This is not living| Yandere! Eyeless Jack x Reader

Chapter 22

You don't know how long you've been staring at the door. A few seconds? Minutes? Hours? Time has blurred. You've started to take in the knots and scratches in the oak, the streaks of dark green paint chipping in the varnish. The scuffed marks around the bottom edge. The old dark stane of what you assumed to be blood permanently fixated in the wood. You know it so well by the time you've pulled out of your thoughts, you can still see it in your mind's eye as you turn away. Hours have long since ticked away in this miserable cell, you're sure of it, and in that time, you had tried loosening the rope around your wrist, only to fail miserably and make the strings somehow higher than before.

The only awareness of time you have is the small window above, showing that the moon has passed with the sun slowly taking its place instead. Not long ago, you enjoyed the quiet; now, it was just defining. Your cries and sobs would echo around the room, stabbing you in the brain till you lost the energy to do anything else other than lay where the man had left you. The first time you woke was to vomit whatever little remains you had in your stomach into a rusty bucket the male had left at some point in your unconsciousness.

Sitting on your knees, shaking, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand before slowly and pathetically crawling your way to the grimey mattress. The humidity stuck to your skin in a thick layer while the heat made it feel as if you couldn't breathe. It was uncomfortable, suffocating, and overall terrifying. Your eyes stung from the tears you shed the night before and your mouth felt dry like sandpaper from a mixture of yelling and vomiting.

Flashes of the man's hand around your throat filled your mind. Instinctively you brought a hand to the area, fingers barely touching the skin before winching and quickly withdrawing; you could only imagine what it looked like.

Knees brought up to the chest, you snake your arms around them, holding them tight as you could with your chin tucked in between while patiently waiting for this hellish nightmare to be over.

Your eyes are ready to shut again, sleep and exhaustion gnawing over your mind, only for them to snap open when the high-pitched squeak of the door opens. Your body went rigid, feeling more like a turtle trying to hide in its shell in order to get away from a predator. Your heart pounded bitterly in your chest, racking your ears and brain like a drum; there wasn't a doubt in your mind the man could hear it from where he stood.

With what little confidence you had, you slowly peaked your tired eyes from your knees, watching where and how he stood. His back was facing you while kneeling on the floor - not a good sign, you thought. When he did turn, your eyes caught onto a bag. Small and green, clearly overused with threads and patched-up holes in areas. Strolling his way towards where you lay, you notice his attention isn't on you. Instead, he focused on a small brown leather-bound notebook, mumbling something you couldn't understand as he scribbled away.

Anxiety bloomed in your chest as you eyed him; what was he writing, why was he writing? Did you even want to know? A minute or two must've gone by, those two minutes being the longest of your life. The deafening silence, the faint muffled chirp of birds singing from a distance, the thumping of your heart beating painfully in your chest, you thought you might go into cardiac arrest. With his attention still to the book, you cast your gaze back towards the door. The thought of running flashes in your mind, the door to escape no more than a few feet from your fingertips- but he spoke as if reading your thoughts.

"I wouldn't." His voice chirped from behind. "The door is locked." You don't speak. You're too busy trying to process his words. There's an accent, faint but noticeable. Definitely not from here, that's for sure. Blunt and heavy.

How did you only notice it now?

"How are you feeling, Y/N?"

Processing his words, your eyebrows knit together. Was he joking? What a stupid question to ask. What was there to say after drugging you twice and almost choking the life out of you? You had no idea what to do, say, or even feel. Your location was lost on you, or why you were here at all. Giving no answer in reply, you watch as he stops his writing and peers his head from over the book, waiting.