something something sebastian definitely has a slight southern drawl to his voice.
itâs more prevalent when heâs tired. his voice goes a little deeper, words less enunciated, and heâs long-forgotten putting on his pseudo-city accent to save face, to pretend that he isnât part of pelican town.
it took him a while to figure out why you got so shy and flustered whenever the twinge of country-talk comes out to play, but he definitely uses it to his advantage once he realizes whatâs going on.
ââm going out to town later,â sebastian leans down to whisper next to your ear, a chaste kiss soon trailing from your shoulder to your neck, âneed me to get yaâ anythinâ while iâm out?â
his head drops down then, nestling into the crook of your neck, while his arms wrap around you from behind. youâre stood frozen in shock, hands gripping at the kermit the frog themed coffee mug as you scrambled to find words â literally any words.
âor i could stay homeâŠâ sebastianâs words trailed off as his hand wandered into your (his) nightshirt with a tempting touch. âân we could go back to bed. wanna have some fun, darlinâ?â
You limped out of the mine, your pack heavy with materials. That last bunch of slimes had really taken it out of you and as youâd realized your strength was depleting, youâd turned on your heels and ran, only to twist your ankle on a rock.
You leant heavily against the wall, trying to catch your breath in the cool night air. Truth be told, youâd lost all track of time in the mines and it was now just before midnight on a Tuesday for goodnessâ sake. Youâd hoped to get to bed at a decent time for once, despite your endless to-do list. Youâd only meant to be in the mines an hour or two tops!
After your heart had stopped pounding, you reached down and tentatively prodded at your ankle before wincing at the pain. It was already swelling and that probably wasnât a great sign. This was a situation you hadnât considered before embarking on your new life in Pelican Town â what exactly do you do in an emergency? There was Harveyâs clinic, but that would involve limping down there and waking him up over your own stupidity.
If you were going to be limping anywhere, you might as well limp home. Heck, the town was gossiping about you enough, you didnât want your midnight trip to the clinic to be their next topic. You took a deep breath and took a step â there was a sharp ache that immediately dulled, but it was tolerable? It had to be tolerable, you concluded, as you took another shuffling step. It might take you all night, but you were determined to get home.
It was slow, painful progress as you found yourself walking past the carpenterâs house.
âFarmer?â
You jumped from the voice, your ankle immediately twisting on its side and you fell flat to the ground on your back, groaning.
âSorryâŠâ a figure appeared above you, looking down with an apologetic smile. It was the carpenterâs son⊠Sebastian? âI didnât think youâd be so jumpy with being out so late and all.â
âI⊠I guess I just thought everyone in this town was a bed by 10pm on a week night crowd.â
âWell, the majority are. ErâŠâ He hesitated, almost as if he was debating something in his head before he offered his hand. âCan I help you up?â
âThanks.â Truth be told, you werenât sure how graceful you would be at getting up without his assistance, so you happily accepted. In a combination of not expecting him to be as strong as he was and your weakened ankle, you were ill-prepared for getting back to your own two feet. You nearly went falling back down when Sebastian caught you in his arms and you threw yours around his neck. From your glow ring, you could clearly see the black-haired manâs face had flushed red.
âSorry, thatâs us city folkâ, you tried to make light of the situation. âWe swoon at any country man.â
That didnât seem to help as â you didnât think it was possible â his face had gone even more red.
âEr⊠here,â he tilted you upright, trying to get you to stand on your own two feet. You tried to comply, but your ankle collapsed underneath you, the sharp jolt of pain bringing tears to your eyes. You grabbed hold of his upper arm in a fierce grip. âYou all right there?â
âNo⊠I-Iâve hurt my ankle,â you swallowed, trying to keep the tears at bay. âI was in the mines and I twisted it. I thought I could limp home on it but that seems like a really dumb idea.â
âAhâŠâ Sebastian mumbled. âErm, should I wake Maru? She works at the clinic part-time, sheâll probably know what to do.â
âNo, please donât. People are talking about me enough without adding this to the mix. Iâll be okay. Iâll just⊠Iâll take five and then itâll be okay. You should go home.â
âI mean, I donât know exactly how things go down in Zuzu City, but I canât exactly go to bed and leave you out here.â
âThatâs exactly how things would go down in Zuzu City. Youâre a natural.â You grimaced.
âErâŠâ Sebastian paused. âWait, I think Iâve got an idea. Do you wanna sit?â
You blushed, before mumbling, âI donât think I could with any sense of grace.â
âI got you,â an arm wrapped around your waist and helped you down towards the ground.
âRight, Iâll be back in a moment.â He turned and went to head back up to his house.
âWait, SebastianâŠâ He spun on his heels and looked at you quizzically. âThank you.â
He smiled shyly, before walking out of sight, swallowed by the darkness.
You werenât sure how much time had passed when Sebastian eventually returned. There was a brief moment when you thought he wasnât coming back. Maybe it was some sort of Pelican Town hazing⊠The black-haired man eventually reappeared, wheeling along a motorcycle in tow towards you before stopping.
âSo, itâs not working reliably at the moment â Iâve been working on fixing it up. But I thought you could sit on it and I can wheel it along back to the farm? Means you can take the weight off your ankle and get home and ice it, I guess? Or heat. One of those.â
âHonestly, you donât have to do this. Itâs so late.â You protested, embarrassed that your antics had led to this.
âIâll be up for hours yet anyway. Plus, Iâm curious to see what youâve done with the land and itâll get you home â win-win.â He put the bikeâs kick stand out to balance the machine, before crouching down and offering his hand again.
You hesitated. âOnly if youâre really sure.â
âIâm positive. Come on.â
You took it, allowing him to pull you up fully this time and you made sure to let your uninjured leg take all the weight. âHop on.â He kept a tight grip on your hand as you swung your injured leg over the seat and boosted yourself up onto it.
âCool. Right, er, probably best if you hold onto the handles too.â You followed his instructions, and he leant over, positioning his hands next to yours before kicking the stand back in place. There was a momentary wobble before you found your balance and Sebastian moved forward, pushing it along up towards the path you knew would lead back to your farm.
âWhat were you doing out so late? Not that Iâm complaining,â you quickly rectified.
âI got wrapped up in work and forgot to get out today. I thought Iâd have the night to myself,â he teased. âWas that your first trip down the mines?â
âOh, gosh, no. The Adventureâs Guild and Marlon gave me some tips and I think that was my fifth trip. I probably went down a bit too far for the equipment I have, but to get better equipment I need money and the mineâs good for making a quick buck. Crops take their sweet timeâŠâ
âAh, makes sense.â He nodded.
âWhat do you do?â
âIâm a freelance programmer. Itâs okay, it means I can choose my own work hours. Iâm more productive later in the day, soâŠâ
âOh, really? Thatâs so cool.â
You fell into a companionable silence. Thankfully, it wasnât a long walk back to the farm and Sebastian let out a whistle as he admired your work so far.
âWow, this looks different.â
âA good different?â You frowned.
âOf course. Youâve been busy â this was all weeds and rocks the last time I was out here. What are you growing?â
âJust potatoes and turnips â theyâll be out of season soon but I should get another load out⊠if I can keep the crows at bay.â
He wheeled the motorcycle up to the bottom of your porch, eyeing the steps. âEr, do you want a hand up the stairs?â
âIf you donât mindâŠâ You mumbled â you werenât convinced hopping up them would be a winning formula. Sebastian put the kick stand back down, then assisted you off his motorcycle. He hooked an arm around your back, just under your armpits to steady you as you hopped towards the stairs, and then took a big leap up the first one as he kept your balance. You were extremely grateful there were only three stairs and you exhaled in relief now safely at your front door.
âThank you so much, Sebastian. I wish there was something I could give you in returnâŠâ You trailed off as he began to protest, but then you remembered â there was that cool-looking mineral youâd found earlier⊠You dug around in your satchel, leaning heavily on your front door, until your fingers found the smooth surface.
You withdrew it and Sebastianâs eyes lit up. âA frozen tear?â
âIs that what it is? Some weird creature dropped it â I think it came from deeper down in the mines. I thought it must be special. I was going to take it to Gunther tomorrow to identify, but it seems youâre a fan, so, pleaseâŠâ, you pushed it into his hands, âTake it.â
âNo, I couldnâtâŠâ
âI insist.â You unlocked the door behind you before he could really protest. âGoodnight, Sebastian. And, hey, every time you look at it, you can remember the time you helped the idiot farmer home.â
âGoodnightâŠâ He continued to stare at the mineral in his hands as he heard your door open and close, âBut Iâm totally going to remember the time I helped the cute farmer home.â He said that a little louder than he intended and blushed, glancing up to see your door firmly closed at least.
Fortunately, your window was open and youâd definitely heard.
FINALLY FINISHED THIS!! my own interpretation and additions to Sebastian's room in sdv ! Tried to keep anything in the image from the year 2010 or predated. i think theres a few give and takes but i really like the "older brother" early 2000s grunge aesthetic on another level and i thought who better fits it than him. I put a lot of references to stuff i personally like as well ^_^
This is a part of my Chris Redfield x Reader series. The Reader a woman written to be of Chinese-Asian ethnicity and heritage. This oneshot does not go into specifics on the Readerâs appearance, but it does make minor mentions to cultural references.
Summary: Fresh from the horrors of Kijuju, Chris was set on confronting the senior liaison officer who intends to repackage his trauma for marketing material - only to find a young woman who sees the man beneath the legend. Their first meeting reshapes everything he believes about being understood. What began as professional irritation, becomes an unexpected intimacy: she becomes his lifeline. This is a story about how gentleness can disarm even the most guarded heart.
The BSAA North Branch headquarters hummed with its own particular system of a machine that consumed field trauma and repurposed them as noteworthy highlights on paper. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile sickliness across the seemingly never-ending hallway where men and women in pressed and prim suits slaved away in cramped closets. These individuals translated the unspeakable into summaries palatable for oversight committees and press releases. The air smelled of stale coffee, recycled air, and the antiseptic anxiety of administrative spaces tasked with making sense of utter madness.
Chris stood in the corridor outside the specific section designated for the UN liaison office. His jaw was tight and his shoulders rigid beneath the tactical vest he had not yet changed out of. He was running off of pure adrenaline, while the last few of his cigarettes kept himself grounded amidst all this nonsense. He was exhausted, but he had to keep going.
The mission didnât just end when the threat was eliminated, there was still the dreaded administrative aspect that followed. Unlike taking down the targets in the field, Chris couldnât just simply let a few rounds of fire deal with these executives. Things could never be straightforward with these white collar elites: words with layers of underlying meaning, intricate politics of factions, and the forced disingenuous smiles whilst they had already planned out the execution of your character.
Although Chris despised this side of the job, he was fully aware that this was unfortunately one of the necessary evils that kept the organization running.
His schedule was packed, and today was especially busy as he had to squeeze time in for this damned meeting. He had arrived directly from the debriefing wing with other senior ranking officials, which he attended immediately after being airdropped by the helicopter that carried him from his previous field assignment. There was no time to shower or to change out of the tactical wear he had on for the last 48 hours. In addition to the trauma, Chris carried with him the blood and sweat he had shed during this last dispatch.
Upon arrival, the crew had doused him in disinfectant spray claiming it was for preventative measures. Chris knew all too well that disinfectant sprays killed the average household germs, not bio organic warfare grade viruses. It was a humiliation tactic. These executives were sending the message that the soldiers who risked their lives were beneath them, they needed to be cleaned before they were worthy enough to be within the same proximity as them.
Not only was Chris tired. He was also pissed. But he had no other option but to push through. While good men and women sacrificed their lives out there on the field, this was the least Chris could do to safeguard the future they all fought for.
He was supposed to be done after the briefing, but instead he had to squeeze time out of his schedule to give a certain liaison a piece of his mind.
He had previously spent countless hours on video call with a liaison named Harrington - a thin, reedy man with a habit of pushing his glasses up his nose while asking increasingly asinine questions. The man had fixated on the boulder incident, returning to it again and again, framing it as some kind of heroic feat and a testament to BSAA operational excellence. He deemed it a highlight for promotional purposes. He had even commissioned several graphics that he had proudly shown Chris.
Chris had endured it with the patience of a man who had endured worse. He had actually endured much worse, but this level of administrative humiliation threatened to push him beyond his breaking point. But when Harrington suggested using the âboulder-punching incidentâ as a morale-boosting marketing tool for recruitment and to justify funding, something in Chris had snapped.
He had requested - demanded, really - to speak with whoever was in charge. He needed to set the record straight. To look someone in the eye and make them understand that what they were packaging as entertainment was, in fact, a manâs breaking point.
Now he stood before the office door, after his long and aggressive strides down the maze of corridors led him here. His irritation itched beneath his skin.
He knocked once. Hard. The sound was sharp and authoritative, the knock of a man who was more used to kicking heavily fortified doors open.
âCome in.â
The voice that answered was soft, almost melodic. It was entirely unlike the nasal tenor of Harrington. It carried an slight dignified accent. It was precise and educated, the kind of English learned in international schools where children of diplomats and executives learned to navigate between cultures with effortless grace.
Chris pushed the door open and stepped inside, preparing for another round of bureaucratic theatre. He was prepared to armor himself in the stoic professionalism that had carried him through two decades of his life. He was prepared to be annoyed. Prepared to be angry. Prepared to hold his ground against another administrator who saw him as a weapon to be catalogued and a story to be sold.
However, he was not prepared for her.
She sat at a desk that seemed too small for the work spread across it: stacks of reports, binders with color-coded tabs, a laptop glowing with the blue light of a half-finished document.
She was younger than he expected, perhaps mid-twenties. Her hair pulled back in a low bun that suggested her preference for efficiency rather than fashion. She wore the standard professional attire of the liaison office: a tailored navy blazer over a cream silk blouse. She added a personal touch with a simple pearl stud in each ear. On her, the uniform did not look bureaucratic or generic. Instead, it looked deliberately chosen.
But it was her presence that stopped him.
She was stillness itself. A pocket of tranquility in the chaos that had become his life. Where the rest of the headquarters was noise and the relentless grinding of institutional machinery, she was a quiet focus with gentle poise. The human equivalent of a deep breath after a sprint.
There was something about the angle of her head as she read. The slight furrow between her brows. The way the lamplight caught the curve of her cheek. Everything in the scene before him made the room around her seem to soften at the edges. She was not beautiful in the way of billboards or cinema screens. An allure not in any way that could be captured by a camera and sold. It was captivation that could best described in the way of morning light filtering through curtains. The appeal of the first warm day after a brutal winter. The hauntingly beauty of permanent silence after gunfire.
Chris inhaled.
She was a breath of fresh air in a room that had felt airless for years.
Chris stood frozen in the doorway with his hand still on the doorknob. His mouth slightly open, as his carefully constructed irritation dissolving like mist in sunlight. He forgot why he was there. Forgot the boulder, the mission, the anger that had propelled him down the corridor. For a moment - a heartbeat, a breath - he simply stared, caught in the gravity of a presence that felt like coming up for air after drowning.
âMr. Redfield.â She spoke first, as she looked up from her document. It was different from what he had expected, it was entirely devoid of the nervous deference or eager hero-worship he had grown accustomed to. Her voice exhibited the rehearsed and instilled corporate politeness: smooth and seemingly welcoming. Her voice alone was enough to indicate to Chris her upbringing and personal accomplishments. âPlease. Come in and sit. Iâve been expecting you.â
He realized he was blocking the doorway. His tactical boots still rooted to the carpet. Chris realized he had been standing there like a fool and he had been staring at her for a good minute. He stepped forward, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He looked at her to assess her comfortability. He was aware of his physique, the last thing he wanted was to give her even more reason to establish a bad impression of himâŠespecially after how he had been staring at her.
Her eyes met at his. Steadily maintaining the eyes contact.
Chris moved toward the chair across from her desk. The movement felt mechanical and automatic, as his body operated on autopilot while his mind struggled to catch up with the sudden shift in atmosphere.
She watched him with dark eyes that held neither intimidation nor awe, merely attentive interest. She looked at him as if he were a complex text she was eager to study rather than a specimen to be catalogued.
âI must apologize.â Chris spoke as he settles into the chair. His voice came out rougher than intended, as the residue of his irritation mixed with exhaustion still clinged to the edges. âI was expecting your superintendent. The one I had spoke with earlier on the phone.â
He paused. His gaze flickering over her desk, noting the nameplate that was not yet there - suggesting her recent occupation of the position.
âYou must be new.â He added. However, the moment the words left his mouth, he heard how they sounded: dismissive, condescending, the reflexive assumption of a veteran soldier looking at a young administrator and seeing inexperience rather than capability. Dear god, age had made him into the very senior officers he loathed during his days in the airforce.
But, she did not flinch. Her expression remained composed with a gentle smile touching her lips, one that did not quite reach her eyes. It was polite and refined, but with a core of steel beneath the softness.
âI was designated to meet with you in lieu of my superintendent as a personal emergency had unexpectedly occurred, Mr. Redfield.â She explained, her tone smooth as silk wrapped around a blade. âWhile I may be relatively new to the this unit, I can assure you that I am fully qualified to meet with agents of your level and... notoriety.â Her eyes still holding his. âMy seniority, or lack thereof, does not diminish my competence. I hope you will not hold my youth against me.â
The words were delivered with an exquisite politeness, echoing a feminine sophistication; it took Chris a moment to register the firmness beneath them. She had not raised her voice. Nor had she hardened her expression. Yet she had corrected him with the precision of a fencing master, parrying his assumption and leaving him exposed.
He felt heat rise to his cheeks, a sensation that felt so foreign as it had been awhile. It took a second to register, but Chris immediately recognized it as embarrassment. Chris Redfield - who had faced bioweapons, corporate monsters and armies composed of the walking dead - was blushing because a young woman in a navy blazer had gently put him in his place.
âI didnât mean it that way.â Chris attempted to explain, the usual gruffness in his voice softening into something approaching an apology. âI apologize. That came out wrong. I was frustrated with the previous conversation, and I took it out on you. That wasnât appropriate of me.â
She kept her gaze on him, her head tilted slightly as if she was weighing the sincerity of his words. Then her expression softened, the subtle tension in her shoulders easing as she offered him a different kind of smile. This one was more genuine than the one she had carefully painted on her lips before, this one was disarming and designed to save his face.
