pumpkin head [ticci toby x reader]

prologue

"If I can't have you, no one can."

Time seemed to stop. At first, it was in slow motion, the way his fingers, caked in coagulating crimson, took hold of the box of matches, the way he slid the case open, the way he reached inside, taking out a singular matchstick, the once pale and thin wood now also tainted red. It was still in slow motion, time appearing to stretch out endlessly as he brought the match to the rough brick-coloured sides of the box, swiping it across and striking a newborn flame, birthed from the friction.

But then he raised his hand out, fingers loosening their grip on the frail matchstick, and it was right then and there that time came to a startling halt.

The scene before her played out like a video that had just been put on pause. And she, too, was paralyzed, staring in horror at the sight before her, unable to move a muscle. In this frozen space of time, it was just the two of them—her, standing still, eyes wide in terror, and him, eyes downcast, the slightest hint of tears still visible, running along his waterline.

The match fell.

Dropped from his fingers and hitting the floor, the room was set ablaze in a matter of seconds, fire bursting from the kerosene that he had drenched the room with, fire licking at the carpet, eating up the furniture, devouring the walls.

Everything was suddenly illuminated with an amber glow, the colour of the flames reflecting perfectly in his eyes as he finally raised them, staring straight into her.

It was like they had just met all over again, the sweet amber hue of his irises captivating her own; she found fatal attraction in them like a moth would a flame. And burn she did indeed, as all the sweetness left his eyes, the hue replaced by the fire that burst out before her, the fire that sent her body harshly colliding against the hard tiled floor, fully engulfing her unprotected form like vines entangling themselves around her limbs, dragging her down into a world of blazing, scorching pain.

She didn't even have time to scream; instead, violent coughs erupted from her throat as she curled up into herself, back hunched over and knees brought up to her chest, miserably trying to prop herself up on her elbows.

The air was stolen from her lungs, replaced with the thick, heavy coat of smoke that was slowly descending upon her, clogging up her airway and causing her eyes to sting in irritation. Her esophagus felt as if acid had been poured down her vocal cords, searing and burning through her flesh.

She made another effort to try to get up, weakly pushing herself up on all fours. Still, she barely crawled a few steps away before the agony of the flames devouring her skin and the pulsating pain of the smoke sending sharp icepicks inside her brain became all too much to bear for her, and she'd collapse back down.

She came to the conclusion, then, that this was it. This was the end for her.

She was going to die.

She was going to die, in the kitchen of the boy she thought she loved, the boy she thought she could trust, the boy she thought truly understood her in a world where she had been isolated for so long, up until the very second they met.

And then he had become the boy who she had become mesmerized with the very moment their eyes met, the boy who she had opened up to and seen as her very first friend, the boy who she allowed herself to be vulnerable with, trusting him with both her body and heart, believing that he wouldn't break it.

Because if there was one person in the world that she could rely on to be there for her even if no one else was, it would be him.

But now here she was, alone, with no one by her side, not even him. Here she was, alone.

Dying.

She had given him all of herself, entrusted everything to be in his hands. Entrusted herself to be in his hands. And he had held it, treating it with care, treating it as something so delicate, so fragile—only to allow it to shatter.

As he loosened his hold on the tiny little matchstick, as his fingers splayed out, letting it fall to the ground, he had let her go as well.

Now there she was, on the ground, every inch of her ignited with sheer torment, surrounded by the flames of what she would think to be Hell if she didn't know better, if she wasn't so painfully alive still.

If she wasn't so painfully alive, the events replaying over and over in her mind like a broken cassette tape. The thought of his betrayal, hot and fresh and deep, wounding her where it had hurt most on repeat. The sound of his voice, hurt and betrayed and resentful, his last words to her playing on a loop. The vision of his amber eyes, puffy and bloodshot and still harbouring the slightest hint of tears, narrowed at her in an ever-present glare, etched in her mind.

It was all that she could think of, hear, and see.

She wondered then, how did things come to this? What could she have done differently to prevent this from happening? What had she done wrong for this to happen? Where did she make a mistake?

Not that it mattered anymore, because dark spots were clouding her vision, and she could both feel and see the smoke thickening, smothering her and causing her eyelids to feel heavier with each passing second.

As her eyelids fluttered like the desperate wings of a moth trying to fan out its own flames, she could feel her body's desperate plea for her to just close her eyes, allow the fire to consume her, consume her just like he had, with the tender touch of his fingertips and the passionate movement of his lips.

He had taken everything from her, the fire finishing up the one last thing—her life.

As her fatigued eyes opened for the final time, through the spots in her vision, the haziness of her tears, and the dancing of the flames, was the silhouette of the tall man.

The horror of the realization dawned upon her, and at that moment, she too was burning, seething in pure blazing rage.

But what hurt the most, feeling like a spear of torment piercing straight through her heart, was that before her eyelids fell to a close, finally submerging her in the reprieve of unconsciousness—

She met his eyes one last time.

His bittersweet, amber eyes.