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-𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭- ༄ 𝐠𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐬
tw: mentions of murder, blood, strangulation, death, and other topics that might be triggering to some.
EVERYDAY SINCE TOM COULD REMEMBER He would wake up as the sun rose, read a few chapters from whatever book he was currently reading, and come up with different plots for it. Different endings, more interesting endeavors.
When he looked at himself, his life, the people he surrounded himself with, he saw different fates for each of them, different plots, different ways for each of them to die or to help him get to where he wanted to be. He saw their potential.
When he saw y/n, he saw potential, a girl who he could manipulate into doing his biddings, no matter how evil, or vile. He just needed to get inside her head. Crack it open, and run his hands through the curves and cracks of her brain, taking in her thoughts, memories, fears, dreams. Everything. He wanted to know everything. A piece of him, deep, deep inside of him knew it wasn't just because he wanted her to work for him, but perhaps work beside her. Take over the world to make it a better, cleaner, purer place for her.
As much as he ignored this piece of himself, it always boarded his train of thought in the worst of times. Times like when she handed him a bag filled with every type of ink imaginable because she didn't want to disappoint him, or how she got the horcrux book for him, or perhaps it was the single line formed on her forehead when she concentrated, or when she looked at him like he was insane. Who knows, he most likely was. Insane simply because she made him that way, made him think about stupid, small things like this.
Like the way his palms sweated when he watched her through the spaces between the edges of book covers on the bookshelf. Her favorite thing to read about was birth charts and astrology. When he watched her, he always found her peaceful looking. Her hair twisting between two fingers, toe of her shoes rubbing itself on the floor, completely unaware of his gaze.
As hard as he tried to stop himself from engaging in his desire to watch her, follow her, touch her, he couldn't. It was all he thought about the majority of the time. The only way he could get the feelings to subside was when he thought about killing her. Ending her life, ending this cycle of his demise. His feelings, their connection, everything. End all of it so he could continue with his plans of world domination. As soon as the thought of killing her came, so did a feeling of guilt and anger. It held over Tom's head like a rain cloud, or a dark shadow. The thought of her never moving, speaking, dancing, smiling made him feel a sense of hatred toward himself for allowing himself to consider killing her in the first place. She has potential, he reminded himself. Potential for his plans. That is of course, the only reason he hadn't killed her, choked her til the oxygen left her body, and she fell limp under his touch, completely within his control. He thought of other plots for her death, the few times he did allow himself to indulge in these thoughts. Maybe he would stab her, watch her red blood pool around her to match her red lipstick covered lips. Red. the shade that clouded his mind constantly. Why couldn't she have chosen a less hypnotic color? Like.....beige. Yes beige. Beige would blend in with the rest of everything and make her less noticeable, less attracting, less of herself.