âPlease, do not trouble yourself, Mr. Redfield.â Her voice somehow warmer. âYou are correct in your observation. I am new to this team. I was transferred not long ago from the public relations department. My colleagues felt I needed to...â With a spark behind her eyes. ââŠearn my stripes, as it were, by taking on the more challenging cases.â She continued, âCross-verification between field reports and condensed summaries is not glamorous work, but it is necessary.â
She said it without self-pity, merely as a statement of fact. Chris found himself admiring her composure. This young woman had taken his rudeness, absorbed it, and handed it back to him transformed into an opportunity for connection.
âPublic relations.â He seized the thread she offered, eager to move past his previous blunder. âThen you were one of the people who worked on improving the BSAA's image. Securing recognition. Strengthening groundwork.â
She nodded with a small and elegant manner. âI was part of the unit, yes. We worked to present the organization in a way that would secure funding and political support. To make the public understand the necessity of what you do.â
The BSAA had only been officially recognized and legitimized under the UN in 2005. Itâs only been two years, but the organization has seen much profession during those two years. The number of agents and operators grew. The resources in support and weaponry had greatly improved as well.
âThank you.â Chris said, and he meant it. âFor that work. It matters. Having support and having resources - it saves lives in the field.â
She was quiet for a moment, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of a document folder. When she spoke again, her voice was lower and infused with a gravity that made the air between them shift.
âWhat I did was nothing, Mr. Redfield.â She said softly. âItâs just paperwork and press releases. The sacrifices made by the soldiers in the field, your comrades and partners, those are beyond the reach of mere words. No image campaign can capture what is given, andâŠâ She paused, lettering her gaze drop with an air of melancholy. ââŠwhat is lost. I hope you know that I understand the difference between marketing and reality.â
The words struck him like a physical blow. Not because they were loud or dramatic, but because they were quiet. True.
He had spent years being celebrated and idolized as a hero. He had been packaged as a symbol. He had been told that his suffering was inspirational. And here, in this small office, a young woman he had just met had looked at him and acknowledged the cost of it all without glorifying it. She had seen the sacrifice and called it what it was: loss.
Not glory.
Not heroism.
Just pain, endured so that others wouldnât have to.
Chris felt something loosen in his chest, a knot he had not known he was carrying.
âI-â He stopped himself to cleared his throat because he wasnât quite sure what to say. âThank youâŠfor that.â
She merely nodded, accepting his gratitude with the same quiet grace with which she accepted everything.
Then she reached for the folder on her desk, his eyes glancing over the cover to recognize it as his folder. That folder contained his report, his life reduced to paper and ink.
She opened it with careful precision.
âNow.â She spoke with her tone shifting seamlessly back into that polished professional. âI understand you had some concerns about the direction of the report summary. I would like to hear your perspective, Mr. Redfield. In your own words. Take whatever time you need.â
She was good, Chris noted. Exceptionally good. She didnât launch into interrogation. Didnât fire off a checklist of questions. Instead, she created space. She eased into the conversation; her questions were gentle and her pauses generous. She was guiding him with such subtle expertise that he almost didnât notice he was being shepherded.
At first, some cynical part of him - the part that had learned to mistrust anyone in a suit - whispered that this was sophisticated manipulation. That she was using softness as a tactic, her femininity as a tool to lower his defenses and extract information that her previous colleagues had failed to obtain.
But he watched her as she listened.
Watched the way her eyes tracked his expressions. How they were not with the cold calculation of an interrogator, but with genuine concern.
Watched the way her hand stilled on her pen when he spoke of difficult moments, as if she were feeling the weight of his words in her own body.
And he corrected himself. This was not manipulation. This was her job, yesâŠbut it was her job done with compassion. She was good because she cared, and because she had learned to channel that care into a professional skill that made people feel safe.
SafeâŠhe hadnât felt safe talking to anyone like this in a very long time.
âThe report doesn't tell the whole story.â Chris willingly confessed, his voice dropping into a register that was rougher and more vulnerable than he usually allowed. âYour colleague, Harrington, wanted the highlight reel. He wanted the action and the boulder.â
âThe boulder.â She repeated, lacking Harringtonâs amusement in her tone that contained no eagerness for a heroic tale. âPlease tell me about the boulder, Mr. Redfield. Tell me what really happened.â
She asked it not as a demand, but as a request. A gentle opening of a door that he could choose to walk through or not. And because she had created this space, this pocket of safety in the midst of the institutional chaosâŠChris found himself willingly walking through it.
âWe were trapped.â Chris began as the words emerged slowly, each one weighted with memory. âSheva and IâŠthe Tricell facility was collapsing. Wesker was...he was going to release Uroboros to wipe out most of humanity. We had stopped him, but we were running out of time. The exit was blocked.â
He paused. His hands, resting on his knees, had curled into fists without him ever noticing. She saw it. He watched her see it. Watched her note the tension in his knuckles and the white of his scarred fingers.
âThere was a boulder.â Chris continued as his voice dropped lower. âIt was massive and it blocked the only path out. And I just...I couldnât accept it.â The traumatic memories began to flood back. âI couldnât accept that we had come so far, lost so much, and survived everythingâŠonly to be stopped by a goddamn rock.â Not after Jill. âNot after everything we had given.â
He stopped again. The memory was now too vivid and too visceral. The heat of the African facility. The dust in his lungs. The absolute will of refusal that had risen in him like a physical force. He had not been thinking. He had been beyond thought, and operating on pure desperate instinct.
âI punched it.â Chris admitted with the words sounding quite absurd in the quiet office. It sounded ludicrous and raw. âAgain and again, until my hands were bleeding. Until I couldnât feel my fingers. Until the pain was the only thing keeping me conscious.â Chrisâ eyes widened as the movement replays in his mind. âI wasnât being heroic. I wasnât being strong. I was just... desperate.â I couldnât lose Sheva too. âI couldnât lose my partner, again.â I had already lost Jill once. âI couldnât survive losing another partner. Another person I was supposed to protect.â
The silence that followed was profound.
Chris realized he was breathing hard. His chest tight and his eyes burning with the threat of tears he had not allowed himself to shed in the months since his return. He had not spoken this way to any of the debriefers. Not to the therapists. Not even to Jill, whilst during the fragile quiet of their reunion; the both of them were too broken and too overwhelmed by survival to unpack the trauma.
He looked at her, expecting to see the same hungry fascination he had seen in Harrington'âs eyes - the gleam of a bureaucrat who had struck gold and found the next big stepping stone for his promotion.
Instead, he saw empathy. Her empathy.
Her eyes were wet, luminous with feeling she made no attempt to hide. She looked at him: not as a soldier, not as a weapon, not as the billboard hero of the BSAAâs marketing campaigns. She looked at him as a person: a man who had been pushed to the absolute edge of human endurance. In her eyes he was the man who had clawed his way back not through strength, but through desperation. Through the refusal to lose one more person.
She felt his desperation.
It was felt it in her bones. It was the slight tremor of her lower lip. It was in the way her hand had moved to cover her heart as if to hold in the ache his words had caused. She had not experienced Kijuju. She had not felt the heat or the dust or the absolute certainty of death. But she felt his despair as if it were her own; she honored it with her silence, with her tears, with the absolute gift of her understanding.
âI see.â She whispered finally, but her voice was thick with a deep inexpressible emotion. âI see you, Mr. Redfield.â Her eyes found his, once more. âNot the hero. Not the legend. YouâŠjust you.â
The words were simple. So plain and simple that they were devastating.
Chris felt something crack in his chest, a fissure in the armor he had worn for so long that he had forgotten it was armor. He felt close to her. Somehow and oddly, impossibly close. As if the distance between his chair and her desk had collapsed. As if they were touching despite the space. As if she had reached across and placed her hand directly over his heart.
He caught something shine behind her dark eyes.
She proceeded to reach for her notepad, tearing off a sheet of paper and wrote something on it. Then she folded it once. Twice once. And, slid it across the desk to him.
Chris opened it.
I will keep the boulder incident in the internal report only. I will fight my superiorsâ intention to publicize it as a morale and marketing tactic. They do not deserve your pain. This is yours. Thank you for trusting me with it.
He stared at the note, feeling his breath catch.
"You donât have the authority to do this.â Chris looked at her with genuine concern overriding his gratitude. âIf you go against the corporate hierarchy on this - if you fight them on the marketing angle - you could jeopardize your career. Youâre too new to this. You donât have the seniority to push back on something like this. Theyâll bury you.â He warned her.
She met his gaze with a steadiness that surprised him. A small but confident smile curved her lip. It was demure and sophisticated, but with an undercurrent of steel that made his pulse stutter.
âWhen I set my mind on something, Mr. Redfield.â She spoke softly with great determination. âIt is set.â She was firm. âI have my ways. I always get what I want.â
The words were delivered with a kind of smooth confidence and polished professionalism, that they should have been merely a statement of competence. But there was something in her eyes and in the slight tilt of her head, that made the statement feel ambiguous. It felt oddly intimate, as if she were speaking of more than just bureaucratic maneuvering. As if she were telling him, with that exquisite politeness of hers, that she had already decided something about him - about them - and that she would absolutely not be deterred.
Chris felt heat rise to his cheeks again, this time it was a shy and startled warmth that spread from his chest to his neck. He was a thirty-six-year-old soldier who had faced bioweapons and madmen, but here he was, blushing because a young liaison had looked at him with determined eyes and said - in a voice like honey and the mystery of smoke - that she always got what she wanted.
âI see.â Chris managed with his voice rougher than intended.
She held his gaze for a moment longer, just long enough for the silence between them to thicken with something unspoken. Then she leaned back, the professional mask settling back into place with seamless grace, though the warmth remained in her eyes.
Chris, a man with the brawn of a bear, was now a deer caught in the headlights.
âDo you read, Mr. Redfield?â She asked the question seemingly random, with a shift in topic that felt like a deliberate softening of the intensity that had built between them.
âRead?â He blinked, still caught in the gravity of her previous statement.
âBooks. Literature. Beyond mission briefings and intelligence reports.â
He thought about it. âNot in a long time. I used to, before...before all this.â
She reached into the leather satchel beside her desk and withdrew a book. She slid it across the table to him.
âWater Margin.â She spoke. âShi Nai'an. One of the great classical novels of my country. It is about outlaws and loyalty. About men who are pushed to the margins of society and find brotherhood in their exile.â Her eyes peering into him deeper than anyone liaison had ever accomplished. âI think you might find it... familiar. The struggle between duty and survival. The cost of loyalty.â
Chris took the book. During the exchange, his fingers unintentionally intentionally brushed against hers for the briefest moment. That touch was electric, like a jolt of warmth that traveled up his arm and settled somewhere in the region of his heart. He looked at the cover, and the elegant script. He looked at the weight of the gift.
âThank you.â He said in a way which meant more deeply than the simple words could convey.
She smiled, the expression transforming her face from professional composure to something mesmerizing and radiant.
âYou don't have to read it.â She added on. âBut if you ever want to discuss it - or anything elseâŠâ She reached into her desk drawer, withdrawing a business card to wrote something on the back with her fountain pen. âHereâs my personal number.â Chris wasnât sure if it was a twinkle in her eyes or had she just winked at him. âFor after hours. I find I do my best thinking when the world is quiet.â
She handed him the card, this time she allows her fingers to linger against his for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. That fraction of a second that felt like an eternity.
Chris knew, intellectually, that this was inappropriate: an SOU agent should not accept personal contact information from a liaison. The lines between professional and personal were drawn precisely to prevent moments like thisâŠmoments where the air seemed to hum with possibility.
But he took the card, and slipped it into his pocket alongside the note she had given him. He does not say a word about propriety, because some part of him - a part he had suppressed for so long he had forgotten it existed, recognized this moment as significant. As the beginning of something he did not yet have words for.
He stood.
She stood with him, smoothing her blazer with a gesture that was unconsciously and effortlessly graceful.
âI should go.â But Chris didnât move toward the door.
âYes.â
Neither of them moved.
They faced each other across the desk, the space between them felt charged - alive with the potential of what had just passed between them.
The moment allowed him to take notice of her height, she was so small and so delicate compared to the average female soldier in his field - top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. Chris was aware of the disparity between them: size, age, in the lives they had led. He was hardened muscle and combat scars and twenty years of killing. She was silk and pearls and the quiet confidence of a woman who wielded softness like a weapon more deadly than anything he had ever carried.
And yet, standing there, he felt not the distance but the possibility.
âCaptain Redfield.â The formality of the title made him pause, because he was not a captain. Not yet. He was currently still a SOU, Special Operations Unit, a field agent. The promotion had been discussed, but it had not been announced.
However, she knew. And She was telling him, with exquisite subtlety, that she had inside knowledge. That she paid attention. That she saw him not just as he was, but as he was becoming.
âPleaseâŠâ He said with his voice heavy with an emotion he couldnât name. âJust call me Chris. I donât... I don't like honorifics.â
ââŠChris.â She repeated in a manner as if his name in her mouth was a benediction, an intimacy, a promise.
She smiled, and there was a glimmer of something knowing in her eyes - a recognition that she had gained something by this small concession, a closeness that she had deliberately cultivated.
There was an unspoken sense of intimacy which hung between them: both acknowledged and unacknowledged. It felt as if a thread was connecting them, one that neither was ready to pull tautâŠjust yet.
âGoodbye, Chris.â she said softly.
âGoodbye.â
For a moment, he wished he was able to stay. He wished he was able to rewind to the exact moment when he had initially stopped himself at the door of her office.
Turning back time to the exact moment when he first laid his eyes on her. To relive the way he had stood there foolishly and stared at her as if she were a lifeline the universe had thrown at him.
However, Chris was on a tight schedule. Begrudgingly, Chris forced himself to turn from her. He forced his body to walk towards the door, to open it and step into the fluorescent hum of the corridor.
He didnât hear the shuffle of her clothing, she mustâve stood there as well. However, he was certainly sure that she had continued to look at him. He was able to feel her gaze on him.
Chris continued to add distance between his physical body and the place he somehow felt he had left a part of him behind in. He walked down the hallway, past the cubicles and the conference rooms, past the endless machinery of bureaucracy that suddenly seemed less oppressive than it had an hour ago. His hand was in his pocket, his fingers tracing the edge of the business card and the folded note, the tangible evidence that something had shifted in his life.
He thought of her eyes. He recalls her voice.
The way she had looked at him and seen not the boulder-puncher, not the hero, not the weapon, but a man.
The way her gentleness had reminded him of a life he had lost somewhere along the way. A life before the Spencer Mansion. Before the nightmares that haunts him every time he closes his eyes. Before he had become a soldier in an endless war. She had taken his mind off the trauma, off the deaths, and off the crushing weight of survival. For one hour in a small office, she had made him feel like human again: vulnerable and cared for.
At the elevator, he stopped. He withdrew the card from his pocket and held it in his palm, looking at the elegant script of her personal number and at the way the light caught the embossed lettering of her name.
He felt something bloom in his chest. Something tender and tentative. Perhaps interest, or perhaps longing. The first stirrings of an attachment that would take years to fully form, but that had already taken root in the fertile soil of her understanding.
She is refreshing, he thought, and the realization settled into him like warmth, like light, like the first hint of dawn after an endless night. She saw something in me that I couldn't see in myself. Something real. Something worth saving.
He slipped the card back into his pocket - close to his heart - and stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, he touched his fingers to his lipsâŠremembering the phantom sensation of her voice with his name between her lips and at tip of her tongue.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Chris found himself smiling in the dark.
It was a small smile, the smile of a man who had forgotten how but was trying to rememberâŠbecause someone had finally looked at him and seen not what he could do, but who he was.
The elevator descended, carrying him back to the world of missions and monsters. But in his pocket - close to his heart - her card burned like a small, bright flame. It was a beacon in the darkness, a promise of quiet conversations and stolen moments.
It was a gentleness that would become his salvation, and eventuallyâŠ
enjinâs girlfriend gets naked every time they start to argue and he freaking hates it because⊠well, heâs just a man.
enjin hates getting into arguments with you, which is exactly why this one that's been building for the past three days sits heavy on his chest. he's leaning against the table now on his fourth cigarette of the day, jaw tight, clearly trying to keep his tone level even if his patience is hanging by a thread.Â
"no, because you always do this," he says with his brows furrowed, "you avoid the problem and joke about it, and then suddenly we're not even talking about it anymore."Â
you blink at him, unimpressed, "oh, so now i always do it?" you shoot back, tone sharp enough to keep this fight going, "you're being dramatic."Â
"girlie," enjin exhales, dragging a hand down his face, "see? right there! you're doing it again," he points at you, pacing around before stopping in front of you, "i'm actually trying to talk to you like how a good boyfriend should, and you're just turning it into a bit."
"maybe because you aren't a good boyfriend, enj," you shrug, and that immediately earns you a sharp look from him. you would have laughed if he didn't look so serious. he opens his mouth again, clealy determined to prove you wrong this time.
and then you pull your (already skimpy) top off, revealing your half naked form with your tits out just for him to see.Â
the silence that follows is deafening that you almost hear enjin short-ciruiting. he freezes mid-breathe and whatever sentence he was about to deliver complete gets wiped from existence as his brain abandons him without warning. his eyes flick down from your face to your plump, perfect breasts.
he badly wants to pierce his eyes for being such traitorous little shits. enjin lets out the most defeated, disbelieving laugh under his breathe, his cigarette dropping on the floor as he do so.
"bro," he mutters, staring at the ceiling as if he's asking it for strength, "are you serious right now?"
you just shrug like this is a reasonable response to conflict as grown adults, "continue. what were you going to say, huh?"Â
enjin looks back at you, and he swears, he tries so hard to keep his gaze on your face only. he even squits slightly, trying to not get distracted by your fleshy mounds literally saying hello to him, as he recalls his original train of thought a minute ago, "i--" he stops, blinking as if it could help his buffering brain, "i literally had a whole speech ready, goddamn it," he presses his lips together, clearly frustrated.Â
he points at you, fingers slightly shaking, "this is unfair. you're sabotaging me."Â
"you're just losing focus, which is not my fault," you hum, stepping a little closer, making your breast jiggle a bit⊠and his little bit of composure left really starts slipping.
"that is exactly your fault," he shoots back immediately, though there's no real bite this time. his gaze flickers back down again, noticing the marks he's littered on your right breast the other day, clearly still visible, "you can't just do that everytime we argue, every mid-argument. that's not something a grown ass adult does."
