Bloody Knives in My Leftovers

Chapter 11: Enter 'Slenderman'

"If you keep staring at me I'm going to spit in your coffee."

It was only reasonable for you to be upset, especially at the fuckass who kept glancing at you every two seconds.

Tim stood at the kitchen counter, backside resting on the wood surface, mug in one burly hand. Outside the flurry of snow had calmed, something you could not relate to.

"Y-you can spp..spit in my coffee," Toby giggled, though his voice held actual admiration and earnestness. It made you sick and you immediately rounded on him, neck twisting so fast it was a surprise your head didn't pop off. You open your mouth to spit some insult at him for the fifth time that morning when Tim cut you off.

It was true, Tim was keeping an annoyingly close eye on you. No pun intended.

His lips were drawn into a thin line and he kept his distance, eyes flicking to your hunched over form whenever he thought you weren't looking. Now, when he spoke up you almost growled.

"Toby, stay out of this." He sipped casually on his black coffee, steam clouding his face. You knew deep down you should be grateful for Tim's scolding, as it got Toby off your back, sulking and slumping in his seat with a fierce glare.

But you weren't, grateful, that is. Truth was, every comment the man made was unsettling. You couldn't place a finger on the feeling, but it was foreboding. You felt cold, unsure, hunger dissipating as you stared into the droopy porridge they had provided you.

Brian had been gone for the entirety of breakfast, having disappeared when you tossed the eyeball and not returning. It was approaching late morning and the uncertainty of the men around you made you anxious.

"Hey." The gruff voice made you look up, eyes clouded with confusion. Tim had set his mug down, now with folded arms he regarded you. You don't respond, messing with the spoon between your fingers.

"You need to eat." It wasn't a suggestion, but it wasn't really a demand either. You had already picked up on the power dynamic at play here, and for some strange reason Tim was the boss. At least in the ways that counted.

"Can't," You respond a little helplessly, annoyance and frustration slipping into your voice. You rested your forehead on one hand, staring down into the tan sludge and stirring around the oats. Something pooled in your stomach, making you dizzy with sickness of some sort.

Tim squints a little, aggravated but trying not to snap at you. Toby perks up a little, leaning closer to you so you could smell his pine soap.

"T-Tu-Tim.. Do yu-you think..?" His voice is soft, almost nervous. It makes you look up, meeting his two-toned eyes.

Before you could utter a response you're cut off by Tim, "I think so."

They are both now staring at you, worry creasing Tim's face and a mixture of excitement and eagerness on Toby's. You drop the spoon with a clatter in your bowl, snarling despite how queasy you felt.

"Feel like sharing, assholes?" You spit, eyes narrowed harshly between the two of them.

Toby grins stupidly, bandage stretching as he shows off his sharp canines. Tim shrugs, quickly returning to his cup of coffee.

"Nah."

Your nose wrinkles, rage and confusion bubbling to the top. Without really thinking about it you lift the dripping spoon out of the porridge and fling it across the kitchen. It lands with a wet splat in Tim's greasy hair, sliding down it like a water ride.

Silence. No one speaks as the spoon drops to the floor, flinging food onto the wood.

Toby pops and tics diagonally from you, eyes wide and unblinking. Tim's face is darkened, hair messy with sludge as it hangs over his features.

You're breathing, hard. Anxiety lifting and then crashing back down. You almost let thousands of apologies spill past your lips, but don't quite get the chance as Tim's foot kicks the spoon across the floor. You don't see where it flies, but while your eyes are drawn to the floor two calloused hands slam onto the island, making you jump in your seat with your head snapping back up.

Tim's in front of you, hazel eyes deep and dark. His nose nearly brushes yours as he leans forward on his hands, his lips set in a firm autorotative line.

"Don't. You. ever. Pull that shit again."

His voice is a growl and it rattles inside your blank mind. Panic fills up every inch of your body so fast you can't move or respond, only staring at him with blown irises.

After a long moment he pulls away, glare lingering on you before he dumps the rest of his coffee in the sink and stomps away.

You see from your frozen state a glimpse of Toby, shoulder jerking to his chin as he worriedly mumbles to himself. He lifts a gloved hand to his mouth, gnawing on the leather as if trying to dig his teeth into his own skin and nail beds.

Your heart is thrumming, jumping so hard it touches your ribcage...or that's what it feels like. Your parted lips take short little breaths, lungs squeezing in your chest uncomfortably. It hits you again, these weren't some friendly annoying roommates who took care of your panic attacks and screw ups. They weren't helpful allies who comforted you after murders. They were the danger, the fear that spread like a disease in your mind. The cough that itches in the back of your sore throat.

And they could not be trusted.

Your fingers curl into your pants, knuckles pinching white as you tighten around the fabric.