Songbird in a Snowstorm [Yandere! Marble Hornets x Reader]

In The Fray

Dusky blues filter through the branches above to bathe your body in evening light. A familiar burn accompanies each breath, a new fight against the universe itself each and every time you feel entitled to another lungful of air. This battle in particular has ended in you choking on your own spit more times than you'd like to admit. Because of course if there was anyone in the world who would die from choking on their own spit, it would be you.
Nevermind that, how long have you been laying here? Two hours? Twelve? The subtle warmth streaming down from above had long since faded. Long shadows stretched across the forest floor, dipping into the gully you found yourself in. Not unlike the thick perfume of half rotted leaves around you. Everything is slowly falling back into place, as if you had become a part of the scenery itself. Now, if you were even a little more optimistic, you could probably spin this into some return to nature bullshit. If only.
The world itself had drifted out of focus long ago. Lines and ridges blurring into something softer, colors bleeding into each other. All the pressure building up in your head prior did nothing more than evolve into an ongoing ache. Even your teeth throb with each new beat of your heart. Cartilage in your ribs stretching and threatening to snap with your newest breath, like ice cracking underfoot the threat of giving way entirely closer to reality with each passing second. You let your eyes close once again as you try to take more air. There's no rush of relief in the action, only the all encompassing need to wheeze and writhe for another five hours. Your fingers dig into the slimy leaves around you for the umpteenth time today.
The ground beneath you feels so much colder than it did before. You couldn't pinpoint exactly when the temperature had started to dip. All you can say for sure is that every breath of air feels cooler than the last. Somewhere along the line some of the moisture from the ground found a way to creep up the back of your shirt, soaking the fabric entirely. Even the leaves have a fresh coat of frost creeping across the edges. All pretty with their reds and oranges laced with silvery white. The same white that would take your life come sundown if you let it.
Pinching your eyes shut, you gingerly try to wriggle your toes. Nothing more than twinges of electricity spreading to your heels when you move them. Vicious, white hot electricity. But you can feel, from the tips of your toes all the way through to your fingers. You should still be able to walk. It's not too late.
Many meters above you little songbirds skip from branch to branch. Cute, little black and gray creatures with yellow underbellies or splashes of brilliant red, all but dancing in the treetops. They leave a chorus of high-pitched chirps to drift down in their wake. Little noises that did nothing but make your head pound harder. They might as well have been screeching in your ear. Why do the little fuckers have to be so loud?
Nothing about your plight seems to register to the birds, happy and oblivious in the treetops. Over their sustained melody, there's a distant shuffling from above. Something tiny and insignificant no doubt. Wind whistles through the trees, a gentle breeze and one you're protected from nonetheless. And yet, it still doesn't drown out the tell tale snap of pine needles crushed underfoot.
The rustling is coming closer, gaining another foot with each shuffle. Too small to be a bear, surely. Far too nimble. A deer then? One crunch. Then two. Steady and even. Well chosen and thought out. Exceptionally slow for anything not bipedal. Closer, closer, foliage mashed and mangled at the top of a crevasse. Minuscule shards of gravel rain down upon your face, sticking to your forehead and clinging to your neck as you pinch your eyes shut.
'College dropout found dead in Clear Lakes National Park' The headline would no doubt be the talk of the town once you were finally found. It's not exactly like there's much else to talk about, what with being stationed in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and all. There'd be a smattering of condolences, some underpaid journalist to interview a classmate you'd talked to for thirty seconds one time during orientation week before calling it a day. Then the inevitable listing of every other poor schmuck that keeled over in the same general area. The only meaningful statistic you'll ever be a part of at this rate.
Leaves rustling, frost cracking along in time as both are reduced to sludge. Closer, so much closer. Creeping along unbothered, a spider on a slow journey to a wriggling insect already caught in the web. Abruptly the sounds stop, and at once the sunlight filtering through the leaves to provide what little warmth you had vanished as well.
