The Boy In the Cell { Jeff the Killer x Reader }

Your Smile, Laugh, and Presence.

   Jeff's POV~

     The moment she left I started to arise from the table, sliding in the chair with my heel. Sure, we could be escorted to the next room to play chess, or chat with one another for a while, but I wanted none of that. None of the rest of the people here that are fools, the unstable patients, and the doctors themselves. I never do, but today, I really just wanted to return to my cell. And so, the guard took me there, enclosed the door and I finally realized I was situated in entire darkness. The ghostly lit hallways were no longer pale with the strained lights, and instead stunted into black.

     That's normal, I guess. What the others can't see, their eyes can't trick them into thinking is their demons that make them twist and sob. Not that I don't have them as well, but mine are different. Mine aren't extinguished by darkness, or hushed by light, they walk along with me. Never mind that. I sat on my cot, letting those same demons overlook my thoughts of (Y/N) countless times. Her words, smiles, and what I used to find pathetic, stutters. One thing I continued to ignore, however, was her appearance. Appearance is something I've never cared about in anyone other than the curiosity of it in myself.

    Except her, and I hate it. Everyone is just another structure of flesh and bone, without a sign of a unique trait. Bright, stunning blue eyes? Someone else a mile away has them too. Those things never stun me. They never matter. Ugly or beautiful don't mean a thing until you stand out. 

    She doesn't stand out. But she pulls. Pulls at my attention, at my thoughts, and at my time. Every smile, takes away from my common sense. Every laugh disrupts my distraught, and her presence that I've learned to await, throws away my time. I told her my name, and her reaction made me dread every step that she took in the opposite direction of me. I still do, as I run my scarlet clad hands beneath the faucet. I hadn't realized I'd been biting again, teeth dug into the flesh of my knuckles. Habit, I suppose. 

If she didn't visit me again soon, I'd surely be stripped of my skin from wrist to finger tips.

Your POV~

     I had gone home with a skip in my step and his name on my tongue. In reality, the name was plain, and it didn't fit his characteristics at all. But simply because it was his name, he made it work. To me, anyways. When arriving home it was rather late, and I greeted my father, received a kiss on the cheek, and made my way up to bed. I changed into sweatpants and a tank top, fetching my laptop and sitting on my bed. Now and then I would text Isis, vaguely answering her questions of enthusiasm, but I mainly scrolled through Facebook. With disgust, of course. The numerous posts either pissing me off, or making me humorously huff through my nose. Between the lines I always see pictures of short stories, just from the pages I follow, and I'm not oblivious to a specific one. Oh, the infamous 'Jeff the Killer', the many fan-fictions, and fantasies. Thing is, even the real story seems faulted.

     Maybe it's not my place to talk, but anyways. I don't read them anymore, even if they do arise my suspicion and immediate framing of coincidence. I had went on my laptop to tire me for bed, but all I began to do was scroll with a dead stare, replaying the prior events in my head.

    Minutes later I decided it was in vain for me to be on my laptop, and put it away, falling backwards onto my bed. Sadly this was seeming to become repetitive. Laying awake, thinking about his cold  laugh, hesitant smile, and unsettling presence.

Jeff's POV~

     I had brought myself low enough to wonder if (Y/N) thought about me, as much as I did her. At times, I would convince myself she was a nuisance, or annoying. Others, I found myself acting like the average teen, self conscious. Yet the teen-like behavior was started to fade.

Saturday.

Sunday.

     Monday, had all passed by. I didn't sleep, I didn't eat, I took in and spat my medication. Nothing was interesting anymore, without her tapping of the bars and impending questions. I could only sit still so long before any footstep I heard was a disappointment, either too light or too stressed, to be her's.

     The demons whisper these actions are pathetic,  while my veins thread adrenaline and anxiety to my head that tell them they're wrong every time a nurse arrives, calling for me. I can hardly feel the heat or cold to my hands, the wrap so thick and the blood still climbs it's way to the surface, tempting me to begin biting at them again.

     Tuesday, Tuesday night. Can't sleep, jerking the thin blanket away, and back to my chin. I'm so cold, but so hot skinned, and my thoughts are ragged throughout my head. But, everything catches like cloth on a misplaced nail.

     "Kiddo, want to accept a call?" The nurse's voice was equivalent to someone shaking my shoulders, the sound racking my thoughts and breath, halting them both. I unevenly inhaled, the action labored while I turn to her, beginning to sit up. The moment my feet hit the ground the cold gripped my bones, making each step even more numb than my thoughts. It felt like minutes until I reached the bars, gently taking the phone she offered in my hand, pale fingers looking white in the bleached-somber light. All of the switches that had been flipped off by the shock of the call, had suddenly but turned on when I heard the familiar, feminine voice flood my mind.

"Hello?"