MCR Imagines And Oneshots

♡^The full moon | MCR | (2/2)

(A/n)

Requested by Tobee10101

TW for blood, violence and death

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*not proofread, my brain is tired

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Somewhere in NJ, in the 80s

The cold air makes me shiver as I come back to consciousness, groaning when I become aware of this uncomfortable feeling, something digging into my skin... Grass. What in the fuck? Where am I, even? I blink a few times and look around, gulping at the sight of the woods – woods I don't recognize.

Another breeze makes me look down at myself. Fuck. No wonder why such an intense itchy feeling and the cold. Well, but why? Why am I here? How did I end up here? I furrow my eyebrows, inspecting myself. No cuts, no bruises. Everything is okay. No one brought me here, I presume, and I was coming home alone from that concert. Damn, yeah! I was coming home from the concert when someone – something – attacked me.

A shudder runs down my body and I think I should go find some shelter already instead of fucking around. I reach a house. It's familiar, for some reason, but this fact doesn't bring me comfort and because the thought of being kicked out seems better than freezing to death, I ignore the feeling and knock on the door. Nothing happens, so I dare to step in.

No one, not a sound. Either the owner is out or somewhere upstairs or by the other side of the house, judging how wide it is.

I can't decide if it's better to call for someone or just sneak in, so I end up just climbing the stairs while trying to think about some excuse to blurt out in case I'm caught, though hoping it never happens.

Having reached the top of the stairs, I decide to go to the right and open a few doors – an office, a bathroom, locked, guest bedroom and, finally, a what seems to be the master bedroom. The room is empty, thankfully; I walk in, however, as soon as I step in further, I can feel my stomach dropping at the sight, which was hidden by the bed so far due to the previous angle.

The carpet is soaked in deep brown, which seems to once have been vivid red and its source is still there, with their insides torn open and most of the flesh is gone, actually. A putrid but sweet smell fills my lungs and, even with my stomach churning, bile never rises up my throat.

"Fuck," I mutter to no one in special – not that there's anyone, after all – and another shiver reminds me of my initial intentions.

Sleeves hang loose around my arms and the pants actually fit better, though it's not something I care about much with the remains of someone to take care of.

Shoving the bones and flesh inside a trash bag is not the most pleasing thing, even more with the thick and dark blood clinging to my hand and the ribs slipping from my grasp at some point, not to mention that, fuck, is the skull in pieces? Eventually, everything is inside the bag, along with the carpet. It isn't voluminous, thankfully, so a small hole under a tree in the backyard is enough.

A breath escapes my lips and I can feel part of the tension being lifted off my shoulders after the last amount of dirt is thrown over the space and I finally allow myself to look around, take in the place where I am. There are no visible neighbors, so I imagine it's kind of a wide house on the outskirts of the city or something, belonging to a lonely rich person or just someone who inherited the house. Well, I don't think it matters anymore to be honest.

The house slowly starts becoming mine. No more photographs from the old owner, no registers, only their money and belongings. Once a week, I'll grab part of their money so I can go downtown and buy the groceries, though, exactly a month later... the hunger fades, substituted by this buzzing anxiety.