Hate was a strong word.
But as you sat at the wooden table nibbling on dry toast, surrounded by enemies, you thought it a fitting description. Wednesday began with a taunt and a disquieting breakfast at the killers' house. Masky, Hoodie and Toby ate rich. You were served with weeks old bread and a glass of stale water. It was your first meal in four days and you could barely chew it.
Yesterday's harrowing events left you weak and hopeless, kneeling at their front door until they were done wallowing in your misery and brought you in. It had been terrible. The trust the kid broke as she ran up to that monster still stung like a dagger in your chest. If even a helpless child belonged tothem, then how could you distinguish between good and evil?
It was funny. You had always rejected the shallow ideology of deviding the world into black and white. But now you looked at Hoodie whose eyes twinkled back, the slightest smirk on his lips, and the only thing you found was vileness. You hated these men. You wanted them dead and spit on their graves. Repulsed, you reflected on those thoughts. These were horrendous feelings, it was invigorating. Your nails dug into the table-edge as your body quietly shook with anger.
"Ey Toby, be a pal, give me the butter," Masky sputtered across the table, mouth half full. But Toby was distracted cramping and jerking his body this way and that, so Masky helped himself. Hoodie stirred his coffee, disinterested, striking up a conversation with the older of his colleagues. Something about'a job'.
You finished your meal in silence, their smalltalk washing over you like polluted rain.
You sank down in your seat, remembering how Stacy used to love the rain. Your thoughts fell back to where all of this started, and a spark of hope lit up in your heart. Five people vanished that night but only four bodies could have been found. They had to be searching, and if they did, they would find you. An upsetting stray thought of the police featuring you as their prime suspect in this murder case briefly crossed your mind, but you shoved it away determinedly. There were more pressing things to ponder through.
Hoodie stretched noisily and then looked at you, "Well? Aren't you going to clean the table?" he asked so matter-of-factly it would had been infuriating, had you not held such huge respect for him. Obediently, you stood, collecting their plates and clearing the table dish by dish. Their eyes danced on your back while you moved to the sink and you felt your head get hot. You absolutely hated that. Your lips formed a thin line as you made to wash the first cup.
"No, don't bother," Hoodie piped up behind you, "We'll do that later. I want you back in the living room." And he smiled knowingly.
With a blank expression you followed his orders and walked out of the kitchen. After arriving at your destination, you waited awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You never knew what to do with your hands. Masky rushed past you, going out for a smoke. He'd put on a hat and scarf, so it had to be cold. Toby, apparently done with you all, went to the comfort of his own room. Your eyes followed him longingly, you just wanted to disappear.
A hand on your shoulder though, reminded you that you were still very much here, and that you were to walk your sorry ass over to the couch now. Once seated, Hoodie went to business and handed you your diary. You took it wordlessly and stared at the cover.
You had thought you were prepared for the man's cruel games by now, but his next words shocked you, "Write."
You blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Write an entry."
"Noβ¦"
"Perhaps you have failed to notice," he leaned back in his chair, hand reaching somewhere behind him. You heard a familiarclickand before you knew it Hoodie was aiming a loaded gun at your head. "But you are not in a position to bargain."
You held your breath and stared at the weapon. What the fuck were you supposed to write?
Hoodie met your eyes with such confidence, it was hard to admit he hadn't won this argument. His cocky smirk was equally disgusting as he held the gun firmly and dared you to rebel. Without looking away you turned the book in your hands, fingers gliding over the cover. It was such an upsetting concept, this knowledge he had read all of these words. After all the madness and oppression you had to endure, this was their last step to ensure they had the ultimate control.
You didn't know if this really was where their interest in your diary stemmed from, but they sure seemed like the manipulative type and Hoodie was a man who knew what he's doing.
Every fibre of his being screamed victory. And so, you gave it to him.
π³πππ π³ππππ’,
πΈ ππ π ππππππ ππ π’ππ ππππ ππ ππππππππππ πππππ.