"and yet it's working, no?" you reply lightly, earning a short, incredulous laugh from him.Â
"oh my god," he says, running a hand through his hair again, "no, because i was actually mad, okay? i came here to communicate and be mature and you--" he gestures at your half naked form, clearly unable to even finish the thought, "you just do that. again."Â
"but i'm listening, babe," you challenge him, stepping into his space closer until he has to look down at you and how your chest looks even more enticing in this angle, "tell me."Â
enjin stares at you for a loooong second, genuinely weighing his options. there's still a version of him fighting his perversion to stay on track, but his jaw tightens as he breathes slower. he tries to look at your eyes and lock in into it.Â
"okay," he quietly says, forcing the words out slowly, "i just--i feel like you don't take me seriously when i'm trying to--"Â
his gaze drops again at your tits.
"--yeah, no," he cuts himself off, shaking his head, "we're done. i'm done. i can't do this," a breathy laugh slips out from him, finally giving up. he still looks mildly annoyed about it, but the obvious strain on his pants tells you otherwise.Â
"you're sooo annoying," he mutters under his breathe, hand coming up to your waist as he lowers his head to kiss you.
it lands quick and a little bit crooked. he still tastes bitter from all the cigarette he's been smoking this morning, but it doesn't stop you from returning the kiss in the same fervor. his grip on your waist tightens instinctively, pulling you even closer until there's no space left between you, as his left hand travels down to squeeze your ass. he exhales against your lips as if he's been holding that in longer than he thought. he smells of tobacco and his musky cologne, yet you lean into it easily.Â
you expected this outcome the moment you made your move, after all.Â
"don't think this means you won this time," he mutters against your cherry flavored lip as he leans in again without hesitation this time. the kiss is heavier now, like he's finally admitted defeat instead of trying to fight it like what he's been doing ever since the two of you started talking. his other tattooed hand holds the side of your neck, angling your head better so he can kiss you deeper.Â
"sure," you murmur back clearly unconvinced, pulling back a bit with a string of saliva between your lips. enjin huffs out a quiet laugh and shakes his head slightly. you start palming his clothed crotch and that makes him groan.Â
"girlie, you're evil," he says, softer. but he's exactly right where he wants to be, especially when both of his hands are finally back to where they should've been--on your heavenly bosoms.
yeah, he'll let you get away this time. again.
________________
in honor of enjin finally getting out of the fraud list here's a self indulgent drabble abt him <3
LMAO Enjin entering his room only to find Dear, Guita and Rudo all nestled comfortably on your relaxed limbs (left shoulder is where Guita laid, right shoulder is where Rudo leaned over and Dear sprawled ever so comfortably and cozily on your lap, holding you with his cute little oversized little arms clinging around your waist, tiny hidden fingers occasionally gripping onto the back of your shirt).
"Guess I missed the nappin' invite, got any space for me doll?"
"Mm, not at the moment, no. Sorry En'. Should've been here sooner, the kids were really tired after today"
and this grown ass man is literally pouting, huffing under his breath and carelessly flopping his hefty height right down next to you (which you scold him for). glaring at the three little gremlins that may or may not, had plotted this from the beginning of the day.
This man would always take such good care of you. I'm thinking something like:
Leon notices it before you say anything. Not like you were going to say anything.
But he notices the way your shoulders stay a little too tight, even when you think youâre relaxed. The way your eyes keep drifting toward the kitchen, then away again like youâre arguing with yourself. The way you keep shuffling from your work, halfway to the kitchen, then back.
He exhales through his nose and doesnât make a big deal out of it.
âYou ate today?â he asks, like itâs casual. Like it doesnât matter.
You hesitate just long enough and that answers it.
Leon clicks his tongue softly, already turning toward the kitchen. âYeah. Thatâs what I figured.â
You finally put your work down and trail after him anyway, quiet on your feet like youâre trying not to be a problem. He doesnât like that. Not even a little.
He opens the fridge, scans it once, then starts pulling things out like heâs done this a hundred times without thinking.
Because he has.
âSit,â he says over his shoulder.
When you donât move fast enough, he glances back at you, one brow lifting slightly.
âSweetheart.â
That does it. You sit.
He hums under his breath, faint and approving, and starts cooking like your hunger was never optional in the first place.
Hi!! I love your writing! I feel like Leon missing the birth of his first child due to his missions is very real and would like to request a short angsty and/or fluffy fic of that if you have time? <3 perhaps a younger Leon between RE4 and RE6ish?
thanks so much! this is such a good idea, i totally agree that it would be a thing. i reaallly leaned into the fluff with this one. hope you like it :)
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
f!reader x post-re4!leon
cw: pregnancy, birth mentioned (non-graphic)
The fourth day was always the hardest. The body began its incessant pleading for food, water. Adrenaline present in the days prior was exhausted; the lack of true sleep an ache that only continued to grow against the need to keep moving.
It didnât help that you were all he could think about. Nearly 37 weeks pregnant, sore, tired, struggling to do much of anything in the final stretch. Usually independent to a fault, you relied on him for so much more nowâmuch to your annoyanceâbut heâd taken it in stride. Enjoyed it, even. And work had been miraculously slow, allowing him more time with you, to help, to bask in preparing for something other than his own potential demise for once.
Until now.
There was no apology for the interruption to his lifeâthere never was. A simple call, vague instructions borne from even more ambiguous intel, and he was pulled from you when you needed him most.
Itâs this thought that has him swiping a hand over his face as he leans against the cracked concrete of the wall behind him. The hall, so quiet that it echoes with his heavy breathing, is deserted, shafts of moonlight casting an inconsistent glow through wide breaks in the ceiling. A place to rest, recollect, then move on.
He brings his canteen to his lips, sipping, conserving the last of whatâs left until god knows when heâll find more.
The sudden crackle of his earpiece clangs through him in the silence, communication having been so spotty the last few days that heâd grown too used to his own thoughts for company.
âLeon?â The voice on the other end is so sweetly familiar that he sighs, eyes closed, head falling back against the wall.
âHunnigan. Finally.â
âAre you ok?â
âThe usual. Nothinâ new.â
âThank god. Sorry, weâve been working through the comm failures. Itâs been chaos here.â
âYeah, no problem.â
Silence stretches. So long that he nearly breaks it, not ready for another extended blackout, before thereâs a new burst of static.
âLeon, somethingâs happened.â
Rarely, if at all, did he panicâany reaction not calculated or practiced hammered out of him by years of intense training and experience. But it sears through him now at Hunniganâs barely restrained urgency, settling a tight fist in his gut.
âTell me.â It comes out harsher than intended, and Hunnigan, despite herself, falters.
âWeâve been trying to reach you, but the blackoutsââ
âDonât. Justâplease.â
A pause, loaded, then: âYour wife was taken to the hospital yesterday. Premature labor. Updates are⊠infrequent, but weâre trying. The latest is that sheâs stable and progressing.â
Sick. He was going to be sick. His canteen skids where he discards it, head in his hands, fingers snagging as he pushes them backward through his hair. The rare urge to scream, to rip at the concrete beneath him, forces a deep exhale through his nose. Another.
Hunnigan eventually speaks through his distressed quiet. âIâm sorry.â
He knew the apology wasnât solely for the situation, but also the truth of it: he couldnât leave. Extraction now could take days. The mission was too important, there was too much at stake. Fighting it, as much as the desire to do so was tearing through every inch of him, would do nothing if not delay him even further.
Helplessness takes hold. Then resignation, determination.
âCan you have a team ready even if we go dark again? Iâm getting this done.â
Her response is soft but sure. âIâll do everything I can.â
â
Two days. You labored alone, nurses and midwives your only support, their check-ins infrequent enough that they didnât count for much at all.
You thought of him through the pain. Imagined it was his hand on your back, his voice in your ear as you groaned, screamed, and fought through the marathon that was bringing life into the world.
And at the end of it all, the warm, small thing placed on your chest, declaring herself as yours, as hisâthe curve of your brow, his soft, full lips. Perfection in its purest form, meant to be witnessed in tandem but instead held by you alone.
They kept you both for observation. She was early, but only just, so she remained with you, this tiny reminder of him. She was a comfort while you waited, hoped, to hear any word of how he was doing.
When the door opens on your second day in recovery, you donât look up from where your daughter rests on your chest, expecting, as it had been, another nurse performing their daily rounds.
In absence of the familiar greeting, though, your eyes flit to the door.
Leon stands beside the curtain, bandaged on one arm beneath his black t-shirt, but whole. Alive. And looking uncharacteristically unsure, awe and apology warring on his face.
Tears, quick and heavy, spill down now familiar tracks on your cheeks, and you shake with the suddenness of your shock.
Then heâs there, carefully folding you into him while mindful of what you hold, your face buried into the crook of his neck, his head against yours. You grip the back of his shirt, one hand on the bundle in your arms.
âIâm so sorry,â he exhales into your ear, holding fast as a quiet sob chokes out of you.
He pulls back just enough to cup your cheek in his palm, thumb banishing the tears there in a gentle stroke. âI am so sorry.â
The profound grief so plainly contorting his features threatens to rip your heart from your chest.
Nodding, you bring your hand to rest atop his, unable to voice everything youâd endured, felt, and thought the last few days in the breath of a single moment. Instead, you smile, slight, running your thumb over his knuckles. âI know.â
He looks inclined to say more, but his eyes, soft where they take you in, trail down at the light, noisy breathing from your chest, as if dragged by an invisible, all-encompassing force heâd only just realized.
You fight to contain yourself as his expression changes, awestruck, almost afraid.
âWant to hold her?â
The barest of smiles tugs at the corners of his lips, and his eyes donât leave her as he nods, accepting the tiny, swaddled bundle when you move to place her into his arms.
He stands then, one hand supporting her neck, the other supporting her bottom as he lifts her face closer to his, like he needs to take in every bit of her.
You feel a renewed prickle at the corners of your eyes and you blink at it, unable to help your light laugh as you watch them, witnessing in real time what youâd been imagining for the last four days.
âGod, sheâs beautiful,â he chokes out.
Tenderness overcomes him as his gaze falls to you, eyes glassy, lower lids unmistakably shining. âThatâs all you.â
You laugh again, overwhelmed, ecstatic. âI disagree. Sheâs so your child.â
The grin that splits his lips is one youâll remember as the brightest youâve seen from him. It morphs into something softer as he brings her head to rest on his shoulder, his chin dipping to lightly touch it.
And when she nestles closer, her comfort in his warmth palpable, Leon looks to you again, that silent apology returning.
âI never wouldâve let them send me if I knew.â
You incline your head, tired, resigned. An argument, if there was one, for another time. âItâs the life I chose, Leon. We knew the risks. Thereâs nothing you couldâve done.â
He shakes his head, unconvinced, but remains silent, regret suffocating whatever else he needs or wants to say. Your daughter stirs in the sudden quiet and he begins a tentative tap against her back, murmuring softly to her until she settles into him once more.
helloo! i heard you were taking sfw requests and i had an angsty/argument-esque one in mind!! itâs about reader and leon going through a rough patch like they havenât had one badly like this since re6 (i love both that and re9 leon so this is me trying to incorporate both into the reqhshsnxb) and youâve both healed and moved on since then but something happens and ur both just arguing and you resort to couples therapy where that escalates ur arguments w him more but eventually he recognises whatâs hurting u and he ends up grovelling and vice versa (but he grovels more. always đ«¶đ«¶đ«¶đ«¶đ«¶)
The Gravity of Us
A/N: Hey! Thank you so much for this prompt. I absolutely loved diving into this angst, honestly, I got a bit carried away with the length, but the vibe was just too good to stop... :_:
Summary: As Leonâs mental state takes another dark turn, therapy feels like the final, desperate straw, only to have it backfire and leave your relationship in ruins. When both of you finally hit your breaking point in the aftermath, a raw moment of honesty becomes the only way to find your way back to each other.
Featuring: heavy angst, mental health struggles, post-RE6 trauma, avoiding feelings as a coping mechanism, disastrous therapy session, panic attack, hard-earned happy ending.
Leon turned the key in the lock, the sound felt unnaturally loud in the near-sterile silence of the hallway.
With a leaden gait, he lurched inside toward the coat rack, but instead of hanging up his jacket, he tossed it onto the lower cabinet. It slumped over, nearly knocking the keys to the floor. His shoes were kicked off with the same listless indifference, left exactly where they had landed. Leon knew he shouldn't, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. Feeling as though his body weighed twice as much as it had this morning, he moved slowly toward the living room, leaving the lights off. They weren't needed.
The time went unchecked, but the lateness of the hour was obvious. He had just come back from the office, filing reports â a task that could have been done from his laptop at home. And yet, the chance to vanish was one he preferred to take whenever possible. He couldnât stand the sorrow in your eyes when you looked at him, convincing himself that the less you saw of him, the better it would be. It wasn't.
Stopping mid-stride, Leon stared into the gloom of the living room. It was only half-dark because, to his disappointment, you werenât asleep, buried under a blanket. The small reading lamp clipped to your book provided the only source of light in the room. Immediately, that familiar phantom weight settled on his shoulders â like an old, poorly set bone that started to ache with every change in the weather.
He stood motionless for a moment. Your breathing and the scent of your perfume reached him, but instead of being the familiar anchor he used to crave, the sight of you now felt like a burn. There was a grim certainty that in a moment, he would once again drag all his filth into your world. Into your shared world.
Without approaching you, he headed straight for the kitchen, muttering a clipped âHey, Iâm homeâ as he passed.
He was broken, he knew that, but pinpointing the exact moment it happened seemed impossible; it didn't matter anyway. The same thing was happening to him that had occurred years ago. An agonizing slide back into the mud. The taste of it was recognizable even before the fall was fully realized; a bitter, metallic tang of exhaustion that coated the back of his throat. Frustration and a bone-deep apathy toward everything in his sight took hold, all without a clear reason. He thought he had buried that version of himself years ago, left him rotting in the rain-soaked streets of China, but here he was again.
Snapping the kitchen tap on, he leaned over to drink directly from the stream of water, not even bothering to reach for a glass. A saving of time and energy, or so he told himself.
A moment later, the light over the stove flickered on. Before he could react, you were standing right beside him, a robe thrown over your shoulders, holding out a glass.
Leon didn't take it. Straightening up, he shut off the water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before leaning against the counter. He crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to look you in the eye â afraid to â and instead fixed his gaze on the darkness somewhere behind you. You drew your hand back and placed the glass in the cabinet where it belonged.
The silence that followed was painfully thick, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator. Since he continued to avoid eye contact, it was you who finally broke the impasse.
âLeon, this isn't just exhaustion from the last mission or the paperwork. I can see it,â you whispered, as if afraid to pierce through the sticky layer of silence. In response, his jaw only tightened. âIâve tried to give you space, tried not to hover over your every step, but youâre just... disappearing. Nothing changes. You haven't rested. We aren't even pretending that things are okay anymore.â At that last sentence, your voice began to tremble dangerously.
A wave of heat surged through Leon's body, pooling in his face. He wouldn't watch you cry because of him again. Pushing off the counter, he took a few steps toward the window, exhaling through his nose as if to vent the rising pressure inside. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, staring at the dim, yellowish streetlights. The physical chill was perhaps the only thing allowing him to maintain a shred of sanity, keeping him from spiraling into the vortex of guilt forming in his mind.
âWhat do you want me to do? Iâve tried,â he rasped, without turning around.
âI want you to stop fighting yourself. To stop avoiding me, because as you can see, it isn't changing a thing.â Your voice was shaky, yet he could hear the struggle to keep it firm. âI want us to go see someone. Therapy. Together.â
The muscles in Leon's neck seized up like an order had been barked. He had been terrified you would finally say it. To him, therapy sounded like a sentence; nothing more than an admission of the defect he carried, a flaw he so desperately didn't want to expose to you â not again. For a long while, the only sound was his shallow breathing, leaving a slowly fading patch of mist on the glass.
âAnd you think thatâll actually change anything?â he asked, his back still turned, hands bracing against the windowsill as if he couldn't stay upright without the support. âThat talking to some stranger in a dress shirt will suddenly make me feel... more normal?â
âNo. But maybe weâll get the tools to get there. What Iâve tried isn't working,â you said more calmly now, your voice steady but radiating pain. âAnd you can't find a way out of it either. I see how youâre suffering, Leon. And I can't stand that you're doing it in solitude, standing barely two meters away from me.â
He knew you were waiting for any kind of reaction, yet he remained stubbornly still. Pulling his head away from the glass, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that you had moved to stand beside him, almost shoulder to shoulder. Your warm hand came to rest on his forearm, and he couldnât stop himself from flinching.
âFine,â he threw out, short and abrasive. âLetâs do it. Make the appointment.â
***
Hardly a wink of sleep had come to Leon over the past week; each day bringing him closer to the appointment triggered an internal â and nearly physical â paralysis. Eventually, however, he found himself in the office with you and a woman sitting across from you who looked like the personification of idealism.
Every question felt like being flayed alive, even if â at first â they weren't personal. Leon sat in an excessively comfortable leather armchair; the room tried to be cozy, but he saw the intent in every detail. Even the tissue box seemed to be placed at a non-accidental angle. A clock ticked ungratefully on the wall, and for some reason, the session felt like it would never end.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you; he didn't want to, and was afraid to, look you straight in the face, even here. Your silhouette seemed to vanish in the oversized chair, hands nervously folded in your lap. You answered the questions honestly, with an air of earnestness.
Rigid and tense, Leon felt the leather creaking unpleasantly under his weight with every movement. Upon entering, he hadn't taken off his jacket like you had; it was still on, zipped up to his chin. The need to physically wall himself off from this place was overwhelming. He sat on the very edge of the chair, jaw clenched, knee bouncing nervously, arms crossed over his chest.
Finally, much to his chagrin, a question was directed at him.
âLeon, youâve been remarkably distant today. Could you try to put into words what you're feeling right now?â the therapist asked. He thought that if he remained silent long enough, she might give up and turn back to you. Nothing of the sort happened, the silence stretched to a point he could no longer endure.
âI feel like Iâm wasting my time. And yours,â he answered flatly.
You interjected.
âWeâre here to stop the disappearing, Leon. To find a way back to each other,â you tried to answer for him.
Leon finally met your eyes, his gaze cold and professionally detached, exactly the way he always looked during a mission briefing.
âDisappearing? A bit dramatic, don't you think? Weâre just two people paying a stranger to tell us how to hold hands again. Itâs a performance. Itâs not 'fixing' anything.â The words contradicted your private conversations at home, he knew that. He had admitted to you that he was distancing himself. But admitting it now, in front of a stranger, was impossible.
âA performance? You think I want to be here? You think itâs a privilege for me to sit here and watch you treat every question like an interrogation?â The anger in your voice was a rarity lately, as it usually just broke.
