need. Really? He'd just fucked her in the morning and now she was ready for another session? Just as the thought and excitement, of Michael coming back and fucking her, entered her mind she felt guilt. He was out there, most likely killing innocent people. She was his prisoner, she had no say on when they had sex, and yet, she was waiting in anticipation for his return.
She sat down at the dining room table and stared at the pan on the stove that was warming up her food. Bringing her legs up, she wrapped her arms around them and planted her chin on her knees.
You're fucked in the head, she told herself. Yet, her shoulders relaxed. For some reason, that didn't bother her. She should have felt guilty, but she didn't. She felt relieved and happy. As if she'd been waiting so long for the two to get together again. And now they were and the world didn't matter anymore.
Seriously, fucked up.
She plated her warmed-up food and set it down in front of her seat.
Her heart thumped rapidly as her feelings rose to giddiness. She wanted to do something. Surprise him. She could wear her button-up dress and then slowly strip for him. That seemed like a good idea. Her breath hitched a little bit at the thought. That dress was the one she wore when he saw her scars. Her brain recalled the moment, the fire in his eyes, excitement in his breath as he slowly unbuttoned her.
She swallowed back a bite. She could already feel it, the dampness between her legs just at the thought of seeing his actual face. The look that was probably behind the mask that second night. A small smile crept across her lips, or maybe she'd pretend to strip and make him do it.
She started to chew on her food as she thought and planned. Take another shower, and maybe put on some make-up. No, she didn't have any. Although, Brandon-
She paused setting her fork down. How many days had it been since he was killed? With him out of her life, she was starting to see things she purposefully brushed off. He had his faults, but so did she. So why didn't she miss him like she should? Why was her brain focusing on his faults?
Her stomach twisted as a wave of nausea swept through it. She immediately snapped out of her musing. Placing one hand on her stomach and the other over her mouth, just in case, she got up and ran to the kitchen sink. Her stomach heaved, threatening to spill every last bit that she'd just eaten. Much to her relief, she didn't vomit. It took a few minutes for her stomach to slowly settle down.
"Weird," she said softly as she leaned away. She still felt a little nauseous and suddenly drowsy. She glanced up in the direction of her room. What if Michael came back while she was napping? Oh well. Her body felt heavy with sleep. She needed to rest.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, her world tilted and she swayed. She grabbed the banister for more stability to keep her from falling. Her legs, her whole body felt off, heavy. She stared at the floor for a moment, taking in a deep breath before slowly letting it out again.
She placed a foot on the first step and pulled herself up. It was difficult to focus, difficult to move. Her brain felt sluggish and her body was leaden. A nap. She desperately needed a nice nap.
She carefully began her ascent, focusing as hard as possible to make it up without falling. The back of her mind felt confused by her effort. Why were things suddenly requiring so much focus? She felt drunk.
Gretchen frowned. That couldn't be right. She hadn't drunk any alcohol. Hell. She only drank a handful of times. And of those times, only once did she get drunk. It was the worst experience in her life, something she never wanted to go through again. So she avoided alcohol after that.
Reaching the second to the last stair, she paused. She wanted to move, but her fuzzy brain wasn't sending the right commands. A wave of nausea hit her again, causing her stomach to twist. She was going to throw up. That sent her brain into the right panic.
She scurried up the last two steps, banging her shin bone and dropping her to one knee for a moment. Pain shot up through her knee, but she ignored it. She was not about to clean up vomit on the hallway floor. She half stumbled into the bathroom, throwing the door open. She barely threw the toilet seat up before her stomach purged every single bit of food she'd just eaten.
She felt better, but barely. Letting out a low moan, she slumped against the toilet bowl and waited for her stomach to stop twisting.
"Awe, baby. Drank too much?" Brandon's familiar voice echoed in her mind. A memory from not so long ago. Her brain recalled the way he'd entered the bathroom and patted her back. She hadn't meant to get drunk that night.
She nodded her head as if she were reliving the memory.
"God, if I knew you were such a lightweight," his words followed by a hearty chuckle made her cringe. His phantom hands rubbed her back.
Gods, she just wanted Michael. The feeling of drunkenness seemed to recoil from her as if disgusted by that thought. Gretchen frowned as she slowly stood up. Her body returned back to normal. She wasn't drowsy, the world didn't spin, and her limbs felt fine.
She glanced at the toilet bowl. Well, she did throw up. She quickly cleaned up, before grabbing her toothbrush and toothpaste. She was definitely going to brush her teeth multiple times until Michael got back. Toothbrush in hand, she glanced at the mirror.
The clatter of her toothbrush hitting the sink echoed in the room, but she couldn't move immediately. Her wide eyes stared at her own reflection. A very long noticeable straight, red, raw scar ran down the left side of her cheek. A wound made from a knife. Hesitantly, she raised her hand to touch it, running shaky fingers along her skin.