π·ππ πππππππ πππππ ππ ππππ ππππ πππ’π πππ π πππ πππ π ππππ π ππ ππππ ππ ππ, πΈ'π ππππ ππππ ππππ πππ ππ ππππππ π ππ ππ ππππ πππ πππ. π° ππππ’ ππππ, ππππ πππππππ, ππππ ππππππ ππππ ππππππ. π±ππ πππππ ππππ π ππππ, πππ πππππ ππππ πππππ. ππππ πππππ πππ ππ ππππππππ.π°ππ π’ππ, πππ πππππ ππ ππππ ππ‘πππ πππππππππππππππ πππππππ πππππ ππππππ ππππ ππ.
π°ππ ππ πππ π ππππ.
πππππππππ πππ ππππ πππ ππππ’ πππππ’ ππππππ ππ π’ππ.πΈ ππππππ πππππππ πππππ ππππππ πππ ππππ.π° πππππ ππππ ππ ππππ, π π πππ ππππ ππ ππππππ. πΈπ ππππ πππ πππππ ππππ πππππππ ππππππ ππππ ππππ? πΈπ πππππ ππππ πππππππ ππ ππππ πππ ππππ.
πΈ'π πππππ ππ ππ ππππ, π’ππ πππ ππππ.ππππ’ ππππ ππ πππππππ, πππ πππππππ πππ'π πππ ππ ππππ. ππππ ππ, ππ ππππ’ ππππ ππ, πππ ππ’ ππππ. πΎπππ’ ππππ ππ πππ'π. πΈπ'π πππππππ πππ π ππππ, ππππππ ππππ, ππππ πππ πππ ππππππ ππππ ππππ πππππππ πππππππ’. πΎπππ’ ππππππ π ππ‘πππ πππ π ππππ. π°ππ πππ ππ, πππ.
π±ππ πΈ ππππ π ππππ! πΈπ ππ ππππππ’ πππππππππ πππππ πππ ππ ππ ππππ. π°ππ πΈ ππππ ππ ππππ ππ ππππ, ππ ππππππ π πππ.
ππ πππππππ πππ ππππππ ππππ ππππππππ ππππβ¦πΈ ππ ππππππ ππππππππππ πππππππ πππππππππππππ πππππ πππππππ.ππππ ππππ, πππππ ππππ ππ πππππ πππ’πππ πππππππ ππ ππππ πππππππππ ππππππ? πππ π πππ ππ ππππ. π·πππ πππππ ππ π πππππ ππππ ππ ππππππππ, ππππ’ πππ'π ππππ πππ πππππππ ππ ππππππ ππππππ? πΈπ ππ ππππππππππ.
π½ππππππ ππππ πππππππ ππ π’ππ πππ ππππ π’ππ ππππ π πππ πΈ'ππ π ππππππππ. π½ππππππ.
πΈ πππ'π ππππ π ππ’ πΈ'π πππ πππ ππππ'π ππ ππππ πππππππππ, πππ π πππ πΈ'ππ πππππ ππππ ππ, πΈ ππππππ’ πππ'π. πΏπππππ πππ’ πππππ πππ πππ ππ’π ππ π πππππ ππ πππ ππππ, πππ ππππ'π π πππ.
πππππ ππ ππππ ππ ππππ π ππππ πππ ππ πππππππ ππππ πππππ ππππ, ππππ ππππ πΈ'ππ πππππ.
You stilled your hand. It had stopped shaking somewhere when you had gotten into it. But now that you had finished the entry, you found yourself back in a state of agitation.
With a look at Hoodie, you saw he had adopted a comfortable position while watching: head propped upon his hand, his legs crossed, spinning the gun lazily through his fingers. Silently, you communicated him your completion. He gave a single nod, held out his hand for the book and you reluctantly gave it to him. He slipped through the pages until he found your new addition and swiftly skimmed through your words. An amused huff escaped the man before he closed the diary and tossed it unlovingly onto the coffee table.
He settled back, away in his own mind. Deep lines adorned his brows where he knitted them together thoughtfully. With something edging on bravery, you searched his eyes and found them at once. And through a wavering lip a question squeaked out, "What do you want with me?"
