Enamored

LIFE IS LIKE PLAYING CHESS

Those three days in the hospital felt like weeks. It was hard to concentrate on anything but know that there were eyes on her at all times; both human and not.

[name] should've probably been thankful that her ankle was broken rather than her hand because one of those two limbs was more important to her career than the other.

It was in a cast now, and she limped or used crutches to get around. The first day back, Katlyn had to drive her home. She also had to give her an excuse for how she broke her ankle only ten minutes after leaving her house. [name] lied, of course, and told her that she tripped and fell, passed out for a few minutes, woke up, and it was broken. Katlyn didn't say anything after that.

The artist was now home, sitting in her studio.

Somehow, the sigil on the floor was gone. There was no residue to signify that something was drawn here before, and [name] hadn't seen the entity since then, but knew that it was watching. Somewhere.

Thankfully, there were no abnormalities in her home. Nobody had broken in, nothing had been moved or tampered with; it was all like she had left it. It made her feel good about the place she was hobbling around in—well, as good as she could be knowing that there was an otherworldly creature watching her every move.

[name] had a lot of time to think things over as well. The thoughts that were not her own, the way they forced themselves in her mind. At the time, it hurt, like a parasite making a home in a host; maybe that's what Slenderman was trying to be. A parasite to bring its people to life. These thoughts she was thinking... How could she make sure that they were her own? How could she tell?

Her phone had a page pulled up, one that she hadn't opened since Slenderman had broken her ankle. It was a story that left her mind the day she read it. It was more unsettling than memorable. A manipulative killer, able to slip out of the hands of the law on the pretext of his mind. A lonely boy when he was younger, drowned in expectations by his parents, skilled in drawing and the like, who grew up having twisted desires.

This was who it wanted her to paint?

Maybe it thought he and her would get along because both of them were artists. Except, one of them liked to paint with blood, while the other strictly painted with oils, acrylic, gouache, and watercolor. She didn't even want to get into the intricacies of how painting with blood with work and chased that thought away.

There was nothing else to do in her house while she healed. The first day she spent lounging around, growing antsy at the disappearance of her headaches. She was unbelievably sore and ate unhealthy things, chips, and ice cream from the tub because the hospital food was no good and she missed the taste of salty and sweet on her tongue.

Bitterly, she also read up on the psychopath's story, finding it silly at first, then sad, and then it made her angry. Perhaps if this was all she was to do, all their stories would make her feel this way, but [name] knew the feeling would pass, and if she wasn't killed by one of them, it would come again.

The second day, she forced herself out of bed, slowly and forgetfully. The pain in her ankle when she first set it on the floor almost caused her to topple over again. [name] downed two of the pills the doctor prescribed to ease the pain with her morning meal, then sat outside, looking again at the story. It was just a story, but it would soon become real. How would that work? If she asked that, she might as well ask how any of this worked. Why was she the one to bring these people out of her pictures? All she did was paint, so why hadn't it happened before?

[name] cried out of anxiousness, despair, and fear. Questions rattled her mind, sometimes the same, sometimes completely out of nowhere. She calmed herself after a few minutes, her eyes puffy and throat dry, and forced herself into the studio.