Though his chest rose and fell in rapid, staggered bursts as he tried to slow his heart rate and catch his breath — a desperate attempt to keep calm in spite of the sudden crash of the chair toppling over jostling his already frayed nerves — Sully slowly began to ease back into his own chair a bit as the loud noise was not punctuated by another, was not followed by another chair falling or the first flying across the room or whatever godawful, horrible, horror movie stuff it could have done. Maybe he really was overreacting. Christ, if only he could just stop smoking; this would all be so much easier to handle if he were sober, if he weren’t stoned out of his skull, but it had been what — two days now since he’d been able to take his meds? He knew his body wouldn’t be able to handle much more of this before finally caving to his disorder, and the weed was all he had to try and prolong the inevitable.
Slowly, he started to calm, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the wall as he silently chided himself for getting so worked up over nothing. That wouldn’t do him any good. In fact, it was probably the worst thing he could do. Sighing softly, he wondered if maybe it was a good idea to head back into the kitchen with everyone else, particularly now that his nerves had decided he was done with the joint, but before he could so much as put the plan into action and stand from the chair, the sensation of something heavy and wet, almost like a raindrop hitting his shoulder, had him pausing. Only it wasn’t raining. “Prob’ly jus’ the pipes, somethin’ leaking through the ceiling,” he muttered quietly, mostly to reassure himself. That made sense, didn’t it? After all, it had probably been ages since anyone had tried to use the plumbing here and now that all of them were trapped inside and forced to, well, maybe it was starting to crumble.
Any hope he had to believe that excuse faded away, though, as he glanced down at his shoulder to find a bright droplet of crimson soaking into the already-stained fabric of his shirt. Oh no. Oh no. That — that wasn’t water. Swallowing hard and trying to maintain his composure, he looked up slowly to find the source of the liquid. His stomach dropped as he realized that the — the blood was oozing from the wall and he stood from the chair at once, facing the wall and all but frozen in place as he tried to decide whether he was hallucinating or if he should actually run.
They watched the boy for a moment as he fought with himself. They were not ready for him to leave. There several different ways to ensure he did not leave: A sharp, brutal slice to his Achilles tendon; binding him to the chair would not be overly difficult; a threat.
Soft, slow, they said, “Don’t run.” A moment, before the metaphorical axe fell. “You take one step towards the door and I kill one of them.” A threatening tone was unnecessary when they had already proven themselves to the boy. There would be no doubt that they would carry though. The blood continued to seep steadily from the wall.
“Maybe that stupid oaf of a boy, Yonatan. I’d crush him, let him die slowly, suffocating under an invisible force. His lungs desperately trying to inhale.” Blood began dripping from the ceiling, falling into the boy’s curls, onto his shoulders, a drop slipping down his nose. They wondered, truly, how much the boy could handle.
“Or, that bizarre girl. You seemed quite fond of her before. I think I’d burn her. Listen as she screamed in agony. Or, precious September-I think, perhaps, I could force her to kill herself as the others watched. Maybe, I’ll let you pick which one dies.”
Really, they were doing the boy a kindness, giving him a chance to feel like a hero.