Leon knew you were right. And yet, he couldn't stop a short, dry huff of a laugh.
âAt least interrogations are efficient. At least there, you know what the goal is. Here... weâre just digging through things that won't bring us any closer to a solution.â
âHow do you know they won't, since you've refused to participate from the moment you walked in?â Now you were leaning forward in your chair, as if trying to physically coax him into coming to his senses, into cooperating.
But cooperation wouldn't come. The therapistâs judgmental gaze only made his stomach churn. This wasn't a place for him.
âMaybe you should just accept that this is all I have left to offer, and we can stop pretending this theatre is going to change a damn thing.â The last few words felt as if they had been spat out. Perhaps they actually had been.
The intention wasn't to hurt, but he felt he had gone too far. The silence that followed nearly bored a hole into his head. His heart squeezed at the sight of you â how with every passing, agonizingly brief moment, your eyes grew glassier. Your lower lip began to tremble.
You didn't cry, though. Without a word, you simply stood up and walked out of the room.
Leon felt sick. For a moment, his panic-stricken gaze met the therapistâs, who also remained silent. Uncertainty took hold â he didn't know how to take it back. Staying there was out of the question.
In one fluid, springy motion, he bolted to his feet, shot out of the office, and headed for the buildingâs exit.
The sharp, autumn air slapped him in the face like a physical blow the moment he pushed through the heavy revolving doors. It brought no refreshment; instead, Leon felt as though he had been forcibly dragged out of his vacuum of numbness. He looked around wildly at the nearly empty parking lot, his eyes instantly locking onto the silhouette by the car. Where there had been emotional stifling before, now, ironically, there was only a staggering, overwhelming terror.
You were standing there alone, back to him, hunched over with hands clutched desperately to your own shoulders. Your entire body was shaking from the sobs you could no longer suppress. In that moment, it hit him that you had walked out exactly as you had been sitting â in nothing but a thin sweater, while the temperature outside was barely above freezing.
Leon moved toward you, breaking into a run. Closing the distance, he instinctively reached out.
âHey...â he started softly, catching you gently by the elbow, trying to turn you toward him. âListen...â
At his touch, you flinched violently, as if in physical pain. You didnât pull your arm away, but your entire body went rigid, slowly shifting just out of his reach. To Leon, it felt worse than a blow to the face. For a moment, he simply froze, hand hovering in the air before dropping helplessly to his side.
You turned toward him then, though your eyes refused to meet his. Your gaze drifted somewhere past his shoulder, fixed on a single dead point. With your face wet with tears and mascara running in dark, watery streaks, he desperately wanted to brush them away, but the fear of your reaction held him back.
âTake me home,â you said, your voice hollow and drained of all emotion, despite the way you were shaking like a leaf.
Leon had been wrong to think his panic couldn't escalate any further. His palms began to sweat. Anger would have been manageable, but the resignation in your tone terrified him more than any argument youâd ever had. It was only then that the weight of his failure in that office truly hit him â how thoroughly his cynical armor had wounded the only person left standing by his side.
âYour jacket...â he started tentatively, at a complete loss for words. He gestured toward the building with a slight nod. âItâs still on the rack. I...â
âJust take me home,â you interrupted, your voice firmer now. Faint plumes of mist escaped your lips as you struggled to catch your breath in uneven, ragged gasps.
He fell silent. There was no point in offering twisted logic or excuses now. Instead, he unzipped his own jacket, slipped it off, and carefully draped it over your trembling shoulders. For a heartbeat, he waited, half-expecting you to shrug it off, but you only pulled it tighter around yourself, still avoiding his eyes.
Stepping back, Leon opened the passenger door and stood in his t-shirt, lashed by the autumn wind, waiting for you to climb inside. He felt no cold. The only thing he experienced was a mounting dread in his gut at the thought of the drive ahead.
***
The interior of the car seemed to shrink with every mile. The moment you left the parking lot, the sky finally broke; heavy autumn rain began to drum against the roof with a fury, leaving the rhythmic, almost aggressive screech of the wipers as the only metronome for your silence.
Leon sat unnaturally upright, both hands gripping the steering wheel so hard the skin over his knuckles turned deathly pale. He wasn't trying to hold it together â his body was simply making its own decisions. Shoulders that were usually steady and strong now shuddered uncontrollably, and it had nothing to do with the lack of a coat. This was pure, primal stress, a sensation he hadnât felt in years; a drowning, paralyzing fear at the realization that he had personally torched the only bridge leading him back home.
Every few minutes, he would take a deep breath, opening his mouth to at least apologize, but a simple "sorry" felt pathetic. Each time, he choked on the silence, letting out only a jagged, wheezing exhale.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see you pressed against the passenger door, trying to maintain as much distance as possible. Your crying wasn't loud â just a faint, exhausted sobbing nearly drowned out by the rain, shaking your small frame. You wiped your nose with the edge of your sweater, leaving red marks on your cheeks, your gaze glued to the side window where streaks of water mimicked the paths of your tears. The streetlights flashed across your face as Leon sped well past the limit, mercilessly exposing the heartbreak written across your features.
The atmosphere was stifling. To his despair, the scent of your sweet perfume mingled with the carâs pine air freshener and the smell of his own leather jacket wrapped around you. Every single thought of you felt like a physical blow. He felt like an intruder in his own life.
When Leon finally pulled into the driveway, he barely had the key turned in the ignition before you reached for the handle. The engine hadn't even fully died when you practically tumbled out of the car, heading for the front door with single-minded focus.
He sat in the darkness for a moment, staring at the dead gauges on the dashboard. The thudding of his heart felt louder than the rain battering the roof. He climbed out with difficulty, his movements stiff and mechanical.
Following you into the house felt like moving through a trance. He didn't hurry; the rain soaked his shirt more with every passing second, but it didn't matter. Leon felt like a stowaway in his own body, drifting toward a night he feared would be one of the longest of his life.
***
Entering the apartment a few moments later felt like a Herculean effort. The first thing Leon saw were your shoes discarded carelessly by the cabinet and his jacket, which had slipped from the hook onto the floor. It was a mirror image of his own sloppiness from days ago. The sight hurt more than anything that had happened in the office â it was visual proof that he had started to break you.
The bathroom light was on. Hearing the rush of water, Leon didn't follow, instead kicking off shoes to head for the kitchen. His throat felt bone-dry, making it impossible to swallow. He grabbed a bottle from the fridge and downed nearly all of it at once; the icy liquid burned through the esophagus, yet brought no relief.
Unable to sit still, he paced from wall to wall, fingers tangling nervously through hair. Those words from the office still rang in his ears.
He only stopped when you emerged. Body frozen as you hurried past, avoiding any contact. The sharp click of the bedroom door was deafening. Instinctively, feet carried him toward it, only to stop dead in front of the shut wood. A desperate urge to beg for forgiveness was crushed by paralyzing fear; whatever he said now would only pour oil on the fire.
Eventually, Leon retreated to the bathroom. Closing the door, he leaned back, waiting for the world to stop spinning. With an aggressive, jerking motion, he pulled the shirt over his head and threw it into the corner. The cold tap went on, he began desperately splashing his face, rubbing eyes and cheeks until they were raw, but he felt no different.
Thatâs when it hit him. Or rather, when he heard it.
A high-pitched, piercing whine filled his ears, drowning out everything else, as if a grenade had detonated right next to him. His chest tightened like a vise, as if there wasn't enough room inside to contain his organs and his emotions. What the hell is this?
âCanât fuckinâ breathe...â he muttered, hands braced heavily against the sink, trying to rationalize the situation.
A wave of nausea, which had been haunting him since before they arrived home, surged. Dropping to his knees by the toilet, he barely managed to flip the lid. He retched, bringing up bile and the water he had just downed, body shaking uncontrollably.
It felt like an eternity. When the tremors finally subsided, Leon slumped onto the cold tiles. Lying on his back, he searched for any point on the ceiling to anchor his gaze, but his eyes darted wildly.
He pressed a hand to his chest, subconsciously trying to soothe the ache. The ceiling became grainy and surreal, like an image on a broken television. He felt unable to move, yet simultaneously felt as though he were floating somewhere outside his own body. His lips trembled along with the rest of him.
He turned his head heavily toward the bathtub, trying to focus on the objects lined up along its edge.
âShampoo, gel...â His gaze fell lower, to his discarded shirt. âShirt... fuck,â he rasped, before closing his eyes and shielding his face with his hands.
Leon didn't know how long he lay there, but eventually, he managed to crawl out of the bathroom, barely able to keep himself upright. Reaching the living room, he stripped down to his boxers and collapsed onto the sofa. He didn't look for a blanket despite being freezing, he didn't feel he deserved one. He curled into himself, face pressed against the back of the couch, one hand gripping the back of his neck as if letting go would cause him to fall apart.
Leon lost all track of time. He lay motionless, save for the occasional involuntary shudder. He couldn't tell if he was staring into the darkness or at the back of his eyelids, but a sudden surge of anxiety forced him up. He stood unsteadily and checked the bedroom, the clock read three-thirty.
He pushed the door open soundlessly and peeked inside. The bedside lamp was still on, casting enough light to see you curled into a ball, face swollen from crying. Your hair shielded most of your features.
The sight made him swallow hard, a sharp knot forming in his throat. You looked so goddamn lonely, as if you had already begun to mourn him. It felt like you were grieving a man who was still breathing just a few meters away. And he was the one who had brought things to this point.
Resigned, Leon returned to the couch. The chill on his skin was biting. He craved your touch, even though he had spent so much time avoiding it. Now, he needed it more than anything, but he had no right to ask.
Exhaustion finally dragged him into a shallow, fitful sleep, though even in his dreams, he could hear the screech of the wipers and the sound of your sobs.
***
The daylight piercing through the sheer kitchen curtains burned Leonâs eyes mercilessly. For hours, he had remained at the table, fingers curled around the cold ceramic of a mug refilled so many times the coffee only reached his lips once it had gone tepid. He felt like a total wreck, skin stretched unnaturally tight, eyes stinging, and hair a chaotic mess.
There was no movement from him when you finally emerged from the bedroom and appeared in the kitchen, though the sound of your footsteps echoed painfully in his skull. Perhaps you had slept longer than usual, or maybe you were simply waiting, unwilling to come out earlier. A single, quick glance was enough to reveal your swollen eyelids and the way your hands shook while reaching for the pan to start breakfast.
âMorning,â he rasped, the voice low and gravelly.
Your answer came quietly, eyes still avoiding his. As the smell of frying eggs and toast filled the air, Leon knew you were merely hiding behind routine; he would have bet everything that, like him, you weren't hungry at all.
The meal passed in complete silence, though "eating" was an overstatement. Watching you slowly chew a piece of toast, Leon felt the food turn to ash in his own mouth. After taking a final sip of coffee, he cleared his throat.
âI donât know why youâre still here,â he began, pain radiating through every word. âI look at you and I see you fading because of me. Every single day. And I hate it. I hate that instead of catching you, I just... I just add to the weight.â
Looking you in the eye was still impossible, that much hadn't changed. With his gaze fixed on the bitten toast, he loathed this weakness, feeling entirely naked and exposed. He knew you were watching him.
âIâm here because I love you, Leon,â you said softly, your voice trembling no less than his. âAnd Iâll be here until the very end. Though I donât want to think there has to be an end. I donât always know what to do, right now, I mostly don't, but I wonât walk away just because things are heavy.â
There were no defenses left against the sadness in your voice. Lacking the strength to dismiss it as he usually would, Leon wanted to argue, to insist you deserved better, but his tongue refused to cooperate.
âBut I... you shouldn't...â he started sharply, clenching a fist so tight the nails dug painfully into his palm.
He faltered, unable to draw a breath, desperate to find an argument to convince you he wasn't worth the effort. Then, he felt your hand on his. Small, delicate, and warm.
The contact made him go rigid, as if struck by an electric current. Finally, he looked at you â he had to. In the depths of your eyes, he saw his own lost, pathetic reflection, and it was too much. You were simply too good for him.
Sliding off the chair, Leon knelt beside you and rested his forehead against your knees. He had no idea what to do with himself.
âIâm so sorry...â the words were muffled by the fabric of your robe. His breathing became heavy and uncontrollable again as you began to stroke his hair.
âIâm sorry, too. Iâm sorry that I pushed you so hard in that office. I saw you freezing up, how exposed you felt, and I just kept pushing. I wanted so badly for it to work right away.â
Leon lifted his head, looking up from below. âYou didnât do anything wrong,â he managed to rasp. âItâs me. Iâm dug in. Iâm stupid and stubborn, and itâs killing me.â
âLeon...â you started gently. âDo you remember how it was after that mission? When you thought youâd never be able to sleep normally again? We walked through that once. It was hell, it was hard, but we made it. Together. And weâll make it now, too.â A flicker of hope seemed to spark in your eyes.
The urge to break down was nearly overwhelming; he knew if he started, he wouldn't stop until noon. Instead, he took your hands, moving them from his head to press them against his face. No kisses followed â he just held them to his lips, needing to feel your warmth and scent. It had been so long since heâd allowed himself this proximity.
âIâm scared,â he admitted quietly, the admission muffled by your fingers. âOf whatâs going to pour out of me. That itâll get even worse.â
No verbal answer came. Instead, Leon felt a gentle nudge and for a terrifying second, he feared heâd done something wrong. But instead, you guided him to sit back on his heels to make room, then slid from your chair onto his lap, wrapping your arms around him and tucking his head against your chest. For a moment, he finally felt like he was home.
âAre we going back? To the therapist?â he asked against your collarbone.
âWe are. Weâll find a way so you donât feel like youâre being interrogated. I promise.â
A deep exhale escaped him. Though the noose wasn't physical, the pressure around his neck finally loosened.
âYeah... itâll be a challenge, but... I donât give up that easy,â he murmured, a sudden surge of motivation stirring within him. âBesides... we have to go back for your jacket.â
A small, soft laugh escaped you. It only lasted a second, but causing that reaction made him feel an intense need to do everything in his power to return to therapy and not screw up the next visit.
âI do prefer wearing yours... but youâre right, we have to get it,â you replied, relief coloring your voice.
âIâd like...â Leon started uncertainly. âNext time, Iâd like you to sit closer. So we can pull those stupid chairs together. I donât want two meters of empty floor between us when Iâm talking about all this.â
âDeal, Leon. Deal.â
***
Later, while you were washing the dishes, Leon couldn't bring himself to let go. He stood pressed against your back, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, face hidden in the crook of your neck. He didn't try to distract you, he just wanted to feel the steady rhythm of your breathing and the smoothness of your skin. Occasionally you would shift when his stubble scratched you, but you didn't complain.
The fog in his head finally began to clear, the intrusive thoughts quieting down. A long, difficult road lay ahead, but with your body so close, Leon knew he had someone worth fighting for â and that he couldn't have found anyone more devoted than you.
I can imagine Leonâs kids teasing him for his old age
elbows resting on his knees, fingers pressed lightly against his forehead rubbing small circles as he lets out a slow breath with the amount of noise his kids are making.
you chuckle softly beside him, leaning in to press a small kiss to the side of his forehead, your eyes still on your daughter and son as they dart past the sofa again.
âoh look dadâs breaking down!â your son announces dramatically tripping slightly on his feet.
âI am not breaking down, you guys are so loud.â Leon mutters without looking up.
âoh no, dadâs getting old he canât stand loud noises anymoreâ your daughter snickers jabbing an elbow at her brother.
they laugh even louder before going back to chasing one another.
Leon finally lifts his head just slightly. âI can stand loud noises,â he says flatly. âI just prefer them not coming from every direction at once.â
âold man is complaining!â your son calls over his shoulder laughing.
âunbelievable.â he mumbles, exhaling and leaning back into the sofa.
you smile beside him, clearly entertained, as the kids suddenly slow their chase glancing at one another before an evil grin plasters across their faces.
both kids crash into him at once, arms wrapping around his shoulders and chest in a messy, laughing pile of limbs. Leon barely has time to catch them before heâs completely pinned back into the sofa.
âcuddle attack!â they shout in perfect unison, giggling as they tighten their grip on him, clutching onto him for dear life.
Leon lets out a strained breath, completely pinned, staring up at the ceiling as his kids climb and tug all over him.