Hoodie looked at you long and close. You held his gaze, defiantly. If you would die in here, you would die knowing what is happening.
"You may not want to see it but you are here for a reason."
A moment of silence developed between you two. You didn't know what he meant. It didn't matter, you wouldn't stay. People were out to find you, you were a wanted person. If not for rescue, then at least for multiple murder.
The door swung open and Masky stomped inside, stern expression on his face. "We gotta go," he said to Hoodie, "People." The other man understood, got up, and stormed down the small hallway, taking the diary with him. You stayed where you were, staring down at the folded hands in your lap. Masky seemed on edge, running his fingers through his hair and stumbling about the room. His frantic gaze suddenly got stuck on your form as if only noticing you now.
"Come," he pulled you roughly up by your arm and dragged you through the house toward 'your room'.
On the way you were met with the red burning eyes of Hoodie's mask, who walked by you back to the living room. As you passed Toby's room, the boy emerged looking rather serious. He hung a moment in the doorway, taking in the commotion, and retreated back inside probably to gather his stuff.
With revulsion you were led to the hall's end by Masky's steady grip on your arm. As he opened the door to the room and shoved you inside, you stole one last look over your shoulder and saw Hoodie waiting for a hatchet-wearing Toby, goggles and mouth guard in hand. Then your vision was blocked by stable wood.
You heard heavy footsteps, muffled voices, a banking door, counted to ten and you were alone. Slowly, you got up. You walked over to the entrance and let a hand rest on the doorknob, smiling to yourself at Masky's carelessness. The fucker hadn't locked it in the bustle of having some poor souls roaming the woods. Amazed that their unfortune would be your luck, you turned the knob.
The deserted hallway resembled your road to escape, laid out for you to walk right through. But as you neared the room Hoodie had come out of, you hesitated. Something about it seemed to call you, luring you in like a sirene would a sailor. So, despite the insanity of it, despite wanting to escape so badly and leave this place behind, you sneaked into the room.
It was small and offered not much. Just a bed, wardrobe and nightstand, the very basics of what you'd need. You went in further, opening a drawer holding socks and underwear. Disgusted, you shoved the offending content back where the sun wouldn't shine. But your interest was spiked and you still weren't done. Another drawer revealed some pens and paper, and the third one made you stop.
It also entailed several papers, but these ones were yellowed and worn and appeared to be notes. Bizarre messages and messy scribbles graced the surface, all of them drawn in fat, dark lines. Some of the pictures you could identify. There were trees and some kind of stick figure, a head with crossed out eyes. But more concerning than the doodles, was what was written. Cries for help and a variety of Noes stared back at you, crawling up your skin, making you feel watched. Suddenly, this little room you'd chosen over possible freedom seemed so hopelessly all-consuming.
'Always watches - No eyes.' A shiver ran down your spine. What were these people?
Swallowing, you closed the drawer but didn't retreat your hand yet. It travelled further, higher up the wooden construction and stilled at an object sitting at the top. It was hidden under some kind of cloth. You pulled it off and revealed a little TV. Without thinking you turned it on, wilfully ignoring the creaking footsteps and hushed voices coming closer.
"It was a cold autumn night when the alleged killer and prime suspect Sarah Crane vanished, only leaving behind a pile of bodies."
The reporter made a pause before putting down her microphone, her confident green eyes darting to a point somewhere beyond the camera's reach.
"I swear these kids get more insane by the day," the woman said, her bright red painted lips forming into a grimace at her next words, "Probably felt she was above the law. I've heard about it, once they cross the line, there's no going back. God, poor victims were so young, too. The bitch can stay wherever she is, I hope she perishes in the woods."
Static overrun the little, dusty TV that offered some light to the dark room you were standing in, distorting the talking lady's face before turning entirely into white noise, cutting off the rest of the live report that had been playing out in front of you just mere seconds ago.
You stared wide-eyed at the now only buzzing device, a single tear sliding down your cheek, your body starting to tremble as the horrifying realization hit you. Three looming figures lurked behind you, watching intently, as you tried not to let the unavoidable sobs of sorrow slip past your lips.
No one was coming to find you.