Enamored

I WAS CRAZY ONCE

Two murderers chatting normally in a kitchen on a Tuesday morning was not something [name] was expecting to wake up to.

She had heard talking, but the sound was muffled against her securely locked door. A Q-tip was also placed at the crease of her door, so if someone did manage to get inside, the door would bend the center of the Q-tip even if they placed everything back where it should be.

Nobody had made it past her security so far. So far. It irked [name] that someone could in the future.

For now, [name] shook that thought aside, removed her basic security, and held tight on the handle to the door. She gathered her courage and the little hours of sleep she had gotten and opened the door.

The chatter she heard flowed clearer now that there was no obstacle muffling the sound and she could recognize one voice, while the other was unfamiliar; yet, she knew who it was deep down. She stilled, hearing the unfamiliar voice pause, most likely having heard her awakening, and then resumed in conversation.

[name] placed a hand against her chest to calm her jackrabbiting pulse, smoothed it down her shirt, and evened out her breathing.

It's okay, she thought, it's okay.

Stepping through her hallway and out into the open area of her kitchen, she spotted the underwhelming presence of Doctor Smiley. He looked like a more disheveled version of Helen (Bloody Painter, she kept telling herself). Dark, messy hair that curled low and in front of his eyes which was just like the image [name] had seen of him online; black sclera and red irises. There was a bit of stubble that dotted his chin and the sides of his face, and, surprisingly enough, he wore glasses.

"Good morning," he was the first to acknowledge her presence as if he had met her before. She could feel his gaze burning into her, freezing her in place.

"Morning..." [name] nodded once, eyes darting to Helen, who remained masked and unreadable, then back to Doctor Smiley, "did he...tell you everything?"

There were many ways [name] wanted to phrase that question. Did he tell you what was going on? Did he explain to you how you got into this world? Do you know what Slenderman's goal was?

Doctor Smiley tilted his head just a bit so that he glanced at her over the top rim of his square frames, weariness and that tired doctor look in his eyes. He thrummed his hand on the counter in front of him and sighed.

"Yes, unfortunately," he pushed his glasses up his nose so they rested just below the bridge, "it still doesn't make sense how I came out of a...painting." His face crinkled, as if not believing the words himself.

"You think that's the strangest thing of it all?" Helen questioned softly, his mask startling [name] as it focused on her, "she was the one who painted that painting."

Doctor Smiley then turned to [name], and she could feel his gaze, once again, burning into her. The only thing she could think about when he was staring at her was that horrible nightmare.

"Interesting," the man mumbled, eyes flicking down, most notably to [name]'s foot, then up to her face.

The room was now enveloped in a silence that crawled underneath [name]'s skin. It felt awkward now that she regularly had an audience when exiting her room for the day; almost like that small embarrassment she got in high school when walking into a full class of silent students and watching their heads swivel in her direction.

"What about a check-up?"

[name]'s attention shot over to Helen, who stared at nothing but the space of the counter in front of him. His shoulders, the way they curled up and back, shook ever so slightly as he held back a laugh. A tease, he was teasing, but he meant every word of it too. Then, her attention swapped to the other, dark-haired man. A hand rested on his chin, not gloved, looking relatively normal.