Maybe one day, years down the line you'll even have your own episode in a podcast. There'd be a banjo in the background, letting the same singular string ring out twelve times before anyone even began speaking. "I stared at what appeared to be a trail made of gravel leading to what appeared to be the heart of the forest." And narrated by only the most pretentious bastard this side of the universe. Doomed to be little more than a prop in the narrative playing in the background of someone's morning jog.
Fingers digging into wet mulched leaves, the slickness and fragrance whispering decay. Little grey oblong creatures scatter from the leaves, tumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to escape your grip. And yet you bury your face down into the mixture all the same. You can just about taste the bitter earthy concoction. Dirt and rot, all the earthy scents romanticized in cities across the planet. Sticky and thick with half disintegrated foliage. Nowhere to run. Only the embrace of wet leaves and frost as even the sun retreats to hide behind layers of cloud. If only you could be so lucky.
Any moment a boot is going to come flying into your stomach. Or a rock hurtling towards your skull to finish the job. It's a change in atmosphere. Thin air suddenly so heavy that the hairs lining your skin feels obligated to reach towards the sky to escape it. Anything to break free from the earth, grounded in the reality standing little more than an arm's length away from you. The reality that there's nowhere to run when your body doesn't have the energy to rise when your mind commands it. Nowhere left to look except up.
There's no sun to blind you. No wind to kick debris into your eyes, nothing to hide the sight that stands before you. Same gray boots, marred with dirt to the point of being a washed out sort of brown towards the soles. Same denim jeans, sturdy and thick having been made for work over any semblance of fashion. And a flash of that same warm mahogany colored jacket before you lose the will to hold your head off the ground entirely.
You're going to die. No future aside from this forest. He'll have all the time in the world to do whatever the fuck he wants and you'll still be here. No strength left to stand. No way to call for help. Not even a mind stable enough to coherently beg for mercy. Helpless. Just like you left Jessica.
Leather covered hands capture your head, fingers hooking under your jaw and thumbs pressed up against your cheeks. Within a moment the very same hands could be around your throat squeezing the life out of you. It wouldn't take much. One angry man and the person who pissed him off laying like a bag of potatoes at his feet. You swallow the knot growing in your throat, along with the thick saliva slowly accumulating in your mouth. It feels like you tried to swallow a fistful of gravel.
The world swims as your head is tilted to the side, nimble fingers guiding your head into leaning every which way. Eventually the hands wander away from your face, only ghosting over your throat to squeeze at the nape of your neck. Through the damp fabric of your shirt, fingers trail down your spine with a steady pressure. He pauses over each individual segment, prodding for something unknown to you. Without another word, the same hands that had been groping around slide up along your sides to hook under your arms.
It won't be long now. He could be planning to drag you to the nearest cliff. Chuck you off the edge to bathe in the waters below. If the impact doesn't kill you, then the water will. And then you would just be rotting at the bottom of a lake, far away from the sun's warmth and any prying eyes. Complete isolation from the greater world. That's what you wanted when you took this job, wasn't it?
For the first time since the sun left to hide behind layers of mist and cloud, your chest left the ground. There's nothing more than the shadowy outlines of boulders to greet you. Well, that and the cold bite of autumn air to press itself to your exposed skin. It's too dark to make out much of anything else.
Within minutes the sheer rock walls that had kept you company for so long were tucked away behind hundreds of frosted pines. You can feel your shirt chafe up against your back. Thin, damp fabric disturbing all the tiny hairs covering your skin. Pins and needles jab into your fingers and toes, threatening to creep further up your limbs and already beginning to form where the open air has access to uncovered skin. The hand pressed into your spine left webs of liquid fire to radiate outwards, compounded by both the surrounding terrain and the man's gait.
