Something Amiss (Hoodie x Reader)

Forty Two: Punching Bag

You barely made it down the hallway before you broke down. Well - by 'broke down', you simply curled into a ball on the filthy concrete, the cold seeping into your skin even through your own clothing and Brian's thick jacket. Your heart felt to be in your throat, thumping so dangerously that you felt like you were only seconds away from throwing up. You couldn't tell if it was the Sickness or the shock of being brought here, having your life uprooted for the millionth time. This occasion, though, seemed especially dire.

Brian seemed to be your only hope of escape. But even if you could find him, ask him to take you somewhere, would he? Would he be stopped by his murderous comrades? Or would he just not care? Cass' words put doubts in your head - he's more dangerous than you think he is. You could will them away with the excuse that she was clearly going nuts - but so were you. Slowly, but surely. You didn't know who the fuck you were meant to trust.

With every precarious thought, the grimy lightbulb above your head seemed to quiver. Only a little at first, but the more nihilistic the voices in your head became, the more violently the electricity quaked. Were you imagining it? You couldn't tell. Either way, it was sensory Hell. Just like that cursed cereal aisle.

You balled your hands into fists, tugging at the roots of your hair. A violent coughing fit overtook you seemingly out of nowhere, shredding your lungs with raspy wheezes. You stared in detachment as you watched blood splatter onto the mouldy ground, red upon red slapping to the floor. Though your eyes were watering, you couldn't tear them away. The hacking noise from your lungs was grating, awful, as it was played back to you from where it ricocheted off the walls. The puddle beneath your feet only bled further, getting smeared around by your shoes until all you could see was dark red.

Holy shit. Were you dying?

That thought was all it took for the vomit to come. Sour bile burning your throat as you heaved searing stomach acid into the wetness, small flecks of the pungent stuff bouncing up to smack you in your pained face. Warm, it dripped grotesquely down your cheeks and through your hair, though you didn't even care to pull your head away.

Minutes passed. Stomach emptied, you continued to retch and gag up nothing through heaving, pitiful sobs and gasps for air. The light continued to tease you, headache coming on strong and fast. For all you'd been through, you hadn't cried in a long while. The waterworks came steadily now, though, fueled by self pity and hatred for this disgusting concrete labyrinth.

You hadn't heard their approach for all your racket, but a pair of black boots stepped slowly into your blurred vision, squelching in the puddle of lung-blood and puke. It took far too much effort to strain your neck up, dragging your skull back with exertion and squinting up at them.

A yellow hoodie, a red frown looking down on you. The almost-inaudible sound of altered demonic breathing. Brian.

You stared up at him for a long moment, feeling a sparse trickle of blood leave the corner of your parted lips. The man considered you for a moment with some emotion, or lack thereof, that you had no hope of realising behind the mask. A staring contest for the ages, before he wordlessly offered a leather clad hand down to you.

You stared up at him for a long moment. What had he been doing with Masky? More importantly, where was he going to take you? He wasn't exactly rushing to you to offer up apologies and explanations, though you wouldn't expect that from the cryptic fucker in a million years.

Leaning into your slowly dwindling trust, you let him pull you to your feet with a sigh. You half-collided with him as you slipped on the puddle at both of your feet, knees buckling. He gripped your waist to keep you steady, pulling you into his side. You let him half-lift you onto dry ground.