Stockholm Syndrome

Chapter Two- Dreams

Jack rustled his green hair, scanning his small selection of clothes. He pulled out five pairs of pants, and shirts to match, unsure of how much to pack. He knew that if he needed more clothes, he could by some in Los Angeles, or wash his own at Mark's place. He folded the outfits neatly into his small, green luggage bag, then tossed in some socks and boxers. He didn't bother with packing any cosmetics. Mark always had a fully supplied bathroom. He shoved in his travel camera, and zipped up the bag.

He tossed the bag beside his bedroom door, and sat back on his queen sized mattress, covered in large, black comforter and overstuffed pillows. A smile crept over Jack's lips, thinking of the fun he would have in LA. However, an uneasy feeling burned in the pit of his stomach. Something seemed off, but Jack pushed it aside. You worry too much, Jackaboy. A small yawn escaped the Irish boy's lips, so he sprawled out on his mattress. The hum of the ceiling fan was all that filled his room, darkness quickly overwhelming him. Although his mind was swimming with random thoughts, he fell fast asleep.

Jackaboy...

Jack sat up, body grimy with sweat. His translucent, blue eyes looked wildly around him, fingers curled tight in his sheets. His breath was heavy, almost panting. A pain in his gut screamed at him, an awful, unnatural burning. The darkness of his room was silent, the ceiling fan spinning fast overhead. Although completely silent, he felt as if he could hear movement. See shadows lurking in the dark. What was that? Jack felt like he was going mad. Why had he woken up? A nightmare.

"It was just a nightmare," Jack whispered, then screamed out, springing to his feet on his mattress.

His phone lit up the darkness, buzzing on his bedside table. He grabbed it in sweaty, paranoid hands.

"Jack..."

The voice on the other end was dark. Although a male voice, Jack was oddly seduced into listening to every syllable the voice spoke. He bit his lip, unable to reply to the smooth, yet rustic voice. Deep. Enticing.

"Mark?" Jack finally managed to whisper.

"Hmm. Yes, Mark..."  

"What is it Mark? It's the middle of the night," I groaned, rubbing my restless eyes.

"I was just thinking of you. You're always in his head..."

"What?" Jack asked, confused by Mark's wording.

"I can't wait to see you, Jackaboy..."

"Get some sleep, Mark. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sleep well, little bean..."

Mark hung up, leaving Jack more than a little confused. However, Jack was too tired to care about Mark's strange behavior. He set his phone back on the bedside table, and laid back into the comfort of his bed. He still felt gross, a thin layer of sweat masking his skin, and dampened his blankets. Thinking back to the dream was impossible. Right when his eyes had opened, the dream was gone from his thoughts, but there was still an eary feeling hovering in the dark room.

He closed his eyes, pushing away his wandering thoughts. His thoughts may have faded away as he drifted into sleep, but dreams filled their space. Not just dreams, but nightmares. Creeping into every corner of Jack's brain. He tossed and turned, unable to escape the wicked laughter. The black eyes. The cold hands running over Jack's skin. No matter how far he ran, the figure appeared at every corner.

You cannot escape me, Jackaboy...

The voice. His voice...

Gonna try to update twice a day. Thanks for reading, fellow shippers.