Soon enough you were being carried through the threshold of the cabin, once again greeted with warmth and a crackling fire. A distance that seemed to take you hours to traverse, covered before the moon even crept up to the top of the sky. The whole cabin trembled as the door slammed shut, sealing you away from the fresh air and cursing you to suffocate in the stuffy cabin. Absolutely nothing had changed since you'd left. Even the bulky outline of Tim's unmoving body could still be seen strewn over the couch.
Something hard presses to the back of your thighs as you're set on the edge of an already cleared table. The masked man keeps a hand on your arm, pulling ever so slightly to guide you onto your stomach. You numbly obey, feeling grainy wood press into your forearms. Forehead resting on the table, you can still smell hints of the rosemary you mutilated earlier.
An arm slips over your back and under your torso, fingers splayed against your chest. You can hear the masked man's breath, muffled by plastic right by your ear. He's got a folded blanket in his other hand, one that he all but tosses on the table in front of you in place of a pillow. With that your face is coming up to meet the knit blanket, some of the yarn beginning to pill up in places.
Slowly, his arm slips out from under you, leaving you to rest on the cold tabletop. Fingers spread out in between your shoulder blades, palm softly pressing down on your spine. The touch lingers a while, just long enough to make a point. Stay put. You could almost laugh- as if you could go anywhere.
Mercifully, he steps away to busy himself at the countertop. Mugs are swiped off of hooks. He leans up to retrieve an old milk crate from a high shelf, setting it off to the side. In a flash of gray his hand disappears down into the crate. A symphony of metals, crinkled plastic, and muted glass fills the air. Seconds tick by and a pile of medical supplies steadily grows on the counter. Clean gauze still sealed in plastic and a roll of some beige elastic bandage to start. A plastic jug of clear liquid, all the words on the label long since faded away. Tattered rags soon join, muted colors and stray threads evident. With a final push the milk crate is slid up against the wall with a light thud.
Your eyes fixated on the plastic jug perched atop the countertop, its yellowed label peeling a bit at the edges. All the little cuts littering your body seared just looking at the clear liquid, perfectly still and free of bubbles or froth. And they really were everywhere. Scapes covered your elbows, all sorts of tiny nicks on your hands and forearms. Not to mention the soles of your feet. Probably half the reason you couldn't walk.
The masked man swipes a rag from the counter and moves further than your eyes can track. Seconds later and the air is filled with the sound of water mercilessly beating down flimsy tin in an uneven rhythm. With a squeal of metal the torrent is replaced by little taps every now and then. While still out of sight, you can just barely hear his boots meeting the wooden flooring, every footfall closer than the last.
What little candlelight you have is obstructed by the masked man's looming figure. Letting his hand rest flat against the table by your head, he bends at the knee. Blue eyes gaze easily into your own, no longer looking down on you from above. In his other hand, a tattered rag, held down by whatever water he wasn't able to wring out of it.
For the first time in a while, he speaks, "May I?" There's no emotion in his eyes to build on. Nothing in his body language either. A blank slate that's just asked you a question. One that will probably have the same outcome no matter the answer. After all, there's no way he'd go through the trouble of retrieving you only to not tend to your wounds. But then again, why even bother asking in the first place?
Bastard is probably just mocking you. He fucking knows you wouldn't be able to stop him. The blanket distorts in your grip, wool threads easily bending to your will. Better to just look away. Don't even give him the satisfaction of a response. Still can't entirely tell which is worse: an unwilling yes, or a meaningless no.
It was just water. Something to wipe away the debris on your face and skin. To his merit, it didn't hurt nearly as much as it could have. Your skin felt cooler, cleaner with the rapidly drying moisture. Not that you ever wanted some cut up rag anywhere near an open cut.
But you lie still for all of it. You could struggle and thrash about but you don't. This is your decision to make. They can't take that from you. Sure, maybe it's the only one of two options given, but it's a choice all the same. A tug at the hem of your shirt invites air to press itself up to your skin, thus ending whatever compliance you might have been willing to give.
