🔪𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔉𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖕𝖊𝖗🔪

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 6

Rating:  Mature

Length:  2.4k

CW:  mild gore, mentions of past murder

Reader POV

By the time you return home, you are numb and trembling so violently your teeth are chattering. This is shock, you know. You treat shock with blankets and calm words. You have neither at your disposal.

Michael parks in your driveway. He exits the car. You cringe when he opens the rear passenger door right behind you. He takes the basket of groceries inside and leaves you shaking in the front seat.

Some small, cognizant part of your brain knows that this is an opportunity. Your eyes drift to the steering wheel. He has left the keys in the ignition.

You can do it, you can do it. You can open the door, get out of your seat, walk around the hood, get in, get lost. But your muscles feel like fraying rip cords yanked too many times, you can barely string two thoughts together, and every time you blink you see the fragments of Dale's skull embedded in the pulp of his brain like loose teeth.

Your hand floats to the door handle. Pull. Push. You try to get out, realize you are still seatbelted in. You don't remember buckling up. Did he do it for you? The seatbelt slithers away and you brace yourself on the doorframe to stand up.

Your ears are ringing. God, you feel so weak and so frustrated by this weakness. The thoughts are there, drifting, but you cannot grab them. You stumble around the front of the car. You are doing a good job. You've made it to the driver's side door. Pull it open. Topple into the seat.

This is where your faculties fail you. You turn the key, hold it too long, hear the engine make a mechanical cracking sound. You put your hand on the gearshift. You see him in your periphery. Your foot smashes the gas pedal, but the car is still in park, and the engine wails.

He yanks the door open and your hands fly off the steering wheel in a bid for absolution. He's going to grab you and throw you to the ground and choke the life out of you. Your whole body is already buzzing in anticipation of the threat. Your throat closes up.

Very calmly, he reaches across you and turns off the car. The keys jingle as they pass before your eyes and disappear back into his pocket. He leans against the doorframe and looks at you. There is a dull mirth in his eyes and you realize he left the keys on purpose. Asshole.

He pulls you out of the car, loops his arm beneath your armpit and hauls you into the house. You don't have the strength to protest, and in fact, being pressed against him, warm and solid, grounds you at last. You grip his coveralls in your fist, sag into his ribs, so grateful you don't have to fight him.

Once you are in the kitchen, he slips out of your grasp. You are no longer of consequence as he rummages through the grocery basket. Dazed, you make your way to the couch and collapse, fumble for a blanket and burrow underneath it.

You aren't sure how long it takes before you start to regain control of your nervous system. At some point, you feel his weight sink into the couch at your feet. When at last you feel in possession of your mind and body again, you emerge from your sanctuary and find him sitting comfortably with his hands splayed on his knees, the jug of milk you just bought – stole? – sitting on the coffee table in front of him, already nearly a quarter empty.

His head turns towards you. You look at him for a long time. He returns your gaze impassively. The tension, the violence, has dissipated. He seems at ease, his posture relaxed, a predator post-meal. Whatever urge hums deep and rumbling through his mind has been stilled for the time being. Now, having seen him in his element, you are almost dismayed to realize you find him far less threatening when he is merely lurking.