Waiting The World (Vincent X Reader) (Dead plate)

4: The Cycle

 My mind runs wind as I park my bike, making my way back to my apartment. Why was he so set on watching me? There has to be more to it than just monitoring me... As I close my door behind me, locking it, I can't help but look at the present. Placing it on the counter and carefully unwrapping it, steam wafts into my face. A beautiful Quiche Lorraine meets me, with herbs sprinkled over top. Grabbing a fork out of the nearby drawer, I gently cut into it, the soft mix of eggs and cream accepting my utensil welcomely. Taking a scoop, I hold it in front of my mouth, poised and ready to eat it. But glancing up, I see my reflection in the neck of the fork.

You don't need this. Put it down. You're already-

I close my eyes, hiding from my appearance. Another part of me desperately fights back.

Would it not be rude to let this meal go to waste? He was so polite about it, too; it would be an insult to refuse such a gift. And we have to deserve it, after all our hard work today.

You deserve nothing. Everyone was right about you: You're a pathetic waste of space. Don't eat it. Don't eat it. DON'T EAT IT.

But I-

Shoving down the voice, I put the fork down, before hiding the dish in my almost empty fridge. Keeping my gaze on the floor, I plop down on my bed, staring at my hands. The voice echoes through my head, insults I buried inside over and over again resurfacing.

You're a failure. A worthless. Fucking. FAILURE. Every word they uttered about you was right.

I clutch my arms, my nails digging into my flesh as I shake my head; I don't want this. I don't want the thoughts, or the words. I don't ever want to hear them again. As I sit there, my thoughts tearing me apart, a small voice calls from the back of my mind.

"You've done great, for someone just starting today. Not a single customer complained about your service. Can you accept a compliment for your work..."

Despite the circumstances, I chuckle at the words. The contrast between the strict appearance of Vincent and his surprisingly kind words is just amusing. Giggling quietly, my thoughts slowly turn towards my day today. The job itself isn't that bad. And despite my hesitancy to trust, Vincent doesn't seem that bad. He noticed you're flinching, yet he didn't comment on it. I wonder why that is? Laying back, I think over my day, smiling softly. Before I know it, I'm drifting off to sleep.

Screaming. The agony in the voice isn't foreign. I know the voice like the back of my hand; It's my own. I know what I'm going to see on the other side of my eyelids, and I know I have to see it. And as my eyes open, I brace myself for the memories.

Standing there, I see her again. The girl there doesn't see me, nor sense me at all. Tears stream down her face as she pleads, helpless. In front of her, mother is crouched on the floor, hiding her face. Father; Oh, father. He belts out insults, taunting her as he kicks. Mercilessly kicking, slapping, yelling, I watch as younger me hides behind the couch; I know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of his anger. I don't try to protect the girl; I can't.

Locked in place, all I can do is stand and watch. And so, I witness the scene once more. Mother stops fighting, falling silent. And he comes looking for me. The vicious cycle repeats over again. I'm trapped in a memory I can't fix. Maybe, If I did something different, she would be okay. And then I'm falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Next thing I know, I'm- I'm in a freezer? This isn't normal. The dream never changes. Never. But I'm so cold. Sitting up, I blink. I'm surrounded by carcasses. Skinned animals hang from hooks attached to a ceiling so high up, it might as well not exist. Walking around sluggishly, I explore the room. Blood is splattered on every surface. The stench of rotting flesh hangs in the air. Walking more, I see a grayish rectangle in the distance. The door. Breaking into a sprint, I take off, dodging corpses and puddles of crimson.

Just as I reach it, though, I'm pulled back by my waist. Looking down, I finally see it; I'm on a hook. Piercing my stomach, the tip gleams red. Pain shoots through my body at the sight, causing my knees to buckle underneath me. NO, my mind screams at me, you're right there! FIGHT IT! I thrash against the hook, exclaiming as quietly as I can. I can't place it, but I know I need to be as quiet as possible. the metal tears through me, scraping against my bones. Blood drips endlessly down my body, pooling at my feet. Despite the pain, I lunge for the handle, managing to wrap my fingers around it before being pulled back by something more.

Risking a glance down, I scream at the gory sight that meets me. The hook tore me in half, the only thing holding me together, also, in a twist of unfortunate luck, being the thing the metal holds to. My spine. I let go of the door, collapsing backwards and giving myself more slack on my leash of death. Fighting tears, I curl into a ball. It's worthless. I tore myself in half for nothing. I'm stuck. You failed again.

"Shh... There, there. You'll only hurt yourself worse."

That voice. The proud, malicious tone of it. Vincent? Turning around, my thoughts are confirmed; Vincent stands barely 5 feet behind me, a butchers' cleaver in his hand as he stares at me with that infamous look. He snorts.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Look at you. You're a mess!"

Circling me like a vulture, he watches as any strength I still had seeps out of my body. The way he says that is oddly familiar, though. But before I have time to think about it more, He pounces, pinning me on my back as he holds the cleaver over his head.

"Always so slow to trust, yet so quick to think. Doubting everything is no way to live, don't you think? though I suppose it doesn't matter to you anymore, now does it? Goodnight."

As he brings the knife down, I close my eyes, my vision fading to black.