While there was no hesitation in his actions, the man spared you a questioning glance when you stirred in place. Your damp shirt was caught between his thumb and forefinger. It was almost sticking to you, like it didn't want to leave. And the last thing you needed was to be exposed and somehow even more vulnerable.
With the slightest shake of your head, he let go. Instantly you all but melt into the table. No begging, no struggle, no mocking stare. He just turns to let the rag fall back into the sink and fish out something else from the pile of supplies. You can almost feel the exhaustion creep up into your bones, head that much heavier atop your makeshift pillow. That is, until he returns with yet another rag dripping with something carrying a scent reminiscent of a hospital. As expected, the antiseptic fucking hurts. The water stung, but not like this. While irritating, the water was always surface level, only really affecting your skin. Somehow the antiseptic manages to dribble down into any patch of damaged flesh.
So you focus on something else. The rust that formed on corners of the wood burning stove. How tidy and neat the bandages lining your hands are. The now tilting pile of assorted medical shit sitting abandoned only a few feet from you. Every new drop falls heavily from the faucet down into the basin. Cotton being stretched across your skin as your feet are bandaged up, finally free from the sting of alcohol. All the little creaks coming from the rafters...
The strain in your neck all but forces you still under threat of fire, but you don't even need to look to know that there are a pair of eyes burning holes into your body. He's been watching every moment since you've arrived. High up in the rafters, somewhere on the ground cozied into a pile of silken animal skins. And the moment the masked man leaves Brian will be back on the ground level.
You can't fucking deal with that. Not now, not when you're already covered in filth. It didn't matter that your feet had been scrubbed and wrapped in clean cotton slathered in antiseptic. It wasn't enough. What you really needed was some running water. Something hot enough to help you scrub your skin away. Not that it would matter. It's all inside you. Burrowed deep into your skull. You can almost feel his fingers digging into your skin, leaving an invisible grime no soap can remove. Why can't you forget?
You can't help but notice the gunk lodged under your nails. The clothes you're wearing, still damp with sweat and sludge. There might even still be some wriggly little creatures still clung to your clothes not unlike the bits of half rotted leaves still stuck in odd places. Maybe you should have let the masked man take them. At least then you wouldn't still be steeping in the results of your own failure.
The quiet clink of a plate right by your head shatters your train of thought. Any attempts to turn your head towards the source of the noise are quickly shut down by the strain in your neck. Cursing the injuries keeping you immobile, you slump back down to the table. The masked man reaches over you towards the plate. When he pulls away he's got a dark rectangle in his hand. It almost looks like a protein bar. Almost.
Moments later said rectangle is being pressed to your lips. The brick is nearly dry, the only moisture coming from its slightly oily surface. There wasn't much of a smell for you to pick up on. Just a suspicious bar you are apparently expected to eat. You press your lips into a thin line, looking back up towards the masked man with a question in your eyes.
Moments pass without either of you moving an inch. He met your questioning stare and continued to nonchalantly hold it. As if it wasn't weird in the slightest to expect you to eat mystery food directly from his hand. Hungry as you are, it seemed like a bad idea. After what you and Jessica did, there is no way that drugging isn't off the table. You would have to be stupid to willingly take a single bite.
Seeing your reluctance, the masked man lets his free hand come up to rest over your neck. You jolt at the contact. It takes more self control than you would like to admit in order to not start thrashing. Still, you keep your mouth clamped shut. With any luck he'd lose interest. But then again, you were never the lucky one.
Unbothered by your defiance, his thumb starts to rub featherlight lines over your throat. Abruptly the oily bar is pulled away. Instead, the masked man makes a show of slipping it up under his mask. It comes away with a bite missing from it. He doesn't break eye contact even once as he chews. Seconds later after he's swallowed the bite of mystery food, he's pressing the remaining bar to your lips once again.
He wasn't going to stop. At least, not before your willpower broke down completely. Since he was willing to take a bite it was probably safe. Or not that poisonous. An upward glance reveals the masked man's unchanged stare. He didn't seem the slightest bit upset. The hand on your neck hadn't tightened at all. His thumb continued to place gentle strokes over your throat in encouragement.