âyou both are going to be the death of me I swear.â he huffs as his kids giggle louder kissing both of his cheeks at the same time.
a brief synopsis of a leon kennedy x reader idea I have had. be warned there are thoughts that can be interpreted as s*icidal and various mentions of death. reader is meant to be a form of death. loosely based on the song join me in death by HIM.
should there be a part two?
death paled to the surreal horrors that had become this reality. a cold, pachydermatous embrace laced with the languorous caress of a lifeless escape. that which would free this flawed world from the trivial matters that concerned a life full of decay and disease. the rancid plagues whom precedents the very idea of an perfect world, a humanity that has surpassed maximum potential. the irony of it all was that it had brought upon the end of normalcy, of basic humanity. rid the population of any sort of continuance they might possibly get back to without them even realizing. all behind closed doors, a grand production orchestrated by the government who had sworn to protect its citizens. the worst of the matter had yet to be decided; but this seemed to be only the beginning of the end.
there had once been a time, what seems so long ago now, he had not felt so hopeless. a time where humanity might have been given a chance to rise above this fetidness. those ideas seemed like nothing more than the childlike fantasies of a little girl, for this soulless life had reached what he could only understand as a impasse. embedded in the ceaseless wars of unlimited power and control, time had simply stopped. and with it, the overwhelming and impossibly lingering sense of hopelessness. there was no world left to save, it seemed.
and while throngs of young men and women smile and wave on street corners, where children studied diligently their textbooks; he only faded into background noise. isolated in his own radio static. there, was a vacancy wedged by the disillusioned society in which he found himself a part of.
death then, had seemed so pleasant. a quiet salvation reserved only for those willing enough to give into its malignant temptation. a quiet plea from the perpetual consummation veiled behind the horrors disrobed to him over the last years. atrocities that left in its wake the phantom of disgust and ruin. he was too numb to feel anger or despair, all that remained felt empty, futile.
deathâs grace is unparalleled, a breathless elegance that captures his last fleeting recess. her eyes shrouded in languid lashes that draw themselves half closed in an impossibly lethargic manner. in those quiet eyes he finds a reflection of himself, for they held behind them the sullen emptiness captured in his own. a beacon of lost hope, the eyes behind a woman whose only purpose was to survive.
deathâs charm is dry and bittersweet, pretty words drawn out slowly by a phlegmatic voice that sung in his mind restlessly. to an outsider it is cold and absolute, but to him it is akin to a gentle enclose. breaking down the hardened walls he had been so used to resting behind. her touch leisure, laggardly drawing itself over his broad shoulders in gentle motion. lifting with it the weight of his burdens.
relief. resplendent, tranquil relief. a feeling so beautiful the terrors that held his mind captive were nothing but a dramatized memory. death was a cunning tribute that there had still been something left for him. a reason to persist, one he would forfeit his final breath for, if it meant companionship through the horrors that were this world. they could die together and start anew, amongst the ugliness and despair that encompassed them.
a brief synopsis of a leon kennedy x reader idea I have had. be warned there are thoughts that can be interpreted as s*icidal and various mentions of death. reader is meant to be a form of death. loosely based on the song join me in death by HIM.
should there be a part two?
death paled to the surreal horrors that had become this reality. a cold, pachydermatous embrace laced with the languorous caress of a lifeless escape. that which would free this flawed world from the trivial matters that concerned a life full of decay and disease. the rancid plagues whom precedents the very idea of an perfect world, a humanity that has surpassed maximum potential. the irony of it all was that it had brought upon the end of normalcy, of basic humanity. rid the population of any sort of continuance they might possibly get back to without them even realizing. all behind closed doors, a grand production orchestrated by the government who had sworn to protect its citizens. the worst of the matter had yet to be decided; but this seemed to be only the beginning of the end.
there had once been a time, what seems so long ago now, he had not felt so hopeless. a time where humanity might have been given a chance to rise above this fetidness. those ideas seemed like nothing more than the childlike fantasies of a little girl, for this soulless life had reached what he could only understand as a impasse. embedded in the ceaseless wars of unlimited power and control, time had simply stopped. and with it, the overwhelming and impossibly lingering sense of hopelessness. there was no world left to save, it seemed.
and while throngs of young men and women smile and wave on street corners, where children studied diligently their textbooks; he only faded into background noise. isolated in his own radio static. there, was a vacancy wedged by the disillusioned society in which he found himself a part of.
death then, had seemed so pleasant. a quiet salvation reserved only for those willing enough to give into its malignant temptation. a quiet plea from the perpetual consummation veiled behind the horrors disrobed to him over the last years. atrocities that left in its wake the phantom of disgust and ruin. he was too numb to feel anger or despair, all that remained felt empty, futile.
deathâs grace is unparalleled, a breathless elegance that captures his last fleeting recess. her eyes shrouded in languid lashes that draw themselves half closed in an impossibly lethargic manner. in those quiet eyes he finds a reflection of himself, for they held behind them the sullen emptiness captured in his own. a beacon of lost hope, the eyes behind a woman whose only purpose was to survive.
deathâs charm is dry and bittersweet, pretty words drawn out slowly by a phlegmatic voice that sung in his mind restlessly. to an outsider it is cold and absolute, but to him it is akin to a gentle enclose. breaking down the hardened walls he had been so used to resting behind. her touch leisure, laggardly drawing itself over his broad shoulders in gentle motion. lifting with it the weight of his burdens.
relief. resplendent, tranquil relief. a feeling so beautiful the terrors that held his mind captive were nothing but a dramatized memory. death was a cunning tribute that there had still been something left for him. a reason to persist, one he would forfeit his final breath for, if it meant companionship through the horrors that were this world. they could die together and start anew, amongst the ugliness and despair that encompassed them.
đ°đđ«đ§đąđ§đ : đŻđąđđ°đđ« đđąđŹđđ«đđđąđšđ§ đąđŹ đđđŻđąđŹđđ. circa Newt, Texas 1972. Third person limited/head hopping. Original character paired with Johnny Slaughter. Psychosis and underlying trauma. Main character holds traditional and misogynistic ideologies. Religious trauma. Repressed sexuality. Graphic depictions of violence, blood and gore. Death. Abuse. Cannibalism. Sexual themes. Unreliable narration. Mature content and themes.
âDang nab it boy, lookit the dog gone mess you stirred up! And you, you aughtta get your side of the family under control! I ainât seen a mess like this since them college kids showed up!â
âDonât patronize me Drayton, I think I know to raise my boy.â
âThen whyâs this always happeninâ on your side huh, and the hell we gonâ do now? Your boy ainât know how to stay outta trouble. Johnny you got any idea the position youâve put your brothers ân I in? Aughtta be ashamed of yaâ self.â
âNow now, donât you worry Johnny, weâll get this straightened out.â
âLike hell we will.â
âWhat Iâd like to know my dear, is what that Payne girl from down the way was doinâ there with you.â
The room fell silent.
Not even a peep.
Only the muffled sounds of chickens broke that quiet, and still the three stared to one another expecting an answer from the other. Drayton a way to solve this mess, Nancy an explanation from her boy, and Johnny, whoâd been sat right on the tattered sofa like he was just a boy.
âI know you lookinâ out for me, but I fail to see why that concerns you maâ.â
âOh just wait till your grandpa hears âbout this one.â
âNow hold on a second.â Nancy extends her arm to Drayton, whose one word away from letting the entire family in on it. Nancy herself bubbles with aggravation, masking her rage through this bothersome tender mother act. âOh Johnny,â she sighs, having the seat beside him with her hand placed tenderly against his knee. âDonât tell me youâve forgotten, family comes first baby. We canât keep no secrets âround here, gotta make sure we know everythinâ to get this squared away. Now tell me, whatâs this pretty lilâ thing doinâ out with you like that, hm?â
Perhaps the only time Johnnyâs charm didnât work was when it came to his folks, they never failed to see right past his guise. He knew better than to fool them.
âI was right when I told yâall âbout her beinâ like us, yaâ know? I got a, a real eye for these things. Lemme tell yaâ.â He peers to his mother at his left, and Drayton cooped up on the right side of the living room. âIâve known since that day they had us for supper yaâ know? The very second I saw her. Sheâs got a fine taste for huntinâ, does a real good job of it too. Why, she might even love it more than me. See, she just learninâ still.â
âIf this ainât hell in a hand basket I donât know what is boy! You are out of control, now you out givin out information to everybody ainât yaâ!â
âIf you did your job and ran this damn family like grandpa did, sheâd be one of us already!â Johnny huffs. âShe donât know âbout us, just me. Been takinâ her out for weeks and sheâs gotten good, we could use her.â
âIâll be damned if I let my boy get taken advantage of by some lilâ hooker!â
âIâm tellinâ you, she like us. Have her over for supper youâll find out.â
âYouâre out of your god damn mind!â
âYou can kill her if she ainât. But Iâll tell you right now that ainât gonâ happen.â
âIâve had enough of this Bonnie and Clyde act, whatâs got youâs so fixated on this damn girl?â
âSheâs mine damnit, ainât like nothinâ youâd ever seen before I promise you that.â
âJohnny you ainât know what youâs talkinâ âbout! Sheâs, why sheâs just some tramp! I mean come on.â Nancy can only scoff. âThis is real silly.â
âTch, just like them university girls youâs said was yerâs, the ones that damn near drove this family into the ground?â Drayton laughs at him.
Fury burns in him and turns him red, a frustrated grunt leaving his lips when he slams his fists against the coffee table and stands up all at once.
âI said sheâs different! This oneâs different!â He screams. âYouâre a damn fool if you ainât see it, this oneâs different â sheâs different!â He huffs, leaning in real close to Nancyâs face, still seated on the couch and laced with shock, fear, maybe. âAnd she sure as hell ainât no damn tramp.â
âEnough.â The room quiets and Nancy stands. âI ainât hostinâ no supper for some no good lilâ girl messinâ with my babyâs head.â
âFinally you say summinâ that does anythinâ âround here, now handle your damn boy.â
âYâall really think grandpa ainât gonna want to get sâmore hands âround here, huh? Like your time ainât runninâ out?â
âWhat in the damned hell did you just say?"
âYou heard me, cook.â He snaps. âAinât nobody messinâ with my damn head, specially not after what you did to me.â
Nancyâs expression fades from that of indifference to a look of betrayal and hurt.
âNow Johnny baby that ainât no way to talk to yerâ mother.â
âIâll talk to you any way I damn well please, just like you gonâ talk to me like Iâm some kid. Well I ainât no more, and I ainât gonna sit here ân let you talk me outta this. Sheâs cominâ to supper.â Nancyâs countenance softens, sours, like someone had pissed in her cheerios for the last time. Some amalgamation of hurt and anger.
"Iâm fixinâ to clean yer plow here soon. We do whatâs best for each other, not for your lust. Gonâ end up in the shitter if we ainât keep this place up tight.â
âYou best watch yer mouth âfore I ring yerâ neck for even lookinâ at my boy like that.â Nancy coos, a fake smile hiding her heartache. âJohnny my dear, I trust you. Letâs see what this here girl is like, maybe weâre wrong.â
âYou fool-â
âTomorrow eveninâ, have her over. Till then you ainât get out so much as a foot outside that door you hear me?â Nancy storms out quietly, warranting a stark glare from Drayton who then goes back to Johnny.
âNow we aught to lay low. Yer selfish act costinâ all of us the good meat, we got scraps till this blows over and thatâs that. âN you just wait, Nubbinsâll have your head when he finds out.â
â
âRebecca . . . .â Worry laces his call, domineering her attention from the dishes to exchange glances with him from across the room, as he shuts the radio off and rises from his seat.
âYes, daddy?â
âWhatâd yâall get up to last night?â
âHeaded down to the diner in Pfluegerville for some malts and caught a movie at the drive in. The usual, yaâ know? Why do yaâ ask?â
âCurious, youâs never tell me what you two get âround to.â Raymondâs voice shakes, congruent with the anxieties that riddle his body. He had no reason to believe the reports made had been them, no matter how closely the description aligned with their appearance had. Johnny was a fine man, he was sure of it, and did a good thing keeping his girl safe. âThat all, then?â
âThatâs all daddy,â Becca laughs, too loud for his own comfort and he sighs.
âYou think Iâm lyinâ?â She questions, astounded. âAsk Johnny then, heâll tell yaâ!â
Raymond has to take a step back, reigning in his thoughts and quelling the fears within him. It was foolish of him to believe such a thing, that his daughter and he comely partner had committed murder in an entirely separate way region miles away. He felt guilty, perhaps heâd not given the girl enough credit. It was all just some, peculiar coincidence.
âNo, no, Becca I ainât callinâ you that.â Raymond nods. âI believe you, I just like to check in. Itâs a fatherâs right to make sure his babyâs safe now.â
âYes well daddy, Iâm quite safe, peachy keen youâd say.â
âRight, well,â reluctantly he does refrain. âLetâs just make sure we stayinâ âround the house instead of headinâ out every night. You still under my roof, after all.â
It would come as no surprise that Johnny neglected their staunch orders, for he always had a mind and manner of doing things according to his own agenda. Caution never did suit him either; thereâd been a track record when it came to things like this. The Pfluegerville incident, what happened with Maria, those college kids that came looking for her, and now the case with the imbecilic drunkards from Cedar Canyon. The one thing that remained constant between them all was the way in which he deceitfully maneuvered his way clear of every single one; he hadnât been caught once.
Due to the bold nature of his work it was only expected theyâd come across these complications, none but Drayton had ever done what Johnny had. While theyâd wait for prey to come knocking on their door step, he went out hunting. A provider and a damn good one; and even they were not the same. His family would only ever understand it as that; a family affair. Theyâd hunt for survival and that was that, where, he took great pleasure in killing, hunting them down and watching the life drain from their eyes whilst he strangled them to death. It was no wonder the frustration bubbled and stuck out like a sore thumb, that with the loneliness that would be accompanied by it.
The mockingbirds sing a mawkish song to the storm clouds that sweep in from the north sky, their bolsterous heads an ominous omen in the distance. Fall had settled into the air, the summer heat fading to a soft warmth and then, cool. The winds would blow in, picking up the reddened leaves of autumn and dusting them over the hills to form a crimson sea. They brisk against the dirt and kick up dust, crisping faintly as they get caught in the brush where the tumbleweeds too would bung to the thorny exteriors of sickly bushes. He can hear the crinkling of those leaves from the inside of the truck, just feebly, when he pulls to the front of the Payne estate. Itâs there that the air becomes still and the sugary songs those birds once chirped become deafened by the heaviness that fogs the place. Thick and muggy, as though the area itself had been swallowed up by a musk that wreaked of depravity. With it the sunshine fades in the cloak of those thunderheads, thereâs a storm on its way.
The hollowed knock he lands on the front door falls on deaf ears, so there is a second, and a third. All harrowing sounds which go unanswered to further perpetuate the persecutory void the pensioned estate had adopted so peculiarly. The wait imparts annoyance from Johnny, whoâd never been considered a very patient man. Thus the inclinations to go poking his nose about the place with a somewhat disquieting phenomena burgeoned in the low of his stomach. He decidedly moves to wander towards the pasture out back particularly certain heâd find his objectives buried up to her chin in work. There the gloom outstretches the earthed hills, cattle grazing on grass in the midst of the shadows and nothing but hay bales and hills as far as the eye could see. There he finds Raymond, busied with a preparatory work reinforcing the fences in the fields. He mustâve seen him, for heâd gestured his head Johnnyâs way the way he typically had and kept on with his work. Heâd only traveled about half way before Raymond called out, rather bluntly.
âIf yerâ lookinâ for Rebecca, sheâs up in âer room.â Thereâs a stagger to his canter, one that leaves him stopped in his tracks. âBeen up there since breakfast. Think sheâs upset I told âer to stop goinâ out so much.â
âMind if I check in with âer? Donât mind cominâ to help out afterwards if itâs a problem.â
âBe my guest,â Raymond motions his hand towards the house. Only veering his vision up from his work when Johnny pivots and begins walking back that way. âSay uh, yaâ heard âbout those brothers goinâ missinâ, out in Cedar Canyon last night?â
He slows, then halts again, a tick tocking in his head as his brow raises. He peers just over his shoulder, able to make out a blurry image of Raymond watching him incredulously.
âPardon?â
âAh, nothinâ, just summinâ I heard on the radio.â
âMustâve missed it.â
âRight. Say uh, whereâs you ân Becca run off to last night?â
Thereâs a moment of shared silence, and itâs then that Johnny turns to face Raymond in what he could only understand as repudiation. He was suspicious.
âSame as always, sir. Just that drive in out in Pfluegerville. Iâm sure you understand, sheâs got a real passion for those movies. Tells me sheâs loved watchinâ âem with you at home.â
âAh, good.â Raymond smiles. âJust makinâ sure, sheâs still my girl after all.â
âYeah well, sheâs a real fine woman.â
âRight.â Raymond stands with a grunt, hunched over nearly. âYou go in and speak to âer then, and uh, here.â Raymond traverses laggardly, fishing a five out of his pocket and handing it to Johnny. âSay uh, you two go ân pick me up sumâ more of them nails.â Raymond tosses the box into his hand. âThereâs a storm cominâ in, best to get these sturdy now âfore it gets here. Take the truck, keys are on the stand by the door.â
âSure thing,â Johnny nods his head ploddingly, then heâs on his way back toward the house with a less than ebullient expression. One thatâd look sour milk if given the opportunity.
The house is quiet, so much so that the sound of the front door shutting behind him echoes about the chamber. Still silence, the eery and portentous kind.
âDarlinâ?â
The cacodemonic sound phases through the home and back to him, and itâs just when heâs about to head up the stairs of the foyer she appears, like a grim shadow in the corner of the graveyard, Ghoulish and Cimmerian. The viscid black sullied over her eyelids and cheeks like soot shadows her beauty. Those pretty features veiled by the severity of her mania.
âYes, dear?â A desolate gasp for air fuels her quiet call.
âWell lookitâ you,â Johnny muses. âYour father sendinâ us into town for some supplies, best we get a move on now.â It seems futile in that moment, the method of which she agonizingly scales down the steps to him; as though she were an apparition in its desolate descent to hell.
âTo town?â
âLook I know it ainât ideal, but sooner itâs over sooner we can lay low, letâs get on with it.â
âRight. I take it youâve heard it then, the radio? They got us huh?â She reaches him, slow and laggardly as she comes to rest her head at his chest. âJohnny boy, they saw. I, whatâre weâre to do?â
âTch, come on darlinâ, this ainât my first rodeo. You think I ainât end up in this kinda pickle before? Weâll be just fine.â The steady hand on her back nudges her forward. âLetâs just get this on over with so we can put it to bed.â
Silence was bliss, except for when it was filled with the incessant anxieties that plagued oneâs head. His affirmation hadnât been taken at face value, and the thoughts that troubled her prior had only begun to swell. Sitting in the passenger side of that old truck, with nothing but the empty grasslands to distract her. His ignorance was her hell, and she could only hope to find some solace in raising her concerns once more.
âYa know, daddy asked me âbout last night I, I think he suspects summinâ of us.â
âI know,â he sighs. âAsked me âbout it too.â
Rebecca turns to him, shifting in her seat quickly for his response had stirred a whole heap of worrisome thoughts to further pick at her insides like vultures.
âOh god he knows it, whatâd you tell âem? What if we told âem summinâ different I, Johnny, whatâll we do?â
âWould you settle the hell down? Youâre scatterinâ all over the damn place.â He warns. âI ainât told him any different than you, only added onto it, aight?â
âSurely you donât know that.â
âDarlinâ, let me worry âbout these damn things and just focus on lookinâ pretty. You got that?â She can hear the annoyance in his voice, the aggravation begin, and she takes that as a warning to cease for the time being despite her growing sense of dread.
She settles, still wary and bug eyed when she flips the radio on in an attempt to ease those thoughts. The thoughts that, despite her forlorn efforts tore down her every sense of stability and peace, she couldnât know for certain. And, until he could prove that to her she wouldnât find peace. Especially when every station had the report blaring, while she vehemently clicked through radio stations in search for an escape. It seemed no matter what sheâd done, the consequences of their recklessness had followed.
The hyper awareness of that damned mistake, toppled with the blaring radio station in the old hardware store downtown had made her to belief they were done for. Shaking there beside her boy, partly clinging to the bend in his arm while she look about like a lost puppy. There, where the eyes of the shop clerk stared into the back of her skull and the few patrons seemed to have their eyes peeled to her every which way.
âJohnny . . . everyone is starinâ.â
âShut the damn hell up would you?â Johnny quips back, causing her to recoil into him. Her eyes still looking sporadically between the three others in the building.
