He doesn't remember much about that night. Small details, nothing very convenient.
He remembers how his heart nearly dropped to his stomach, drowning beneath the acid that pooled around it.
He remembers how goosebumps marathoned on his skin, pulling at the hairs lined against it.
He remembers how his hair, which had reached his shoulders then, made his neck itch. How it rubbed against his collarbone and refused to move even a centimeter, despite his continuous tries to change its position.
He remembers how his shoes, battered and beaten from a late baseball practice, made his feet feel sore and heavy as he walked.
He remembers how the moon was the only source of light in the parking lot. The street lamps had ran dim, almost fully ran-down. Not a single car passed by on the road, unhelpful in providing a second worth of light.
He remembers how he had tried to take off his jacket, having been too hot in the many layers he had been forced to wear for practice.
He remembers the hand that latched onto him, calloused and strong. He'd frozen on the spot, still as a dead animal as the hand ran along his spine.
He remembers the feeling he already described, his heart in his stomach. His chest hurting, a cold, icy feeling running through his lungs, pricking at them in small stabs.
He remembers how his breath stayed still in his throat, sticking to his tongue as he held his eyes shut.
If he didn't see who was touching him, if he didn't give them any sort of reaction..
He remembers wishing, hoping on one of the nearly invisible stars strung above him that night, that whatever figure was behind him would leave him alone.
That they'd walk away and disappear into the night, like a shadow that stretched too far from its owner.
He remembers the feeling of metal pressed against the back of his neck, the laugh, hoarse and croaky, that followed behind its trail.
He remembers crying, how it made the stranger laugh even more.
He remembers how he flinched, only a small amount, when the knife was pushed closer to his skin, cutting into the tip of it.
He remembers feeling dizzy after that, how he smelled chlorine, how it stung his nose and tainted his mouth, before he no longer had to force his eyes close. They shut on their own as he fell unconscious.
That was the last of what he remembered from that night, again, nothing very convenient.
Not that it would matter anyway.
He doesn't remember what day it was when he was kidnapped and brought to where he is now.
He doesn't remember his friends, his family, their voices.
He doesn't remember what the outside world looks like, or what season it could possibly be.
He doesn't remember his birthday, how old he'd be turning.
He doesn't remember.
He doesn't know.
He only remembers that it was dark, as it is now.
That he was alone, that it was quiet.
Nothing has changed much then.
It's dark, quiet.
The only change is that the stranger is with him now, keeping him company as he sleeps.
He's fed from a hand he doesn't recognize, or care to recognize.
He can feel his ribs the more that time drags on. The way his bones ache and scream for more protein, longing for energy that he cannot reach for. That's he's too scared to reach for.
His vision doesn't work here. Everything is dark, safe for the flickering that happens when the stranger comes to pay a visit.
Oh.
He does remember one thing.
His name.
He repeats it, more so to keep himself sane than to remember it.
His name..
Bruce.
Bruce Yamada.
He wonders if his family remembers him still, if they're looking for him.
If his friends are looking for him too.
He doesn't remember them, not really.
He doesn't remember.
YOU ARE READING
BRANCE + RINNEY
Fanfiction𝐎𝐍𝐄-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒 of my favorite ships from 'The Black Phone'. 🧠🥊