The same thumb that could be digging into the dip in your neck if he grew impatient. It wouldn't be difficult for him to force you. Not when you could hardly turn your head without something hurting. At this point it would probably be faster for him as well. The thought of being poisoned hadn't left you. For the time being though, it was probably safest to be compliant.
With the last of your resolve slipping from between your fingers, you slowly unclench your teeth. Tentatively you force your mouth open, taking the smallest bite you could manage. You weren't expecting the flavor that spread across your tongue. It tastes almost like jerky, only lacking the extra spices and with a lot more grease. Not to mention the chunks of something vaguely sweet every now and then. Whatever it was, it's worlds better than the last thing you ate. You couldn't complain when you took your next bite. It was crumbly and soft and incredibly dense, but inoffensive.
You didn't fight the masked man when he moved to fetch you another. In all honesty, it might have been days since you had anything that might have passed as a full meal. Poisoned or not, this was a welcome change. Soon after he returned along with a mug of cold tea. You hadn't realized how thirsty you were until the citrusy fluid was filling your senses once again. It didn't make it any less overpowering. But you could appreciate having something clean to drink.
Your fingers reach for the edge of the table. They're met with strings of hot electricity, racing down your arm to fester all along the length of your spine. And all while you're just a couple inches from breaching the table's edge. The shifting of reddish brown fabric fills your vision. The cuff of his jacket, part of a dark gray glove disappearing up into the sleeve. He can't leave. Not while Brian's still around. Your fingers twitch towards the masked man. You need to try something. Anything.
Before you know it, there's a stretch running up along the length of your arm. Accompanied by muscles screaming out their protest in the form of trembles and the undeniable need to pull back, even just a little bit. Like your arm might just call it a day and leave your body if you don't heed the warning. Even still, you don't dare let your grip falter. You can feel the beds of your nails throbbing from prior abuse. How your fingers slip ever so slightly on the conditioned leather. But above all else, you can feel the stability you're clinging to beneath the leather gloves and very apparent plans to leave.
The masked man's head snaps violently and with an audible crack, all to stare down at where your fingers clutched his wrist. Glassy hazel eyes focus in the singular detail, not bothering to even glance in the direction of your face. All you can pick out behind the mask is the tightness in his eyes. Probably somewhere between annoyance and confusion.
Your hand falls limp, drained of whatever misguided emotion drove you to reach out in the first place. Courage? Desperation? Either way, it was a mistake. And furthermore, beyond stupid to think that any good would come of disturbing him. Very in character for you though. Can't go an hour with out fucking something up, after all.
Wood drags against wood as a stool is half kicked from under the table. The masked man takes a seat, hands rested on the tops of his thighs. A militantly straight back, shoulders rigid and square, looking entirely too stiff to be comfortable. There isn't even the slightest tilt to his head, only his green eyes set on tracking your unmoving form.
Most of his worn figure is bathed in candlelight. Orange yellow hues highlighting the deeper scratches and scuffs on the plastic mask. A loosened button on his jacket reflecting the light just a little more than the others. The reality of just how closely the blue gray hood hugs the rim of his mask. Every perfectly straight scar decorating the exposed skin on the left side of his neck.
For a moment, gloved hands take hold of your forearm. A grip far more fitting for a precious sculpture than flesh and bone. And all to press your arm to the same folded blanket you had rested your head against. Hand sliding up until his palm covered your knuckles, smoothing out your fingers flush to the blanket. As scratchy as the knitted blanket is, sure beats the hell out of letting your arm hang limp for the duration of the night.
You'll never be anywhere near comfortable, of course. Not when there isn't even the smallest glimmer of hope for safety. Added to the fact that you might even be in sight of a lookout by now if you'd just fucking watched where you were going. However, all in all, it could have been worse. So, so much worse.