CAMERON MONAGHAN IMAGINES

Power Couple. (Jerome)

Quick note: Sorry, the gif doesn't match the story, but I'm just so burnt out of Jerome gifs like I figure you all are too so from now on, you're getting Cam for Jerome... XD

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This intense craving takes over your bones. They quiver to quench their thirst.

You count the tally marks you've carved into your cell wall with your pointy nails. It's been 431 days since you plunged a knife through someone. Or commanded their last struggling breath with a rope. Your favorite is the burning. Acquiring the power to coil up someone's flesh, turning it to dust; it's exhilarating. 

The memories echoing through your mind make your mouth water. Your skull faces the pounding of a thousand fists. You flinch back, squeezing your matted hair.

Rats could be living in that nest. Maybe birds. Luckily, you've kept your hair clean of food, but brushing is something you quit long ago. Ever since you had a mental breakdown on day 27. That tally mark is encrusted with brown blood.

Killing is like an addiction. It's an addiction your were born with. Feeling bad for people isn't something you've ever experienced. Gorey movies and massacres have always enticed you. They're a trigger of some kind, making you hungry.

You tap your palms against the cement wall by your bed.

Your first kill was of course, your parents. They've never done anything wrong or piss you off. One night, you couldn't sleep and didn't understand why. At the age of fifteen, you tiptoed to your parents room and watched them toss and turn.

You're sitting criss cross on your bed, rocking back and forth.

A curiosity swept over you. Your teddy bear pajamas draped over your toes as you crept to the kitchen. Clutching a knife, you traveled to their room once more, before hopping on your mother.

You rock faster, colliding your head with the wall.

Fright was your first heroine. Spotting the fear at their dilated pupils gives you an insatiable rush. Your father of course had to come next. Weeks later were your neighbors, classmates, then strangers. Luring the middle-aged men in with sex.

"Ay, L/N! You good for lunch?" A guard whacks a battering stick against the bars of the cell, temporarily yanking you out of your anxious state.

Nodding, you push the murderous thoughts to the back of your mind and stand slowly.

Killing your mother first was about the only thing you have in common with any of your cell mates.

Jerome Valeska.

The clean, red-haired man has kept his eyes on you for the past couple months, but you've never made friends in this joint.

Your addiction takes over every couple of months. Thoughts whirlwind in your mind. You long for that rush of killing.

The cafeteria is compiled with anonymous villains. People who are told they're bad or whatever. Most of these people who think they run the joint have only killed one person.

You pop a squat at an empty table, resuming in your discomfort, rocking back and forth.

Maybe if you stare at one object, your mind will clear itself up.

kill. kill. kill.

Everybody here is an imbecile piece of flesh, ready for harvesting. With one poke of your nail, pools of blood would spill from their organs.

Your heart picks up, muscles itch for activity. It's like bugs crawling beneath your skin, when you just want to wiggle them out. For now, you roll out your neck and shake yourself, curled in a ball on your metal chair.