𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍.

warning: bug action. very detailed description of bugs crawling on skin. it isn't that important to the story so you can skip the flashback in italics.

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𝑵𝒐 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅
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He thought about letting you die.

He pondered about it while standing over your unconscious body, breathing heavily and painfully and threatening to drown in your own blood. You were only left unconscious by the sheer power of exhaustion, and he felt a pang inside his heart. He didn't know what it was... no. He did know -he wasn't innocent at all- but still couldn't wrap his mind around the concept of it. He had killed in cold blood before, he'd do it again soon, so it made him want to puke that he was actually catching feelings for you. He blamed himself for letting you stay in his office late at night talking sweet sweet nonsense, he blamed you for being like you were, for bringing him a comfort he hadn't felt since she died. Hell, he could blame chemicals in the air or the position of the moon, although unscientific, anything else but his own mind and heart. Often he wished the other occupants of STEM would perish against all the threats his own mind placed against them, but now he almost felt bad for pitting you against your own demons. Almost.

It was wrong to admit yet he was having a bit of fun with you. As said, he was actively trying to kill the others but with you, he just loved how you managed in hostile environments. He loved the nervousness and the fear, the rage, that sheer wrath you had against your enemies, against your past, the violence that your precise hands could commit. He felt every single electric jolt that ever possessed your body, and it was a rush, an addiction.

He saw it; you were growing stronger. Your mind itself was growing stronger, you hadn't succumbed to the machine as others did. He was proud of you, it was almost vicarious.

He crouched down and caressed your cheek a little bit too harshly; his charred skin had been there for too long, he had nearly forgotten how it was to feel something against it, and he now needed to feel how your skin felt against his fingertips. You were a little bit sticky, covered in grime and blood from your previous fights, but he didn't care. It was still smooth, humanly warm.

It was still you.

You wouldn't die. He couldn't let you. He'd see you walk around his mind, thrive in it, know him truly as he were, make a home under his skin, around the turmoil and pain that had accompanied him for years.

Now you just had another fear of your own to conquer.

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Thunder and lightning hit every high corner of the office. Mother Justine had you locked up with herself in the principal's office, basically conducting an interrogation against you about what happened. You hadn't said a word. And the methods she had tried to make you speak were escalating quickly as the time progressed. It had begun with questions, calm yet severe, but the nun was not one known to remain calm for more than a short period of time. She had insulted you in every way, then continued to yell, then scream, it wasn't short until she had laid a hand on you, leaving your cheek red, stinging and throbbing from the harsh slap. She had you under her wing now, she could do anything. You had no one to tell.

Still, you hadn't said a word.

Yet she struck you again, and again, yelling profanities that a religious person would never say. Harming you, a child, in this unspeakable way, until a knock came into her door.