three. in my head.
Blood contaminates the snow of Valentine's evening and the miner steps cautiously out of its way, pickaxe leaving a thin trail as it slices through the snow. His gloved hand clutches a heart shaped box of chocolates and a hand-written note. His mind is hazy but his urges are murderous despite the blood he'd already spilled.
He reaches his desired location and sees a light from the home illuminating the garden, he doesn't register it, simply walking around the back of the small home. Thankfully it's secluded, a homely location surrounded by trees, the perfect murder spot.
He buries his thoughts, no. He will not kill her. Anyone but her.
He stands still for a moment, watching her window. The curtains are open and the lights are on but there's no movement. It's her birthday, he recalls, on Valentine's day. What a curse.
The day that haunted her so dearly two years ago happened to have occurred on her seventeenth birthday, yet no one had thought to mention it. He feels guilt for ruining such a day. He had been a monster. And he will fix those mistakes.
He wedges the pickaxe into the brick wall, ignoring the noise as he makes his ascension, placing the chocolates on the window ledge as he pulls himself up. It's only on the second floor, how unsafe. Anyone could climb up and attack her, any of the evil fucks that live in that town.
He stops his enraged thoughts, now is not the time.
The window is only propped closed and so he pulls it outwards, allowing himself entrance. Her room is empty but quiet music strings from a radio beside her bed. There's a room attached to hers and he can hear running water, she must be in the shower.
And she left her window open? He'd have to guard her safety better if she wasn't going to help herself here.
He places the chocolates on the edge of her bed, taking a seat beside them, his pickaxe head thuds against the floor as he twirls the handle. Little red splotches appear against her vinyl floor and he frowns beneath the mask, lifting it to lay across his legs. The letter remains in his hand, such a vulnerable object, he can't just leave it there. He must hand it to her.
Would she scream? Would she cry? He can't imagine her reaction would be anything pleasant. After-all he'd slaughtered her friends before her eyes, he can't imagine she'll reciprocate his feelings just yet.
But Tom, she liked Tom. Perhaps she didn't know him all that well but the thought of her unknowingly being respectful to the personality he didn't know lived within him, was absent-mindedly a comfort.
The water stops and the miner grips the handle tighter, letting go once he realises how menacing that can be perceived. Perhaps he should've taken the suit off, but no, she needs to see him like this. The real him.
"Mom, are you in my room?" Lyra calls from behind the door, securing her body in a towel and letting her wet crimson hair fall down her back. Hearing no response she frowns and twists the door handle, nails quickly tucking the white towel under the bottom layers to secure it.
He sees her fear, as soon as the door opens and rises to his feet, the pickaxe is discarded on her bed along with the letter and his hand covers her mouth. A scream is trapped within her shaking frame and she can't help but think back to that night, having Kurt's hand over her mouth to keep them hidden from the man stood before her.
She doesn't fight him, not like he thought she would, she just breathes, heavily and presses her back against the door frame. He huffs and slowly removes his hand, wagging his finger in the air as if to tell her to quieten down.
He turns his back, retrieving the chocolates and the letter, half expecting her to have locked herself in the bathroom when he faces her once more. She hasn't moved, lips parted and eyes wide, she's frozen against the wall.
He shakes his head at her poor survival instincts and takes a thumping step back towards her, extending his arm to offer her the chocolates. When she makes no move to take them, he steps forwards once more.
Her eyes don't leave his through the mask and shakily she reaches for the chocolates. His masked breathing fills the silence as she nervously removes the bow from the box, revealing the various designs of bite-sized chocolates.
"Thank you, H-Harry." He smiles beneath the mask, she knows his name, and she's grateful. He knew she'd be grateful once she got past all that fear.
She sees the label, the scribbled handwriting asking her to be his bloody valentine. The label declares it's from Tom and it's almost as if all air has been stolen from her lungs. Everything pieces together in her mind, how the murders began again once he came back to town. How they're ever so more brutal than they had been years ago.
It wasn't the same killer, but perhaps he thought he was. She offers a frightened smile, pleading she'll get away with her life after the interaction.
He reaches towards her once again and she can't help the shiver that descends her spine but she hides it by pushing away from the wall slightly, adjusting her weight. He offers her paper and she accepts it gratefully, despite the pounding of her heart in her chest. She can feel her blood pulsing with every breath she takes.
She takes the paper and unfolds it carefully, avoiding a print of blood that had stained the corner. She begins to read and he watches patiently, observing her beautiful reactions.
In shadows deep, where darkness creeps,
A killer's heart, a secret keeps.
With eyes of coal, and heart so cold,
A tale unfolds, of love untold.
He wears a miner's suit of black,
A guise to hide his true attack.
But in his soul, a flicker stirs,
A love that burns, but never blurs.
He spies a girl, with fiery tresses,
A beauty rare, her presence blesses.
Her hair, a flame that lights his way,
Her laughter, like a sunlit day.
He yearns to speak, to make her see,
The love he holds, pure as can be.
Yet fear consumes his every thought,
Of causing her the pain he wrought.
For in his heart, he knows it true,
To harm this girl, he cannot do.
His love, a flower, fragile, rare,
He'd rather die than cause her despair.
So in the shadows, he stays confined,
A love that's unrequited, but kind.
He watches from afar, his heart resigned,
A killer's love, forever confined.
He won't hurt her. It burns into her mind. He isn't the man that attacked them two years ago, he was terrorised too. He's sick, he's hurt people but he needs help. He's a murderer. She's torn, frightened but not fearing death any longer.
She looks back at him, gazing intently behind the mask, she pictures Tom, his frightened forest eyes as he watched the pickaxe held above him. His curled vulnerable form as he waited for death. Harry is the monster, and he lives inside of this poor man.
"Thank you. This is very kind of you, Harry." She finds strength in her voice. He won't hurt her. She tells herself again. He won't hurt her. It repeats through her mind until his frightening exterior is burnt away. She pictures Tom and smiles warmly.
"Yes, I'll be your valentine."
YOU ARE READING
starry eyes ✮ slashers.
Fanficdrawn to the darkness and mystery, Lyra's fascination with the macabre takes an unexpected turn when she finds herself falling in love with the very entities that haunt others' nightmares.