It had seemed like the entire world was against her, when the eyes of many wouldnât leave her in peace and the radio inside the station began blaring about the same old story, the one theyâd so carelessly created last night. That had been enough, enough to push her over the edge and spill the tears hiding behind those eyes. She hits Johnnyâs arm, shaking it and pulling and anything she can to get his attention and draw him out.
âJohnny they got us- we gotta go they know they all know.â
âGo sit in the damn truck and shut the hell up.â He shoves the keys into her, an act that has her stumbling back and clutching them to her chest. âGo on, go!â His loud voice only draws more attention to her, more eyes, and when her own gaze makes eye contact with the others in the room she scurries out like a scared little mouse. Clumsily and pathetic, throwing herself into the truck and bringing her knees up to her chest. It was all over, theyâd been had.
âWhat in the damn hell is wrong with you? Makinâ a scene like that?â It wasnât until Johnny had climbed in yelling that she realized heâd done it just fine, nails in hand. âI told you and I told you, there ainât no god damn thing to bitch about. Quit your whininâ and get on with it.â Perhaps he should smack her he thinks, to quell her irrationality.
Aggravation bares an ugly head in him, feasting at his frustrations. Sheâd not comprehend the grievance of their situation, at least not how he did. Sheâd make it out to be some big thing, but for Johnny it was a nuisance, and the longer they sat there twaddling with their thumbs the more indignant he became. The frustration turns to virulence, then his face goes red with lividity. His patience wearing thin there is little attempt to withhold his harsh words, sheâd know soon enough.
Even as he drives the truck off the main road and back down the way they came she shakes in her place, eyes red and wide, and limbs weak and heavy. Itâs as though the world around her spins; she feels nauseated, sick, in a blind panic. Itâs then that she begins to cry, silent and painful tears. And Johnny he says nothing, despite her silent calls for help and his callous attitude, speeding the truck down the highway and scrunching his face up in a less than gracious manner.
âThey gonâ catch us, ainât they?â
âIâve had enough of this god damn act you hear me?â His scream pieces the metallic interior, causing her cries to become vocal. âI ainât gonâ tell you âgain, weâd be just fine if you shut the hell up already.â
âI canât! Not when they out there lookinâ for us and everybody knows just exactly what weâs look like Johnny, damnit!â
The truck jolts forward when he shifts it into park, and he only stares forward, not making eye contact.
âGo inside and figure out whatever the hell it is you need to shut up while I go on ân get these to yerâ pops.â
âJohnny?â
âI said now damnit!â His yell is the last warning that sends her inside without another peep, before he goes off looking for Raymond. Whose leant up against one of the rotted fences out back sipping on some ice cold sweet tea.
âYou find âer?â
âYeah, sheâs all right.â
âGot them nails?â
âRight here sir,â Johnny plants them in his palm. âListen uh, got summinâ I need to ask you âbout?â
âGo âhead boy. If youâs askinâ to take âer out again tonight my answers no. Needs to stay in âfore that storm gets here.â
âNah, my folks uh, theyâd like to have âer over for dinner tomorrow night. That all right?â
Thereâs a long pause, hesitance.
âDinner huh?â
âYouâll have to excuse my mother. See sheâs real skeptical âbout Becca, just wants to get to know âer is all.â
âNormally Iâd say yes, but,â
âPlease, sir,â Johnny sort of chuckles. âItâs real important to me, I promise Iâll have âer home early if thatâs what it takes.â
âMm.â Raymond hums, thinking. âShe ainât been home much lately, yaâ know?â
âItâll be a few hours, at most, not more than yerâ out here in them fields. Iâll pay you back what I can in labor. Though Iâd do that anyways.â
âAll right Johnny,â Raymond sighs, clearing his throat of the sugar from that tea. âBest hope you ainât disappoint me.â
âYou got my word, sir.â
The house is quiet when Johnny recenters, impatiently searching for a troublesome Rebecca who emerges down the stairs with a distressing visage. Viscid black sullied over her eyelids and smeared rouge over her cheeks and nose, she hyperventilates like sheâs hard of breath, gasping for air like sheâd been strangled.
âMay as well run if they gonâ get us, we gotta run!â She screams, clutching onto her messed head of hair. âRun like hell! Now now! We have to go!â She pleads with him, met with a stoic impression by him.
âNow donât go talkinâ like that on me. You sound pathetic. You give up that easy?â He quips back instantaneously, coming up those steps to meet her midway up the bannister. Itâs there her blackened, tear-stained cheeks seem muddy and bedaubed. An angry red peaks out through the smeared makeup, as though sheâd been galling at it for some time. âQuit your cryinâ. Ainât no use whininâ now. We got bigger problems.â
She begins to cry, quietly, her gaze avoidant and peeled to the ground her feet stood over. Those weeps become more and more hysterical, as she clings to the skin of her cheeks for some sort of relief. âI canât- Johnny, whatâre we gonâ do? It canât end like this, no, it canât!â
The feeling is anomalous, uncustomary; and yet she feels as though it is normal to experience such a strange sensation. Nobody knew just how deprived one became when their way of life was threatened, and the solitude of their lives became compromised. It felt as though the world itself had ended there, as though Christ himself had come to judge them all and yet he did no saving. For the feeling was real and uncouth, viciously tearing apart all that she had come to love. In its wake a coarse, hollow body in mourning. How pitiful, she might believe those words. Maybe she was pathetic.
âThe hell did I just say?â Thereâs a sharp incantation in his pitch, one that thwarts her head from her mind and draws her to him. His eyes watch over her like heâs studying, an attempt to pull together the pieces and gather his messy thoughts. Then his roughed hands reach to her face, clasping either side of her cheek and staring a hole into her. Straight through those frightened irises and into the darkness that had taken her and plagued her with such terrors. âYou aught to learn how to get these thoughts of yerâs under control, shit, just shut up a second. That report ainât nothinâ, stationâs pumpinâ those out all the time cause ainât shit else goinâ on âround here. Donât mean nothinâ, we just lay low for a while and everythinâll blow over like it never happened.â Heâs watching her with a fervent intent, one evident in the way his eyes peruse her for signs of doubt. His thumbs glazing over dampened cheeks in a feeble attempt to rid the black smeared about her face. His stern voice quiets to a hushed, more subtle tone. One that matches the touch of his fingertips against her velvety skin. âActinâ like this ainât my first time, tch. Come on now darlinâ.â
Her lashes flutter open and her sight fixates on him, then, languidly her arms stretch from her face to his. A trembling palm, clammy skin pressed against the sharp line of his jaw. Her hold is a weak and pitiable one, and her whines of desperation shameful. Then she quiets, a polarized decorum haunted by the uncertainty of their fate. Blue eyes wide and wet with fear and lip quivering.
âI donât too much like repeatinâ myself but perhaps you ainât hear me.â Johnny is angry, his voice deplorable and cruel. The forceful handful of hair he takes between his fingers and tugs toward his lips sends a sharp sting to her scalp. Met with an ireful groan when she winces into his hold. âQuit yer cryinâ and show me your damn capable, not just sumâ painted up bitch. I said weâd get it straight and âless you donât trust me, and, ha, youâd better trust me, this lilâ pity act of yerâs better get cleaned up real quick.â Each word as cruel as the last it bites, teeth sinking in to create an even deeper wound. She yelps, and in the slew of their shared words she wastes no time in throwing him off of her. Her apoplectic guise becomes her, boiling blood pinks the tips of her ears and makes her hot. Her eyebrows arching down to a furious grimace. It seems she would always forget how angry he made her, how downright loathsome he would become. How his impatience and temper ignites her own and turns her into something she despises. The incensed and shameful, the downright disgusting. Johnnyâs back collides with the wall, a thundering sound in its wake. The frames and decor hung so neatly shake and tremor. The collision sending a photograph crashing down to the steps, the noise of shattered glass ringing in the entryway.
âWould you shut the damn hell up!â Rebecca screams, a feverish appearance overtakes her once solemn features. Her limbs still shake, only now with the adrenalized presence of her fury rather than mourning. âDonât ever speak to me like that, I told you and I told you.â Her hands clench to fists, waning at her sides for the words to leave his stupid mouth.
They were eyes he hadnât been on the receiving end of in some time, ones enraged with rabid madness and incurable choler. Scrunched up the way they did when she was riding the fine line between composure and a blown temper. It arouses him, gets him so excited he smirks some deviant way. Only this time the looming presence of their little fiasco far outweighed his willingness to play along with her charade.
âStupid bitch.â He grabs her arm, sending her scrambling to fetch up one of the broken glass shards as he drags her up the stairs despite her protests. The wood edges bang up her knees and shins, grunts of pain and groans leaving those bitten lips. As they reach the top of the bannister she sends the glass blade sinking into the skin of his arm, prompting his grunt and release. She wastes no time in stumbling away from him, leaving him to pull the thing out and clench his arm whilst the blood drips down it.
There she stands, legs widened and hunched over at the end of the hallway where her figure is outlined by the white light that shines in through the window. She breathes erratically, huffing out through an open mouth and seething in her indifference.
âI donât like too much repeatinâ myself either. For a man who prides himself on respect he donât do too much to earn it from me. I told you and I told you, quit speakinâ to me like Iâm yerâ dog or Iâll cut yerâ tongue out yer throat and youâs ainât gonna talk at all!â
âGod damnit, you done pissed me off now, we got bigger things to worry âbout you know that?â He saunters over, not before sheâs grabbing the lamp off the stand in the hall and using it to throw at him. âYou real keen on me teachinâ you a thing or two, so hereâs summinâ to take note of.â
Just as she turns to flee he grabs her wrist, yanking her backwards and into his arms when she trips over her own feet. There he holds her body to his, a hand pulling back that hair with a firm grip. She cries out in pain, her fingers clinging to his wrist as she winces. Thrashing her body about to loosen his hold does little to relieve her position. Especially as he wanes into the crook of her neck and laughs.
âDonât start summinâ you canât finish, darlinâ.â His whisper is sickening, that and the hot air he breaths to her neck. The scratchy fondle of his chapped lips scraping at her, with his teeth that nip and his torrid tongue. Her vain efforts dwindle, fists pushing and clawing at anything she can reach. In a desperate attempt to create a gap between them and sever him from her. Regaining her footing she kicks her leg forward, followed with a swift knee to his crotch.
He lets go, leaving her to crash against the wood floors flat on her back. Both she and him wince and groan, writhing around in pain like fools. She has not one spare moment to recover herself, before heâs on top of her and sheâs screaming at the top of her lungs. It isnât then, no, itâs when he uses his strength to pin both her wrists down beneath him that it floods in. All the times heâd so senselessly fucked them, had he thought her no better?
They flash about her vision like a picture show, and as her exasperation nears its peak sheâs hopeless for any sort of salvation. Still kicking and screaming, thwarting around her body like some squeamish little thing.
Rancor consumes her when he presses a messy kiss to her lips and he frees his arm just to grope at her. Itâs a long enough opening for her to reach for the shard of glass, fumbling with it for a moment before grasping it tightly. The ragged edges dig into the skin of her palm, procuring blood from it, the sharp sting the edge she needs to do such a thing. Her fist comes crashing downward with a purpose of vengeance, the sharp tip stabbing into his back again, and again, and again. Until he buckles over her and gives her leeway to wiggle out of his hold. Sheâs freed herself, shuffling to her feet just to kick into him. His scornful grunts and expressions leave him in a state of shock, weakness, for Becca kicks him to his back in time to straddle him. Her jeaned thighs on either side of his torso, she holds the makeshift blade to his mouth shakily.
Her body rattles with emotion, her eyes the keeper of her heart â and the bitter feeling of betrayal that leaves her heartbroken. Tears prick at them, forming a river that graciously falls down her stained cheeks.
âGimme one good reason,â she huffs. âOne damn good reason not to sever that damn tongue so you ainât ever speak to me âgain. Or better yet, letâs slice off them damn fingers or cut you up and bash yer skull in god damnit Johnny boy.â She holds her stature over him, watching him puff out hot air and catch his breath. When he only laughs she screams something incoherent, pressing the knife into the corner of his lip to draw blood. âIâll do it god damnit I swear!â
âYou wanna reason?â His question is met with a look of disdain, horrified by his blatant ignorance. âCause both you and I know a damn good reason girl.â
A nasty sob that leaves agonizing cries to elicit from her pink lips, as she drops the blade and hangs her head in defeat. Love, love was a pertinacious affair.
Rebecca gets to her feet, not so much as sparing him a glance when she turns her back to him and begins walking towards her room. Johnny soon gets up, examining carefully the newly acquired scars and wiping the fresh blood from himself.
âClean up this damn blood, âfore your daddy gets in here. I got the glass.â The back of his hand smears the blood over his mouth and cheek, and he has to spit to the ground to keep from swallowing it.
Johnny only sighs, looking to her with a cynical sort of expression, as though he were trying to figure her out. His brows raise, and for a second he looks mean. That is until he remembers being in the same place she was. Afraid, shaken up and alone. Before he just couldnât understand why she didnât get it, and it still fired him up for it was just as much as nuisance as it was annoying. But then something made sense, for heâd again seen the pieces of himself imbued in her and was reminded of why she was so unique.
There came a time where Johnny had been the outcast, poked fun of by his family and made to feel foolish and pestilent by his own mother. Heâd never forget that day, for the scar that gouged the left side of his face would never let him. He resented mother for that, for robbing him of that freedom, a chance at normalcy that wasnât so confining.
âAnd for heavenâs sake get yerâ self presentable! Iâm takinâ you out!â
Devoid of emotion, numb, as she sits petrified in the passengers seat trying to make out something of what had happened. It lets itself play over and over again, and she finds herself reliving the experience. Her body still shaking, hands still balled up into fists. Her eyes are wide, the residual tears still staining the reddened skin around her lashes. Hastily done makeup does little to mask it, only makes her seem like an old porcelain doll.
Theyâre both silent, the only sound filling the cabin that of the wheels against asphalt coming in from outside. She thinks heâs heartless, not checking in on her after such a ruckus and leaving her to grasp into scraps. Her palms hurt, gashed open by the glass; the dried blood of both of them still coaxed into her nail beds. She picks at them, finally some movement in an otherwise motionless car ride.
âYou really hurt me, yaâ know? Makes me think twice âbout everything youâve said.â Her doddering voice breaks the silence, her eyes unmoving from her own hands. âI was scared of what might happen, us beinâ caught. I ainât ever done this kinda thing, you gotta understand.â She is met with uncomfortable quiet, his stare unyielding from the road.
âYou pissed me off, should know better to watch yer mouth and listen as I say. I told you weâd be fine. Now what we gotta handle is the fact that yerâ daddy is awful suspicious of what we been up to, and my folks ainât to keen either. Weâre in a real shit show there, I told yaâ we aughtta lay low for a while ân stay in and yerâ pops had us out runninâ his errands. Top of that, family wants youâs over for supper tomorrow night. You need to learn to get those thoughts under control and listen, cause while youâre havinâ yer way Iâm tellinâ you how it is. I ainât hurt you, was yer own damn fault.â
Searing tears prick at her eyes, her face souring. She sniffles, gasping for air and throwing her face in her hands.
âIâm sorry! I ainât mean to make such a mess of things.â
He remembers being so distraught running off to the back fields while dusk set in, clutching at the wound on his face and wallowing in his own shame and pity. There was no one there to save or comfort him then, no one to explain or help him understand. Instead, pure and unbridled rage and despair at the hands of his insufferable mother. He remembers collapsing to his knees as the blood spilled from his face and into his hands, staining his jeans and the white t shirt that clung to his skin. The scene that played before him was just that, a mirrored image of himself. Whilst he too sobbed helplessly into his hands.
That had been the last time he cried, displayed such a weakness that could be exploited by those around him. He never wanted to give her that power, so he buried it and acted as though it didnât bother him. The birth of his disdainful love and hate.
Itâs funny then, as just thinking about it made him feel those same feelings, made him feel the tightness in his skin, the burn of his wound, the searing brand her hand left upon his face. He could feel it then, the indentation of his past and the ugly it left over his once unscathed facade.
Within those passing moments his gaze softens as it watches over her, and maybe then he feels a pang of empathy and guilt, one which he pushes so far down heâs nearly choking on it. Fixing his eyes back on the road as they narrow in thought, the sound of her cries fading in the static of his brain. Whilst he preferred to leave her to her own devices, he found it uncomfortable to sit idyl whilst she battled those feelings of illegitimacy and fear, loneliness.
Begrudgingly he sighs, a hand carefully reaching for one of those hands in place of her face.
âItâs alright,â he doesnât stagger from watching the road, and after removing the hands from her face does his find itâs place back on the wheel. âIâll fix it.â
For a moment thereâs silence, whilst she dries the tears from her cheeks and tries her best to remedy sullied makeup. Trembling with a strange cultivation of feeling, but if the calm in his voice is any indication of solace, those worries are quelled. Sheâs partly shocked, that heâd calmed so quickly, as though he saw her agony. Only the right turn he makes off the highway pulls her away from her thoughts. There he pulls off to the side of a shabby old gas station boarded up and rotten, a typical mom and pop convenient store advertising Texas barbecue and Coca Cola on its edifice. Thereâs a large plot of land out back, fenced in by barbed wire and rotten wood planks. Rebecca only looks to Johnny, a questioning look behind her glossy eyes.
âRelax, thought we could make a date out of this ân get some pop. âSides, this is the old manâs place.â He stares ahead, putting the truck in park and moving to hop out. Then he saunters off in his usual manner, coming up the passenger side to pop the door open and caress her chin with a calloused hand. âCâmon darlinâ, letâs say I treat you.â
Johnny would never admit it, that he felt some type of way about what had happened. That he too could relate to that same scared, secluded feeling. Instead heâd rather fancy her up with miscellaneous little things, make her feel like he wasnât so uncouth.
For a moment she watches him, his suave smile and calming voice. And she can all most forget the fact heâd so blatantly overpowered her and ignored her pleas. Perhaps that was a part of the reason he loved her so much, because she didnât just sit and take it. That idea simmers, the same type of estranged feeling she elicits when sheâs yearning for the men to beg and plead and cry, and even fight back. And all the things Johnnyâs said, about liking the chase. Only she was still around, a part of her could reconcile with that fact. So, she smiles, clasping his rugged hand as he helps her out of the truck like he always did, strolling in casually with her on his arm like some trophy. All which is met with Johnnyâs ecstatic grin and sense of relief, and an pleased âthatâs my girl.â
She wasnât half as surprised to find Drayton waltzing up to the front door to greet them there, Johnny with a fiery look Rebecca could only describe as heinous. Something wasnât quite right there, for when he looked to her it was as though his entire demeanor changed back to the lovable old cook.
