Bloody Knives in My Leftovers

Chapter 12: Squirming and Writhing

Short chapter...but I think you'll enjoy it ;) - Jen

"I am so over this entire kidnapping thing."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah?" He doesn't even look over at you, reading glasses perched on his nose as he scrolls aimlessly on his laptop.

"Yeah." You pause, turning away from him and crossing your arms over your chest. "Plus you're shit at cooking."

You weren't sure why you were intentionally pushing his buttons, knowing it got you nowhere besides pissing him off.

He grunts, shaking his head. "Why would I waste time cooking for someone who's an ungrateful little shit?" Now he turns, regarding you with a bored stare.

You blanch, lips parted to retort but knowing he was right; you weren't grateful for any of this. But you especially weren't very gracious towards droopy oatmeal every morning. Sure, you were a prisoner... but not an actual prisoner. You huff and keep your thoughts to yourself for once.

The living room falls into tense silence as you keep your eyes glued to the TV, some nonsense cartoon flashing colors in your face yet completely muted.

A couple of times you had tried to peek at what Tim was researching so dutifully only to have a hand pressed into your face and head shoved back.

So, you left him alone. Besides, he had basically placed you under strict house arrest.

Toby and Brian had left early that morning, Toby shoving you swiftly off the couch where you lay and Brian pulling on his hood before you could see his face. You had landed groggily on the floor while Toby giggled and slammed the door, goggles already perched on his head of curls.

It wasn't long before Tim had stridden over, still in his pajamas with laptop in hand. He had sat on the couch and didn't utter a word til you tried to walk away, which was when he threatened to cut off your hands with a butter knife if you didn't 'sit your ass down and stay put.'

So you hadn't eaten breakfast, had no idea of what time it was, and left alone with a homicidal maniac wearing readers. Needless to say you had been pouting all morning.

Part of you was still shaken up about the incident with Brian the other day, remembering his fingers pressed harshly into the top of your skull. But after your countless little breakdowns you absolutely refused to seem more weak then you already were. So you sucked it up and pushed all panic and anxiety away for another day. God, your therapist would hate what you had become.

"Do you want to eat?" His voice pulled you up from your thoughts like a hook yanking a fish from the sea.

A quick double-take revealed that it was in fact said homicidal maniac who just offered you sustenance. You frown, subconsciously lifting a finger to point at your chest.

He sighs, grumbling at you. "Yes. You." He moves and places his laptop on the coffee table, ready to stand.

"Yes.." You hesitate, reading his annoyed expression and remembering that yes...they had drugged your food before. "..Please..?" It came out like a question and you cringed, hoping he still got the point of your manners. 'Please don't knock me out again, dude.'

He nods curtly and stands, pushing himself off his thighs in a proper 'old man' way. Though...now that you thought about it.

"..How old are you?"

He freezes mid way, eyes shifting to you. His brows furrow and he seems to think about it before resuming and walking around the couch.

"..Twenty-five."

You barely catch it, perking up at his gruff words. "Oh."

Neither of you say another word as you sit in his revelation quietly. Why did this number...humanize him?

He's had birthdays, a family, a mother...a childhood.

It gives you pause, imagining a small tot grinning ear to ear, not knowing what the future held. He couldn't be blamed, he never hurt you. Your frown deepens.

Your head twists to watch as Tim ambles into the kitchen, moving things in the sink with his back turned to you. You watched as his shoulder blades and back muscles moved under his loose red shirt, saw how his bare arms steadied his weight against the counter. It was so..so human.

You remember that mask, chalky white with a blank stare. Remember the bruise that sat on Bailey's leg from a heavy crowbar. You chew on your bottom lip, questions till burning a hole into your mind.

The next words slip past your lips without you having a chance to stop them.

"How'd you end up here?" The implication was strong, your curiosity poking at you to know how some mindless child ended up a soulless killer.

His back stiffens, still not turning to face you as he heats the stove.

"Didn't have a choice." His voice is hard to hear and you practically lean over the back of the couch to pay attention.

"Did they?" Your mind wanders to Brian and Toby, frowning and smiling alike.

"No." Short and sweet, not giving anything away. It only made you more hungry for answers, and once you started it was impossible to shut you down.

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions." He grumbles, cracking an egg over the pan on the stove. But his eyes shift to look at you and he furrows his brows, trying to work something out.

"You'll experience it. The numbing feeling of being His puppet." He shrugs, as if what he just said was completely normal and not utterly insane and horrifying.

Again with this Him character...who the hell was it?

"So there's a fourth member of your little suicide squad?" You're sitting on your knees now, watching as he mixes 2% milk into the eggs.

He huffs, a small humorless laugh that rattles his shoulders. "Not that I know of."

"So who–"

"Do you want coffee or juice?" He bends over to peer into the fridge now, stalling your persistent questioning. You narrow your eyes, irritated.

"Don't interrupt me I was–" You start, trying to make a case when his head turns round and he glares at you, reminding you this wasn't a casual morning between roommates.

"...Juice is fine..." Muttering you turn around and slump into the couch, arms crossed over your chest. He hums, maybe a small laugh at your pouting and you hear the fridge door close and the clinking of glass or porcelain.

It's not long before he rounds the couch and passes you a (f/c) mug, filled half-way with juice. You mumble a thanks and take it in two hands, still pressed into the couch. You stare wearily into the cup, watching as the fruit flavored beverage swishes gently from the momentum.

Your eyes flick to him, standing at the side of the couch with a bored expression and his own mug in his hand. It is silent before he sighs, taking the handle of your cup and lifting it away from you. He tilts it towards his lips and takes a decent sip, before passing it back into your hands.

You watch as his adam's apple bobs, indicating he swallowed it. He gives you a knowing look and then walks away, leaving you to tentatively sip the juice....no threat of poison or pills.