Saccharin『 yandere o.shots』(Requests: OPEN)

Harry Warden ☣️

btw MC is old here lol, late 30s or early 40's. i took some liberty and made it so that it was more vague, is it actually harry? is it supernatural? did he not actually die? that's up to your interpretation.

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ah, valentine's day. it was the day where couples share kisses, hearts and chocolate---well, for the rest of the world, but here in valentine bluffs, canada, it meant the 20th anniversary of the brutal... just brutal, events of harry warden.

call you a superstitious antique but you've always been wary of the holiday, well, it has been 20 years, but an old coot like you who had the tragedy of knowing the guy before... all of this, you lived through the curfews, you've seen him lurk in the corner of your eye whenever you had to go out, you were one of the people who found the first damn instance of his calling card, the young-lings call you paranoid, but you prefer it if they put 'rightfully' first.

the thing is, he actually used to like the holiday, a lot. hiding chocolate boxes around town like it was easter and making handmade confetti-launching cards. you used to... be sweethearts, sneaking boozed chocolate to eat secretly, you'd wait for him to come back every 14th of february and refuse any invitations, if he came late? you had saved some candy for him, always.

and the day he disappeared inside the mines? the day he stopped leaving his house, not even for you? the year where he killed the supervisors? the day he was institutionalized, then escaped? you were... hysteric, as they called you.

but, it doesn't matter, anyway. it's been 20 years, some say he's already dead. and you need your old-geezer vitamins. you opened the cabinet-mirror, popping a feel chalky tablets into your mouth, and drinking the cupped tap-water from the sink.

you closed the mirror, a messy ring of red was drawn on your reflection, like someone grabbed a blood covered soda-can and pressed the bottom against the surface, right above your jaw, circling your shocked-agape mouth.

you blinked, it was gone. you rubbed your eyes until you could see sparkles under your lids, still nothing.

you're getting kooky.

you opened up the gift-shop, flipping the 'welcome' sign after rearranging all the snow-globes and figurines. wiping down a miniature diorama of the town and the ant-farm view of the valentine bluffs' mines.

the door-chime rings, you bump your head under your counter, stumbling a bit but still chirping out a late but cheery "welcome!", climbing over the surface you were ducked under to greet your new custo---

you see a heart-shaped box on your counter, a bow tied around the box to keep it closed with some frilly lace. you opened it, it was some normal looking valentine's day chocolate, complete with the paper-cups, but more generously-sized, like in the old days.

you grab one of them, you smelt it, checking how it feels between your fingertips, the weight, the texture of it all. it was round bonbon with a slight drizzle of white chocolate in a criss-cross pattern with a singular heart sprinkle in the middle.

you bit off a piece, chewing it slightly with your molars to soften it, trying to break it down to feel around for any razors or nails. it melted smoothly on your tongue, it was the exact amount of sweetness you needed, the sprinkle melting along with the chocolate, preventing the soft smoothness be sullied with any crunches.

you blinked, feeling slightly dizzy, it had a slight burn when you swallowed and a faint-aftertaste of alcohol. you grabbed another piece, this time chucking it inside your mouth, this time chewing it, not really bothering to savor it, but just to be tipsy and have something repetitive to keep your melancholic thoughts away, going piece after piece until you were considerably tipsy.

then, your teeth were stopped by something hard in the way, round and solid. you spat it out in your hand and threw it out, along with the whole box. you didn't need to see it to know what it was.

despite your rational thoughts, your more compulsive instincts had managed to get the best of you thanks to the 'treats' you had earlier.

it has been the first valentine's day party in the last 20 years, the kids deserve a break from all the methane smell to enjoy the love in the air. but what's a party without hard booze? of course they had their spiked punch, but aged alcohol, that would rock their world.

you carefully carried the heavy bottle, semi-hidden and cushioned under the heart-patterned paper wrapping, fastened with a lacy bow. you don't remember the name but it was some fancy cork-lid drink you had in your house.

the door easily gave in to your weak push, already ajar. place was dark, but your lack of sight made you capable of smelling the iron in the air and hear the faint splashes under your shoes.

"hello?"

a gloved hand grabs your nape, fingers just shy of completely wrapping around your fragile neck. you're pushed forward, your legs easily agree to the guidance, the bottle easily taken from your arms in an unnoticeable swoop.

then, you're seated, it creaks under your weight in an ear-piercing sound, an iron fold-able chair, you recognized.

a candle is lit, wax drips into the heart-patterned decorative tablecloth, two glasses filled to the brim, with what you recognized to be the drink you brought, reflecting light on the room like a disco-ball.

it was enough to see the room, intestines hanged like garlands around the room, blood everywhere on the walls like it belong with the valentine decoration.

he sat in front of you. the candlelight reflecting in the goggle of his mask making him look like some sort of jack-o-lantern, combining with the angler-fish quality of the light of his helmet.

he grabbed your hand under the table, lifting it above the surface, palm facing away from his mask. back of your hand pressed on the respirator of his gas-mask. the blood on his mask that coated the cylinder of the filter, made a wide 'o' of blood on your hand, a kiss mark, your mind darkly connected, he used blood as lipstick, to kiss your hand like he used to.

you can hear how loud he's breathing, specially with the mask on, bordering on hyperventilating. then, you heard his voice, it was raspy---no, hoarse, not from lack of use, but from how much he haunted the empty streets with his laughter, when he said "be my valentine." it wasn't a question.

---

despite me being... more than a month late, it's still fitting, right?