Charity Case (Creepypasta/Jeff the Killer Love Story)

Chapter 6

I hadn't opened my eyes, but I could feel myself waking up. I didn't dare move. There was a part of me that thought the night before had been a nightmare, and moving was going to tell me if it was or wasn't. If I felt the hard tile floor, then it was real. If I felt my bed, then it wasn't, and I would probably jump for joy.

Don't worry, Ronnie, I told myself, taking a deep breath. It was probably a dream. I have to open my eyes and move around to find out, though. I can't stay like this forever. I was convincing enough, so I slowly opened my eyes, and I gasped softly. It looked like the rest of the world hadn't thought I was too persuasive. I sat up frantically and moved my hands around on the tile, making sure it was real. It wasn't a dream. I was living a nightmare.

"Hey, you're awake. It's pretty early. I didn't think you'd be up for another hour," Jeff's voice caught my attention. He walked into the room from somewhere else in the building. He had his hoodie in his hands, leaving him completely shirtless and exposing the scarring caused by burns all over his extremely thin torso, along with a bunch of gashes from the fight the night before. The hoodie no longer had the bloody stains on it, and it looked damp. He sat down exactly where he had been while I tried to sleep.

I looked over at the glass windows and saw the sun beginning to come up. The lighting and my calmer mindset allowed me to look around a bit more since I had been too frantic that night. The room appeared to be completely gutted, so I couldn't recognize where we were. There was a spot on the floor where a counter probably was, and crude lines in the tile ran around behind it, but I didn't know what used to be there. Still, if they were gutting it, that meant someone was bound to come back, right? How much time did we have?

"Are you listening to me?" Jeff asked, snapping me back to reality. I looked over at him, and he was sewing up his hoodie with a needle and thread. I reminded myself that I had to play along with whatever game he was playing. I had to keep myself alive until I could get away.

I said, "No, sorry. What are you doing?"

He replied, "What does it look like? I have to close the holes. This is the only shirt I have, you know."

"You know how to sew?"

"Not well, but I'm good enough to mend my clothes when I find needle and thread. I don't carry it around or anything," he shrugged before biting the string to cut it. The hair moved off the side of his face to reveal his scar suddenly had stitches that hadn't been there the day before.

"Whoa, what happened to you?" I asked, concern in my voice. No matter who it was, I couldn't help worrying when someone was hurt, and it was getting on my nerves.

As he tied up the string to keep his work from coming undone, he dismissed it, "The scars open up when I move my mouth a lot. If I stitch it up, it helps heal." No wonder he was bleeding before.

My eyes widened at the similarities between the stitches and the thread used to stitch the holes up. I said, "You didn't use those to give yourself stitches... did you?"

"So, what?"

"That's not healthy! The needle should be sterilized, and that isn't medical thread! You could get an infection!" I scolded.