âNice to see yaâs, howâs you and that old man of yaâs doinâ? Fixinâ to see this storm I reckon.â
âMighty fine seeinâ you too sir, we been doinâ just fine. Daddyâs out fixinâ them fences right now. How you been?â Thereâs that certified one of a kind smile, faker than the front Drayton and anybody else put up.
âAh, works work. You two come on in and get youâs sumâ lunch.â Draytonâs smile fades when he looks to Johnny, instead a grave look overtaking his features and a hasty tone in his voice. âYour cousinâs in there, back home âtill thanksgivinâ, oh and uh, I âready filled âem in on yerâ lilâ problem.â
A nasty scowl on his face Johnny groans and pushes past Drayton, swinging the front door open and stomping in there without another word. There the scent of smoke and meats radiate about, a deliciously sweet scent that has her stomach growling. Still attached to Johnnyâs arm, she follows him about whilst looking the small room up and down. Not much but the smoker and some old shelving and benches, and the red headed mullet sitting up against the smoke room door. He doesnât say much, just grunts and makes a pointed gesture towards Johnny who seems delighted. The biggest grin over his face and an eager nod.
Heâs a large man, easily towering over both she and Johnny. His clothes are something out of a rolling stones magazine and his hair kinked and greasy. Thereâs a mean look to him, angry, and even the sounds he makes seem displeased. Rebecca can only smile, watching Johnny as she waits for his call.
âWell Iâll be, lookit you! How yaâ been?â Heâs like a child excitedly trying to make friends with the cool kid on the playground. Sheâd never seen him so elated, desperately trying to show off. âGot someone Iâd like yaâ to meet.â That sentence snaps her away from her thoughts and calls her attention to them as opposed to his words. He pulls her forward, to which she obliges and smiles graciously.
âThis is my girl, Rebecca. Sheâs uh, been a real jewel âround here.â Her introduction is met with a crude look from the man, who leans forward as if to examine her and nods his head in acknowledgement. All before leaning back up against the creaky boarded wall. His arms plant on his knees and he looks to Johnny, not a word, just a slight hum.
âRebecca, this hereâs my cousin Hands, heâs one of âem truck drivers, been out on the road for weeks. Real funny once you get to know âem.â He pulls her forward, showing her off like a toy and snaking an arm around her waist. It would be a shame if she didnât relish in it, just like she had been, an overwhelming sense of accomplishment blossoming in her.
âPleased to meet you sir, any friend of Johnnyâs a friend of mine.â Sweet southern tongue pretties her words like icing on a cake, and despite Handsâ lack of words and acknowledgment she offers her hand as a sign of respect.
Hands looks at her hand, long slender fingers with painted white tips. It takes some time, but he finally moves. Reaching into his pocket to fish out some old trinket and placing it into her palm. The silence is loud, but she kindly looks to her palm to find an old coin that had been pressed through one of those old penny presses. The design untidy and choppy, on it is a scrounged up image of a man who faintly resembles Johnny, one which she was half sure heâd done himself.
âWell Iâll be,â Johnny cuts in, taking a look at the smashed penny in her hand. âAinât that somethinâ,â Johnny nudges her with his elbow. âMeans he likes yaâ darlinâ!â
âAinât it?â Becca grins. âReal nice of yaâ, mister Hands. Johnnys a fine young man, I bet youâs aughtta be real proud of âem.â Johnny steps away, removing himself from her to head towards the ice box and grab a few bottles of pop. To which her gaze lingers, not before snapping back to Hands with a smile. âYaâ know I bet you and my Johnny got lots of memories together, canât imagine what he was like when he was just a boy. Guess you could say Iâm real fond of âem yaâ know?â Her attempts at small talk are left on deaf ears, for Hands only grunts and groans or hums in responses leaving her to awkwardly smile and nod. That is until Drayton steps back in and looks to her with a knowing expression.
âSay uh, Johnny tells me youâll be joininâ us for supper tomorrow, grandpaâll be real excited to meet you ainât that right boy?â
They each exchange a look of disdain, Drayton towards Johnny and the other way around. Glaring holes into each others head whilst Johnny takes three of the cold Coke bottles and tossed them onto the counter.
âOh yeah, heâll be real fond of yaâ darlinâ.â
âBoy ainât ever brought a lady home for supper before, must be gettinâ real close ehâ?â
Left out but not oblivious, sheâd be a fool to think something wasnât afoot between the two. That with their less than enthusiastic attitudes toward one another and the sly words which injected Draytonâs words. Instead of feigning innocence she politely plays along to their game, making it clear she was no stranger to this coy act of his and more than anything proving herself.
âOh yes, matter of fact I was just tellinâ Hands Iâm real fond of âem, and donât you worry daddy thinks heâs real nice too.â Rebecca turns round with a grin and moves to Johnny, grasping his bicep knowingly. âAinât that right dear? Now, shall I bring a pie? Iâd love to help anyway I can. Real kind of you folks havinâ me over and all.â She looks up to Johnny, already staring back at her with a wild grin. Her attention diverts quickly to Drayton with a snap of her head, Johnny watching her with a proud look.
Drayton is unusually disoriented, fixing his own head on pulling the barbecue from the smoke room. The ebullient chuckle that falls from Johnnys lips only rubs salt in the wound, and while Drayton responds to Beccaâs offer with a slight nod and a hum, distracting himself with the cutting of meat bits whilst he glares through Johnny.
The sound of the blade against the wood of the cutting board and the soft cracks of open bottles of pop sound the air, as Johnny passes a bottle to first Rebecca, then Hands and finally one for himself. If his distaste for Drayton wasnât clear then, it was abundantly apparent in those moments. Much of their lunch was spent that way, with Draytonâs passive aggressive comments towards Johnny and their mischievous banter. Rebecca found herself at the center of the old manâs soured mood, and her innocent enough but coy smart ass comments only made matters worse. It sure did keep the shit eating grin on Johnnyâs face nice and wide, though.
âWell, Iâd be lyinâ if I said you ainât have a fine talent for cookinâ sir, Iâd love to get the recipe sometime.â Rebecca stands, taking the plates from the three men and moving to wash them in the dingy sink off to the side. âThank you very much for the treat, Iâll have to pay back the favor.â
âOh no need, nice surprise havinâ you stop on in, slow business today. You tell that father of yours hello and tell âem not to be no stranger. Weâll see yaâs tomorrow, stay safe in that there storm.â
âOh yes,â she smiles, putting the dishes up to dry and wiping the wet hands against her jeaned thighs. âOf course, have a good afternoon would yâall?â Sheâs met with Johnny at the door, who escorts her out before getting a smack to the back of the head. Half enraged he turns around, clutching the back of his skull as he stares to the old cook.
âYour motherâs gonâ have a cow âbout this one you nitwit.â
âWatch your mouth old man, Iâll make you eat those words.â Without another word does he shove the door shut, marching out to where Rebecca leans up against the truck with a pleased expression.
âRebecca Payne, youâd like a honeysuckle full of poison, you know that?â His jubilant smile brings one to her own face and she laughs, shaking her head as he greets her with his hands at either side of her waist. He leans into her, a freed hand coming to swipe at her ear. âSweet and deadly, just how I like it.â
âWell Iâm happy to please,â she teases, a hand glued to his chest and the other pressing at his chin when she forced him to look at her.
âI bet you are.â Johnnyâs tall frame hangs over her, closing her into the cage heâd formed around her. Itâs hard to say no to him, to object, when his hand is at her hip and lips against her mouth. One of the many things she felt naive in, and helpless, when his mouth would traverse over the tender skin of her neck and his touchy hands would snake under the warm skin of her blouse. Itâs nearly there, at her breast when she grasps at his wrist. Her head tilted up as he prods at the pristine and untouched skin over her collar bone. Soft and warm, velvety, not like the cold and dead ones he was so used to.
She wishes, partly, that heâd have her right there. Yet, guilt festers in her like maggots to decaying flesh, stopping such lustful desires in their tracks and picking at her gut. Itâs just hard to say no, when his body is pressed up against hers and he leaves bittersweet bites over the plains of her body. Rebeccaâs values were always strong though, as was her desire to remain pure, so when her grip on his lingering wrist tightens she instructs him to stop. Her free hand pushing at his jaw, holding it there, forcing him and his handsome mug to look at her.
âNo, no,â Rebecca coos out, a whisper, plagued by the pleasures he so lavishly laid onto her. âYou know me, guess you could call me old fashioned. I prefer those older values, traditionally, itâs more special that way.â
Heâs annoyed, as seen in the way his hands ball into fists and he huffs. He watches her, grasping her wrist and pulling her hand away from his face. Instead he presses it to his sickly sweet lips, watching her through it all.
âFine,â he hums. Sheâs right, thereâs something special about having the forbidden fruit, taking something that wasnât allowed. Maybe thatâs how she was different too, she wouldnât give it up so easily, and she was, she felt, different. Special. Impulsivity was written in her nature, as is clear when he grasps at her throat, not enough to harm her, just enough to pull her forward. Close enough for his lips to graze her ear, for his fingers to dig into her flesh. âLetâs say this; if you were mine, my wife, what would happen then?â
Rebecca can only laugh, finding his silly little hypotheticals unserious and teasing. She shakes her head, despite his fingertips pressing into the smooth matter of her neck. She flashes a toothy smile, and she feels his hold loosen when she hangs her head.
âDid I stutter?â His staunch tone causes that smile to fade, and heâs now holding her head up much like she had done to him. She canât tell, if heâs angry or simply serious. Either way, he had captured her attention. âI need to repeat myself? I told you I ainât like that.â
âJohnny, please.â She breaths out. âI donât take these things lightly.â Itâs a warning, anger pitching in her voice out of fright, fearful he mightâve been acting a fool.
âWhat makes you think I do, darlinâ?â He pulls back, his hands each falling to hold her waist. âWhatâs stoppinâ me from marryinâ you one day, you?â
âI ainât say yes.â
âBut you would, wouldnât yaâ?â Johnny smirks, thinking he has her feated.
âNot unless you gave me your word, that you truly cared for me,â she looks to him with all seriousness, steadfast, all most a glare. She leans into him, her hands resting over his chest the way she liked so much. Sheâd eye him up and down, battering her lashes and resting her head atop one of the hands sheâd laid over him. âAnd that Iâd be the only one you ever, ever kept alive.â
He holds her in silence, in thought, while he pieces together her conditions and considers what that meant, how it effected him, and everything else.
âRebecca Payne my word ainât taken lightly.â He groans, flustered. Itâs an oddity, how he cannot begin to think of another, someone whoâd beckon to his will and call or do anything to please him, any other worth keeping around, worth bringing into the hell that was this family, any one whoâd make being there just a little more tolerable. He found every part of it deplorable, the way sheâd so easily infected every inch of his mind, his life. How little she had to work for it, how much he felt tied to her. He hated the way it made him feel, the fact that he felt at all. Despised the bludgeoned feeling of not having the control over someone, the ability to play with them like they were his food. He couldnât fathom the idea of killing her, no matter how much he wouldâve liked to. If he wanted to rip her apart limb by limb he couldnât, couldnât strangle her and watch the life leave her pretty blue eyes, couldnât even tear into her with his favorite knife. The worst part of it all is he hadnât the slightest clue why, and no matter how deep he buried the emotions theyâd choke him out each time he saw her. It was why he felt so angry, so pent up, so different all at the same time. And he couldnât figure out why it was he felt so futile, whenever she came about with her homicidal desires and her prim and proper intentions. She was just too much, too much like him. He was staring back at his own reflection, and he was too much in love with himself to salvage it.
âIf I gave you my word?â
âThen Iâd say yes.â Rebecca smiles, planting a kiss to his lips which he can only return with great satisfaction. His own chapped ones moving against hers soft, with intensity and roughness her own tender touch lacked. He kisses her, and thereâs a time where the insatiable appetite for human flesh subsides, and he can forget about his family and the endless killing and blood and guts, he can forget about what his mother did to him, he could even forget how much it tormented him for all these years and the neverending pit of loneliness this life had condemned him to. It all fades away and there, just the passionate feeling of her skin against his can not just numb but take, take it all away. What was left was something lively and whole, a warm light that never goes out.
The second she pulls away heâs reminded of those things though, and his bloodlust floods in ten fold. Where he craves the hunt and the slaughter, and he can see it in her too. The desperate look in her eyes for something sickening and disturbing. He can only smile at her for it for he is the same, and then they go on their way.
As they made their way back to the farmhouse on the highway, they each found themselves in an overcrowded heap of their own baggaged thoughts. Johnny silent, trying to sort out those uncomfortable and isolated feelings and Rebecca, considering his uncharacteristic display of emotion and what it meant to become family.
âYouâs got alotta family, huh?â Rebecca wonders aloud, her eyes peeled to the clouds forming in the distant sky.
âSumminâ like that,â responds Johnny. âJust got alotta cousins, thatâs the way itâs always been.â
âIt must be real nice,â she muses. âHavinâ a big happy family like that, I always wanted to have one of my own. Momma just . . . it just ainât work out that way.â
âIt ainât always easy.â His calloused hand finds a home on the top of her thigh, warranting her attention. âMost of the damned time we ainât see eye to eye, fact I ainât too much like beinâ home for too long. We just got eachotherâs backs, is all.â
âYou mean you donât like havinâ all that family?â She shifts her body to face his. âWhatâs it like Johnny boy?â
âNah,â he sort of chortles. Then he pauses, thinking. âMy family, to them, thatâs the most important thing in this life. Family. We was raised with a certain respect for that, no matter our differences. Itâs grandpa who ties us together, keeps the family goinâ, youâll see, we gotta whole lotta respect for that man.â
âHe loves yâall, then?â
âYeah sure, summinâ like that.â Johnny shrugs. âItâs just the way things are, it always been that way. I ainât too much like the way my mother and the old man like to run things but I go âlong with it any matter. We got a pretty good thing goinâ, they say.â
âYou ever want a family of yerâ own, Johnny?â She ponders, watching him with doll-like eyes, a certain innocence to them. âI wanna be a momma one day, better one than mine ever was thatâs for sure. Settle down with a real man in a big pretty house, with children runninâ a muck, a big happy family. Like yours, I reckon.â
Johnny chuckles, watching her and the genuine smile that forms on her lips.
âI got family ties I ainât get rid of, thatâs where those loyalties lie. Always has, always will. Guess you could call me a family man.â Johnny shakes his head. âI gotta protect âem, provide for âem. If I ainât do it no one else will.â
In awe she smiles, looking over him with some newfound respect and admirable affection. His sense of dignity and loyalty to such morals would closely tie into her own, making the feelings in her stir. Perhaps sheâd felt like the world had brought them together for that very reason, like the lord above had made him just for her, that this was fate, they were meant to be. It was that that excited her, made her eager to pursue and cater to his every need, do all that he asked of her and then some.
âI think thatâs mighty fine of you, Johnny boy. Youâs a real man.â
Thunderheads still cloud the sky when Rebecca shows up on the doorstep to Black Nancyâs home, a quaint blue house with a beautiful front garden abundant with flowers. It was there that Johnny would greet her with a neutral look in his eye and a half-assed kiss, ushering her into the loud foyer where the echoes of his family could be heard bickering with one another.
âListen uh, thereâs summinâ i aughtta tell you âfore you come in here meetinâ grandpa and the rest. You seen the brothers before, âlot of âem ainât all there in the head. Canât give too much into what they say, and as for grandpa well, you just be that charminâ southern âgal I know you to be and itâll be just fine.â
âYou reckon I better introduce myself âgain? Ainât wanna impede as rude.â
âYou leave that to me.â
Itâs with a boisterous smile she follows him, to the right of the foyer where the kitchen and dining table sit. Drayton and Nancy are muttering obscenities to one another under their breath as they prep the meal on the stove, the burners making the interior of the home warm and stuffy. Then at the table the rest of his peculiar family sits together, giggling and whispering to one another as they eagerly anticipate Johnnyâs words. Nubbins sits on the far side next to what she can only assume is Bubba, now dressed in a navy blue pants suit adorned in a feminine mask that dons some messily accomplished makeup. And beside him a woman who she has never seen before, a frail girl with blue eyes and light hair tied back neatly. Her sharp features are striking and her little polka dotted dress rides up a little to high for Rebeccaâs liking. Though she seems faintly familiar, her gestures something reminiscent of something Rebecca had seen before.
Then at the near side sat Hands, who looked just the same as the day prior, fidgeting with some gadget on the set dinner table. His grunts were easily drowned out in the noise of the kitchen, that and the scratchy groans of the elderly man in the rocking chair at the tables head. She presumed the crotchety looking old man had to be Johnnyâs grandfather, or what was left of him, for he seemed partly diseased. His skin pale and puckery, void of any color or movement. Even his shrouded eyes looked partially lifeless, the only sign of life had been the faint rise and fall of his chest and the lewd sounds that fell from his open lips. Still she smiled, her housewife act overtaking her judgemental gaze with a pretty smile and persona.
âGrandpa I got someone here Iâve been waitinâ for you to meet.â Johnnyâs voice calls the attention of everyone in the room, commanding their eyes with delighted silence. Even Drayton and Nancy take the cue to turn back round and watch the ordeal, as Johnny saunters over to his grandfather with his trophy as his side. âThis is Rebecca Payne, her and Iâve gotten real close.â
âNow Johnny Sawyer I-â Nancyâs vicious tone is cut off by the gentle words of Rebecca, who frees her right hand from the pie sheâd brought to extend it out to the wrinkly.
âDelighted to meet you sir, you done a real fine job with this young man.â Her charismatic charade is interrupted by the outburst of laughter that it earns from Drayton and the three at the far side of the table, one which goes on for some time and causes the smile to falter from her face and her hand to retract slightly. She can only look around clueless, then to Johnny whose look is soured rotten. He takes the pie from her, walking over to slam it against the kitchen counter.
As the laughter dies down Nancy speaks up once more, a fake grin of her own directed towards Rebeccaâs presence.
âReal nice of you to join us girl, why ainât you take a seat. Supperâs all most ready.â
âThank you for havinâ me, miss,â Rebecca nods. âAnythinâ I can help yâall with? I donât mind one bit.â
âNo, no,â Nancy hums, now turned the opposite way. âYouâre our guest now, sit.â
âIf you insist. Thank you, miss.â Reluctantly Rebecca takes her seat, leaving the space between her and Hands for Johnny presumably, whose still cooling off from his familiesâ insult. One which sheâd still found herself cautious of, and somewhat perturbed. She can only brush it off for the time being, playing the game until there was chance to open conversation.
