The Chains That Bind - MLM (John Kramer X M!Reader)

Chapter 6: Fractured Memories

The quiet of the room weighed heavily on your mind. After witnessing the horrific test John had shown you, the gravity of his philosophy became harder to ignore. He had called this transformation, rebirth-but you weren't sure what you were becoming. You were no longer the same person who had entered this hellish place, but whatever you were now, it still didn't feel like someone whole.

That night, sleep eluded you. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw your father's face, indifferent and cold, as he left you bleeding after the pendulum trap. The ache of the wound stitched into your side throbbed with each painful breath, and you couldn't escape the weight of your memories pressing down on you.

The past never felt far away, especially now, in this place where suffering was turned into currency, and survival had to be earned through pain.

............

You were seven when you first realized that your home wasn't like the homes of your classmates. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and your father had come home early from work, reeking of alcohol as usual. His heavy footsteps echoed through the house, sending a wave of dread through your small body as you sat on the living room floor, your schoolbooks spread out in front of you.

The door slammed behind him, making you flinch. You kept your eyes on the math homework in front of you, trying to disappear into the numbers, into the neat rows of problems that made sense, unlike the chaos that always erupted when your father drank.

"Why's it so damn quiet in here?" he slurred, stumbling into the room.

You didn't respond. You knew better than to speak when he was in one of his moods. His anger was like a ticking time bomb, unpredictable and volatile. You learned early on that any answer could set him off.

"Answer me, boy!" he barked, kicking one of the books across the room. The corner of the book hit the wall with a sharp crack, but you didn't move to pick it up.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you kept your head down, refusing to look at him. You thought if you stayed quiet, stayed invisible, maybe he'd lose interest and leave you alone. But he never did.

The blow came hard and fast. His hand struck the side of your head, sending you sprawling onto the floor. The sting of it bloomed across your face as you tasted blood on your lip. You blinked back tears, biting down hard to keep from crying out. Crying always made it worse.

He loomed over you, his breath heavy with alcohol, his eyes wild and unfocused. "Don't you ignore me," he spat, kicking you in the ribs for good measure. "You think you're better than me, huh? Think you can just sit there like I'm not even here?"

You curled in on yourself, protecting your head and stomach as best you could. You had learned to make yourself small, to weather the storm until it passed. He wasn't a big man, but his rage gave him a strength that you couldn't match, no matter how fast you tried to run, no matter how small you tried to make yourself.

It always passed, eventually. He'd tire himself out, or pass out on the couch, or leave to get another bottle. You just had to survive long enough for it to end.

That night, after he had finally left you alone, you crawled into your bed, holding your bruised side and trying to breathe through the pain. The quiet of the house settled over you like a suffocating blanket, and you wondered why your life felt so different from the other kids at school. They had families that hugged them, parents who smiled and asked about their day. Your life was a far cry from that.

The bruises healed, as they always did, but the fear never left. Every day was a careful balancing act-keeping out of his way, avoiding his gaze, staying silent when you wanted to scream. As you grew older, the punishments grew harsher. Sometimes it wasn't just a slap or a punch-sometimes he'd throw things, break furniture, tear apart the house in a drunken rage.