When had he cut her? How did she not feel the pain? How did she not notice it in the morning? She had stared at herself earlier, admiring her body trying to figure out what it was about her that attracted him. Why the hell did he enjoy touching her scars.
Her fingers felt no dip in the skin, no rise of parted flesh. There was a light pressure behind her eyes. A vision. Yet another scar to add to her collection? Only this one she couldn't hide. She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath before opening them. The scar was gone.
She didn't move, staring at her reflection, collecting her feelings. What did she feel about it? Sad. That was for sure. Necessary. She shivered at the thought. Yes, it was necessary.
Her heart picked up its pace again. Michael would cut her face and give her that scar. But why? She glanced down in the direction of the basement. No. Somewhere else.
She tilted her head slightly to look at her left cheek. It was going to happen. Not quite yet, but there was a sequence of events that her brain was trying to warn her about. Not very effectively, unfortunately.
She let out a heavy sigh. She'd have to talk to Michael about that. Maybe he could help her figure out her visions. Maybe there was a way to stop that from happening. Not that she had any idea when it happened or what events led up to it.
Even if Michael never talked to her, she'd still find it easier to talk to him. Ask questions for her mind to contemplate. Which meant telling him she saw things. That she had visions.
Gretchen frowned. Why was she so comfortable with that idea?
Maybe because he's as crazy as you are.
Smacking her lips she cringed at the aftertaste of her vomit. She quickly brushed her teeth, focusing on her face the whole time. It didn't shift or change.
Finishing up, she combed her fingers through her hair. She gave her image one last look before she stepped out into the hallway. Her skin prickled and rose as a feeling pressed on her.
"You were wrong," she said, glancing around the hallway. She had suspected It would be back. And she'd been waiting for that moment. To throw the fact back at its face that Michael actually did do something she wanted.
-He spends one night with you and suddenly you think he cares?-
She rolled her eyes. "Jealous?" The hall went silent for a moment, making her frown.
-Protective,- It replied.
She snorted. "Bullshit."
-You don't understand the true gravity of your situation.-
"I'm 'dying'," she said. "But, the weird thing is, I'm feeling pretty good. Better than good." Ignoring the fact that she'd somehow randomly felt drunk and threw up her dinner. But there was some truth to her statement, despite that episode. She couldn't explain it, but she was feeling more whole.
-It won't last.-
"I think you're full of shit," she said, planting her hands on her hips as she looked around. "What I'm trying to figure out is why you want to get me to kill myself? Clearly, you can't do it otherwise you would have."
-I would never hurt you.-
She snorted again. "You would never hurt me. You just want me to hurt myself," she said adding a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "Sorry if I don't trust you." She crossed her arms and leaned back.
For a brief moment, she felt as if a hand brushed against her back. She gasped and rolled her shoulders, taking a step forward.
-There is always a calm before the storm.-
"I'm not scared of you," she said, clenching her hands into fists. "Whatever you are."
-He won't be there for you, in the end. But I will.-
Her skin rose at its words. "That feels like a threat," she said.
-You're confused about who the real enemy is here.-
"And I think I've had enough of your bullshit. Whatever you are. You're no friend of mine. Go away," she said, lowering her voice but emphasizing the last two words. "I can handle whatever is coming on my own."
-Your episode right now was hardly a taste of what you'll go through- it said.
"My- You were there?" Her skin rose at the thought. She hadn't felt it, but then again, her brain was sluggish and fuzzy. "That was you!"
-Hardly. You're getting worse. Things are going to progress very quickly from here. They always do. You can't handle it. Stop being so stubborn and let me help you, Gretch.-
She took a step back. "Why did you call me that?" she asked.
A sharp intense pain zapped through her brain, dropping her to her knees. She pressed her hands against her head as she took in short, quick, loud breaths.
-As I said, he won't be here for you when you need him. But I will.-
She felt a pressure behind her eyes, the kind that told her she was about to see something. Another vision? No, this feeling was slightly different. She glanced up, her eyes widened, she saw herself. Not one version, but multiple, each playing out a different memory. Past. The past, she realized. A version of her was pinned to a wall, kissing Michael who had his mask lifted up slightly. That just happened. Another ran past that version, completely terrified. The first time she got there. Another version stood closer to her, at the end of the hall. Michael's knife in hand as she tried to ward him off. The first time they were together.
Voices, too many voices whispered, talked, and screamed around her. Her senses were overloading. She had to get out of the house. Away from it. She tried to move, but her body was paralyzed. A shriek ripped out of her throat as the pain intensified and she dug her fingers into her hair. Her head felt as if it were about to explode.
A hand pressed against her back as if they were trying to comfort her.
-I hate seeing you suffer. But don't worry. I'll always be here for you, baby.-