Her cautious stare carefully removed itself from her Johnny and Nancy to across the table, where she is met with the wolf stare of the woman seated across from her. Once more she smiles, gesturing her head that way.
âPleased to meet you, names Rebecca.â The girl beams with excitement, and despite her off putting stare smiles and nods her head.
âWell hello! Arenât you just a doll. Wonder how Johnny managed to lure you in, he ainât ever had any girl stick around long enough to eat dinner with us. You can call me Sissy.â
âWell,â Rebecca only laughs, the wheels turning in that brain of hers in an attempt to piece together the strange family dynamic between the ragtag group. Their words, their mannerisms, their behaviors, all of it seemed so surreal and artificial. âIâd ask myself the same, but he just real at takinâ care of me is all. Been real kind to me, believe it or not.â
âHmm,â Sissy hums in response. âSo where he been keepinâ you?â
The manners of which Sissy speaks in, as though Rebecca were a prisoner chained to Johnnyâs beckon and call, one of his little whores, a victim, itâs a striking concept, one Becca can only brush off as misunderstanding. He mustâve not said much to them, for he hadnât said much of his family to her either. Presumably for good reason, as theyâd all seemed like backwoods hicks.
Still sheâd respected them, or at least tolerated them. She cared not particularly what they were like, just that they take a liking to her. That she was impressive and obsolete, the finest young woman theyâd ever like for their Johnny to be with. If they were to be family, sheâd like to like them, too. So despite her charming smile and charisma, her intentions were not entirely shallow. She did care, about as much as Johnny cared about keeping up appearances with her own father.
âDang nab it girl quit talkinâ nonsense.â Drayton chimes in.
âYour real pretty you know,â Sissy looks away from Drayton and back to Rebecca, her change in topic sudden. âWith that long blonde hair.â
âY-yeah, looks like one of them girls in the pictures!â Now Nubbins pipes up, rising from his seat whilst Bubba hums and rocks too and fro.
âWhy like a movie star even, say, you sure you ainât in any of those lewd films girl?â Nancyâs comment is laced in bitterness and spite, even the insinuation sparking Beccaâs anger to pique in the pit of her stomach. Her face falls and her brows crook downward.
âPardon me?â Sheâs nearly in disbelief, why would such a coy little bitch insinuate such a ludacris idea. âIâm no harlot, if thatâs what youâs askinâ.â She spits back with just as much spite and venom. Disguised by the innocent canter in her voice. âMy daddy raised me right, Iâd rather be caught dead then loose my morals miss, with all due respect.â
Two women, sat on either side of the room with maleficent gazes fueled by predation, leeching off one anotherâs acrimonious and defamatory clauses. Acting catty was below Rebecca, and sheâd been sure to make a point of that. Itâs in those moments though that it becomes clear something isnât quite right, about this family of his, and his caustic mother. She makes a pointed stare to the woman, her eyes narrowing as she watched that bitch with purpose and strategy, trying to figure out just what it was was going on beneath these peopleâs facade.
âRight.â Nancy muses. âJohnny baby, why ainât you come have a seat at the table.â
Thereâs some lull to the conversation then, even as Johnny sits beside she and Hands at the table. A piercing silence overcomes the home, seldom for the thunder that punctures through the evening sky, and the lightning that follows in quick sporadic flashes out the window. The approaching storm had been the only thing to fill that void, that is until Rebeccaâs benevolent smile returns in a quick attempt to lighten the mood. She decidedly takes the high road, presenting niceties and focusing on her perfect persona in order to get in good with the others. The precious little housewife act was her saving grace, the sole thing she could fall back on in tests of true poise. And here was just that, handling the deplorable hosebeast of a woman Johnny dare called his mother.
âSay Nubbins, been leavinâ them traps alone for yaâ, catch anythinâ good lately?â
âOh yeah, real good. I-I got some pictures too uh, you wanna see?â
âBoy you ainât showinâ pictures of no road kill at the table, put them damned things away.â Drayton huffs, not before heâs serving bowls of chili to each member of the table.
âOh I donât mind, really.â Becca replied.
âYou ainât no fun, cook, tch. I uh, I got my camera here instead I, I take real good pictures. Johnnyâll tell yaâ, yeah, real good. You want one?â Nubbinsâ response is met with some grave countenance from his elder sibling, followed by a slew of mumbles. Something about beating him upside the head after supper was had.
âThatâs real kind of yaâ.â She smiles. âIâd love to see yer pictures sometime, Iâll have to come by more often. Iâm sure theyâs lovely. Johnny ainât tell me you was a photographer.â
âOh yeah,â Nubbins grins, his crooked teeth muddied with brown bits of grime and decay. He brings the camera that had been hung around his neck up to his face. âH-here, smile!â
A soft chuckle falls from her pretty lips, and she smiles gently in time for the flash of his camera to go off. The photo prints, and he excitedly wraps the it up in some crinkled piece of tin foil.
âSissy, is it? That dress of yours is real pretty, you make it yaâ self?â
âOh, why thank you sugâ! I did. Got a machine and everythinâ. Say, you got a sewinâ machine at home?â Sissy asks, resting her sharp chin against her palm. âI love makinâ clothes, be nice to have another girl âround here who likes makinâ frilly things.â
âMy momma taught me how to sew some time ago, still got her machine cooped up somewhere. Ainât made nothinâ in a long while. Iâm helpinâ daddy out in the fields when Iâm not homemakinâ, âspose I forgot what it was like to have a hobby.â
âThatâs a shame.â Sissy sighs, âYou can use mine, I think youâd find it real fun!â
âOh a real shame,â Nancy hums. âThe fields ainât no place for a young lady, ainât no wonder you got all them muscles. Why, someone might lookit you and think youâs a dyke.â
âIâm sorry?â Itâs caught her off guard, and her flagrant stare moves to pierce the smug eyes of the woman across the room. Her sly, cuntish smile.
âOh itâs just, a womanâs place is in the home. My Johnny needs a nice girl like me to take care of âem, be a homemaker, you understand.â
âNow maâ.â Johnny hushes.
The way her ugly voice and patronizing attitude digs into the skin irks Rebecca, and it takes every bit of self restraint to keep from lashing out at her like she had Johnny all that time ago. Itâs clear then where his brutish behaviors came from, and it was no easy beast to feat. Collecting herself, keeping her composure, she inhales a sharp breath. Her vexation building and face becoming hot with upset. Johnny mustâve seen it too, for he placed a hand against her thigh in an attempt to keep her grounded. Something her fiery temper proved to be increasingly difficult.
âWell a home needs to be built, and it sure as hell ainât built on sewinâ nâ cookinâ alone. Now if youâll excuse me, may I use your washroom?â Rebecca, as poised as ever, calmly responds and rises from her seat.
Her gaze meets that despicable womanâs satanic smile, and then she feels rage.
âGo on ahead love, down the hall last door to your right.â
Hurdled over the white porcelain sink both hands grip either side of it, heaving shaky breaths from her parted lips whilst she glared at the reflection of a mangled, fragile mess in the mirror.
âFucking bitch.â The growl leaves her mouth lowly, a sullen scowl formed over her once coming features. She has to bite her tongue to keep from letting it all go, battering that cuntâs head into the oak table over and over again until she was unrecognizable.
She doesnât know how long sheâs been in there, nor how long sheâd left the water on the faucet running. Time then seemed irrelevant, for everything was sped up and slowed down all at once. As if the world around her was moving in slow motion and she one hundred miles per minute.
Itâs when thereâs a knock at the door sheâs pulled back into reality. Feeling the flesh gripping cold glass and the sweat dripping down her hot face. Fuck. Itâs happened again, and it was all that abomination of a womenâs fault.
Quickly snapping her head towards the sound and turning the faucet off, the echoed sound of water down the drain fades and she calls out. âYes?â
âItâs me.â
The lock clicks and the handle turns, opening the door laggardly to Johnny. Heâs taken a lax position lent up against the door frame, eyes flicking up to meet hers as she watches from below through painted lashes.
Your motherâs a ungodly old crone and a reprehensible host.
Heâd mustâve seen the putrid amount of revulsion in her, for he smiled and laughed. Fixing the strands of hair that had gone astray and stuck to her face, he pulls her chin beneath his fingertips.
âWhy ainât you come on back and join us, keep that beautiful head of yaâs screwed on straight a lilâ longer, aight darlinâ?â
Sheâd realized then just what had happened, where she was and what was going on. His touch quells her vexation, and as a result sheâs beaming with pride and delight. A vibrant pearlescent smile domineering her face as she eagerly nods.
âOh yes, anythinâ for you dear.â
Itâs the same veil she brings to the dinner table, reseating herself and making a point to lock eyes with each and everyone of them, saving the old hag for very last. Meeting her prideful smirk with a delightedly unsettling and toothy grin.
âYouâll all have to forgive me.â She pauses. âYouâll find Iâm not myself when my dear momma is mentioned. Oh I miss her so dearly, now, where were we?â
Aside from the rocky beginnings of her introduction, the entirely of dinner remains lax and civil. Small talk is made between she, Sissy and Nubbins, with Bubba occasionally replying with an excited nod or some abhorrent sounds she couldnât make out. Johnny tuned in from time to time, but hadnât much to say, his focus was with Hands. When it wasnât, it was on observing Rebeccaâs every move and word. Drayton and Nancy would ask questions, and Rebecca would respond with a souringly sweet response. Meeting Nancyâs blatant attempts at ruffling her feathers further with the most idyllic and perfectly crafted answers she could muster. At some point, the brothers had fed the grandfather from an old bronzed bottle of what looked to be emulsified meat.
âDinner was real nice, mister Drayton, that chili was the best I ever had.â Becca rises from her seat, collecting the tables polished dishes and silverware and taking them to the sink. âYouâll have to give me the recipe sometime.â
âOh well,â Drayton laughs sheepishly, âthereâs no secret, itâs all in the meat. We- I got uh, a real fine eye for prime meat.â
âIâll have to repay the favor one day, oh, maybe weâll have you folks over for Thanksgivinâ, wouldnât that be real nice?â She smiles, and takes the initiative to wash the dishes with her back turned to the group. When no one can see her, when her mien is hidden and shadowed with the dark of the night coming through the window does her visage fade, forming a demented and twisted face full of hate and lividity.
âY-yeah! Real fun, huh Bubba?â Nubbins laughs, matching Bubbaâs deep and disoriented giggles.
âIt does sound just lovely, Johnny wouldnât mind that one bit.â Sissy clasps her hands together.
âWell now, letâs not get too ahead of ourselves.â Nancy hums. âBecca, sweetie, donât you worry âbout those dishes will yaâ? Iâll take care of âem.â
âNo, no,â Rebecca hums. âIâve finished.â The faucet shuts off and she turns back round, her expression some odditied cross between the devil and and angel. Her chin tucked in and her brows screwed downward. Her eyes are half lidded as she looks to Nancy, an eery smile painted over the lower half of her grimace. âPlease, my name is Rebecca, miss.â Without dropping her line of sight she retrieves the fresh cherry pie sheâd made just before heading over, holding it with both palms.
âSay Rebecca,â Nancy muses, having her seat adjacent to grandpa. She dusts her hands off against the apron tied around her waist. âWhat ever did happen to that mother of yourâs? I donât recall your daddy mentioninâ nothinâ.â A volitional look of scrutiny hides behind those glazed, cloudy eyes of hers. A narrowing state with a coy little smile. Itâs ironic, in some ways sheâs just like her son once was.
The mention stirred her, for the whirlwind of thoughts that swirl about shakes her up, hearkening back to the day sheâd watched porcelain shatter over heads and bedside lamps cause blunt force trauma. The day she watched her mother and that dastardly boyfriend of hers scream at one another like wild animals, ripping eachother apart while they scrambled to protect themselves against their demise. The blood and the bits of flesh, the smell of iron and the tears.
âOh, momma?â Rebecca looks ahead, stoic, pale, as though sheâd just seen a ghost. âWell, she died just a little over a year ago now. We was livinâ back in Oklahoma when I found her.â Events of the past still bounce about in her head; walking through a bloodied and mutilated massacre. Her bare feet against soggy shag carpets, trudging through gallons of blood and brain matter. The house had been torn limb from limb, coaxed into a sanguine picture of the horror and macabre.
âShe uh-,â she feels faint, blood rushing up to head and painting her face bright. And her ears, burning with anger and resentment, as she feels her body sway and begin to shake. Her eyes grow wider, just before they narrow and she looks down to her hands, seeing the blood pull in them and drip over her lap where the body lies. She clenches them, laughing madly in the mess of it all. Knelt onto the ground in the middle of a uxoricidal entanglement.
âShe deserved it.â Rebecca smiles, in a frantic and awkward sort of way. Clenching her bloodied palms into fists and clasping them together. Then she laughs, shaking her head. She can no longer feel it, her limbs trembling and body swaying. Her head no longer spins, but her consciousness is quick to catch onto the hell sheâs stuck herself in.
âIâve brought a cherry pie, still warm from the oven. Iâll go âhead and get you all a heapinâ slice, why donât I?â She snaps around, hot tears pricking at the cusp of her eyelids. She had tried to be the bigger person, she truly had, but it was when wenches like her stooped so low sheâd need to put a bitch like this in her place.
âOh please, yerâ Johnnyâs honored guest, let me take care of this.â Nancy rises from her seat.
âNo, no. Sit.â Rebecca removed the dirtied knife from the counter, bits of raw meat and drippings still tainting it when she cuts into the pie. Once more sheâs turned round, face cold and void of the sugary sweet sheâd once presented. Into it, she cuts seven slivers, saving the eight chunk for the lead woman of the estranged family.
âSit. Back. Down.â Rebecca warns once more, her voice now threatening, a warning of sorts. Nancy does not oblige, only pushes further.
âAt the very least-â
âSit down and do as your told, sweetie.â Rebeccaâs body stirs in its place, the cut pie placed neatly in the palm she holds up near her head and the other at her side, tightly gripping the handle of that rusted knife.
It is met with astounding silence, and awed looks from all but Drayton and Nancy. Even grandpa, whose stare settled onto her with a faint groan. It does little to stop her, though. Rather, it fuels her incessant need to have her way, to prove herself to her Johnny, to not let bygones be bygones.
Her frightfully deviant expression says it all, too. Beady eyes wide and pupils shrunk, they stare a void into all. The twitchy, faded smile of a crazy greets her audience with a discomposing ambience.
âExcuse me, young lady?â Nancyâs fury struck the room like lightning to the great state of Texas. âIâd advise you to watch yer tone with me.â
She says nothing, instead, carefully carves out each sliver of pie with the muddied knife and cautiously places each helping onto the bare table in front of each character. She takes her serving on the knife, leaning over the table and tossing the large hunk of pie left in the tin to Nancyâs place at the table. It lands with a piercing sound, bouncing bits of cherry filling up to splatter over the flowery fabric of the womanâs dress.
Nancy is astounded, as is their table mates, watching between the two eagerly with worried thoughts. Her image is somewhere between animosity and shock, with Rebeccaâs words and unsettling display digging the grave six feet under.
âEat. It. Up.â Blazing blue orbs deadlocked on the croneâs on the opposing end of the table, it was only a matter of se ones before Nancy herself blew her top. But Becca can only laugh, finding amusement in the pissing contest sheâs so gloriously won. Iâm a celebratory fashion she pulls the knife up to her lips, licking up her share of sweet and red cherry pie off the knife.
âThatâs it! Iâve had âbout enough of this, get the hell outta my house!â
Akin to a deer in headlights she froze, as though a bullet had shot right through her, rattled her to her core. In that moment sheâd felt shame, failure, a slip that was not meant to happen. And for it, she loathed Nancy more than she ever had Johnny, more than she detested her own mother, more than any stupid boy that ticked her off.
âGet out! Out!â Nancy hollers, and if it hadnât been for Rebeccaâs father sheâd of tried to kill her right then. âJohnny get this rotten lilâ brat out of the house!â
âNo, no,â She vehemently shakes her head, as he approaches her with caution. âNo!â She holds her hand out, those hot tears searing her cheeks as she squints.
âDarlinâ, donât make this harder than it needs to be.â
âWhat?â Then thereâs hurt, pure brokenness and helplessness. The break in her now softened voice gut wrenching to some, the rest of the family out of their seats as they watch in delight. The laughter of the boys drowns in the heap of her anguish, felt betrayed by the only one sheâd known to be on her side.
The fight in her fades, when Johnny takes her arm to escort her out with not so much as a word. No, the moment heâd taken the side of his mother so hellbent on making her look bad. So she is a ghost, a shell of a woman who does as he pleases, following him when the world is moving around her in a still motion.
She turns her head to watch the loud scene of the family, rowdy and out of their seats and yelling over eachother in disarray. Some watch Johnny and how he has her by the arm, some seem timid, some bicker with one another, and she can only watch like an outsider looking in.
It isnât until theyâve made it out to the drive wayâs gate, down the windy gravel path through the garden, that sheâs realized all thatâs happen. When the pouring hot rain sizzles against her warm reddened skin and the lightning flashes across violently about the sky. The same burning tears still stung her eyes, and Johnny had begun to look over her with some mug, and she still felt the shame, regret, a forfeited sense of control. As the storm breaks out in unbridled chaos, with it, the fragments of calm that had been keeping her glued together all that time.
âJohnny?â
He only smiles, he canât help but find the amusement in it all. Watching his mother get riled up about his choice in women and Rebeccaâs intoxicatingly sweet bite back.
âListen, darlinâ, this ainât personal. Itâd be best if youâs went home.â
There it is, the sting sheâd been looking for. Her body quakes with emotion, weakness, a hurt pride. Like sheâd been fooled, just a pawn in his little game.
âHow dare you.â Her voice low and broken, she looks to him from below through shrouded vision, blinded by tears and smudged makeup. âYou told me I was special, not some stupid girl!â She screams, slamming her hands into his chest. âDo you have any idea how much of a fool I looked? A hoodlum? Huh?â She backs away from him, spinning around and throwing her head into her hands as she cries. Shaking fingers peel themselves away from her eyes, watching him through her tunnel vision. âI hate you!â She lashes out to him before collapsing to her knees in the dirt. âI hate you so fuckinâ much!â Between strangled sobs she screams into her shaking hands, watching him with his back turned to her whilst he makes his way back up the drive and into the house.
