dollhouse [brahms heelshire]

5

  The morning after comes as a rude awakening.

Oh god, what did I do?

There was no more doubting it - or trying to convince yourself that every experience that you are having with him wasn't real. Now it was only a matter of determining if you were sane or not.

Brahms Heelshire. He was here. And he's alive.

That whole story the landlady told you about the history of the house - where he came from and what happened shortly after his supposed death.

Oh right, isn't he supposed to be dead?

And wasn't Fletcher actively looking for his ghost?

You groaned, putting your head into your hands. A migraine was taking over your skull, and the stress of the situation didn't help, either.

The logical thing to do was leave. Obviously. He came to you, and it was enough proof to show that he was real. You had his DNA all over you, couldn't you just go to police department and file a report?

But he made me feel so good, I don't know if I could do that to him.

I gave consent. I let it advance.

It wasn't like he actually hurt you in anyway - he didn't even threaten you. All he wanted was for you to stay, to not leave him.

It feels like your chest is turning to mush. Not the mushy smitten feelings.

But then there was the other night - when you told him you'd call Fletcher to come save you. And he said that he'd kill him. Was he serious? He sounded like he was serious.

You begin to wonder if he's watching you right now. Watching you fall apart. You were currently sitting in the kitchen, with a lukewarm cup of tea and a half eaten slice of toast. You debated leaving this morning, right after waking up to a messy bed and puffy eyes.

Fletcher wasn't even here - and if he was, you wonder if you'd tell him what happened. Your cheeks flushed. Obviously not that part, but the fact that he had visited you again, and talked to you. Revealed himself to you.

You had checked the traps you set. The baby powder on the doorknobs, the Cheerios.

When you looked under the rug this morning, there were no crushed Cheerios. No evidence that he had stepped on them.

Maybe he replaced them.

Then there was the doorknobs - the ones on your bedroom door weren't touched. There were no visible handprints. But the closet doorknob, the one facing the interior, had a very large print. You took a picture of it, feeling a little eerie looking inside your closet.

This means he came from inside the closet.

At least now you had physical evidence.

You went through your phone, rereading text messages between you and your mother. It was a bunch of toxic shit she was putting you through - and you really didn't need her drama on top of everything you were handling in this house. Plus the drama you had back at home - with your dad and his crimes.

You could just call her now... tell her your final decision of cutting her off and ending your relationship.

Maybe it'd go a little something like, hey, I was just calling to ask if you could never contact me again. You're toxic and manipulative and I feel as though you don't care for me, so I don't have any room for you in my life.

Mhm, that sounded perfect.

A door slams behind you and you whirl around to find Fletcher with grocery bags. He hails them inside the kitchen and glances at you, brows raised.