The next few weeks had flown by as quick as rockets. I had developed my own personal routine with him in my steps to get both our heads under the water.
Mondays my mind felt closed and blank, so I went and sat in my room for most of the day; I would count the total number of bricks on the front wall of my chimney to insure me, 274, and once that was finished, it was time to repeat it, again and again until lunch came. He was always on a small break for lunch that day, which he insisted he would spend time with me on the porch. He would hold my hand gently as I enjoyed the touch of his hand over mine. My mind would spiral with imagination as he rambled on about sweet nothings, my mind imagined how it would feel if it was cold. How it would feel if it was limp.
Tuesdays I would come out of my room only to go into the room right next to mine. A barren guest room no one rarely ever used. These days would be labeled as safe days. Possibly rehab days. The guest room was the room I felt the most secure in. Kept safe under the bed, I would lean on the cool wooden arches of the bed frame, occasionally picking at the wood's white paint with my nails while my mind drifted off to somewhere no one could catch me. Sometimes a few flocks of copies of people would take looks around the room, trying to find me, yet they eventually gave up and let me claim Tuesday as my own. Tuesdays felt like my favorite time of the week.
Wednesdays, I spent most of the day, rather in the courtyard looking up at the sky, or at the windows taking in any sunlight I would get that day. On these nights I liked to tip toe out of my room just to watch as the men played their games of poker, talk about the outside world, and their own lives. It was as if it was my own little pocket of information from the life I once knew. The life I used to be apart of, something that was never treasured until now, something my mind can only dream of now a days.
Thursday my legs guided me past the rotten smelling rooms, and down to a small dead end of a hallway. Thus it was declared that this small stub of the hallway a shrine to the dead. Which dead? To whom I don't know. If I had went outside the day before Thursday, and happened to pick a few flowers from the overgrown bushes, they would be carefully set down on the cold tile floor as I spent time sitting down in a corner and closing my eyes, setting my hands down on the tiles and feeling over the small indented bumps and cracks to calm myself.
Friday night... he always picked this as his time off of work. So on the mornings I would pass by the guest room, brushing my fingers on the door as a seal to protect my Tuesdays, to make them immortal, yet not forgetting those nights on Wednesdays, and the sunshine in their afternoons, or the dead-end hallway. Then it was time to get myself ready to see him, take a nice hot bath that was always too hot, followed by looking over my deteriorating choices of clothes in the closet. As weeks past anyone could notice how some articles of clothing would go missing, only to be replaced by something else. My mind has always had that slight jolt of paranoia for where those pieces of clothing had went. What he had done with them.
My eyes would stare steadily to the clock set atop my chimney, waiting for it to chime five times. After it did, my legs got me up after hesitating and made my way down to where everyone else had been. He would always be there, chatting casually with the men around the table, occasionally throwing a clever joke here and there. Once his vision caught sight of me however, he stopped before getting up to get my seat. Acting like he was a gentleman that had cared. My mouth would begin to smile softly at the gesture he always did before taking the seat.
About halfway through supper to right after, he would snag something out of his pocket, in the attempts to woo me, as if he saw it as a bus token to spend the night with me. The items had always ranged from jewelry to music boxes to simple flowers, or notes. I would always smile softly from this, taking it and putting it up to my heart, as the weeks went on, I wanted to spend the night with him. Loving it so much but fearing the moments at the same time.
After a little more chatting with the boys, he would take me down to his own room, this is when my heart raced so quickly, anticipating those moments. The lighting was always the same, not a single spec was given from the voids of windows, nor the lights themselves, instead a few candles were spread across the room, all somehow blown out when he was finished. He would bring me to the bed, my body would lay down on one side as he was on the other. Most nights he would push me to go a little farther from the comfort zone. This is what I had feared so much. This was when I imagined him dead the most.
It started with simple things, laying next to each other on that bed, then closer, eventually to on top one another, which grew to more and more intimate things. Never anything below the collar bone, yet it still always worried me, my mind feared how one day he might just go below those borders.
Waking up, I would get up earlier than him, making sure of it, after all, no one gets up at 4 AM. My sleepy, still tired mind would guide me to my room, dragging my fingernail on the wall as it made a soft scraping sound, picking up small bits of the blue paint under the nail. My body would go and pass out quickly afterwards in the bottom of the closet of my room.
Something would then wake me up, rather that be people talking loudly in the hallways, the pitter patter of rain on the roof, or sometimes Papyrus if I was lucky. If he was there, he'd always wake me up with more care than how the other options would have. Once he knew he had my attention, he'd simply inform me that supper was ready, aware that a certain someone would be lurking near my room.
Sans himself had grown to be more strict to Papyrus, always keeping him busy with some new task whether the task be something essential, or a complete goose chase for him. Sans seemed to almost have more paranoia than me.
Yet somewhere inside of me, knew I that my paranoia was a entire ocean that could flood any planet to the brim. Maybe it was all of those psychology courses in college that was calling to me. Trying to pick out and dissect my actions in what my self diagnosis would be.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That was it, the repeating and repeating constant repeating. The rituals that make no sense, the obsession with your own rituals and your compulsions to preform them. My rituals of praising Tuesdays, picking at the paint, counting, constant counting, and that shrine in the hallway. What the root of this was? Anyone would know this one; my god damn paranoia.
Sunday was when my fingers flickered. 1,2,3,4,4,5,6,3,7,8,2,9,0. 0 I feared of. My legs felt numb as I'd simply sit somewhere all day, counting the number of possibilities for how he will finally extinguish this paranoia, this climax of a purgatory, stop letting this hell drag on any longer. Yet once the sun set, I would crawl into my bed, my hands still shaking still counting even as my eyes closed.
And then it was Monday.
YOU ARE READING
Through The Mouth (Yandere Mafiatale SansX Reader) SECOND ACT
Fanfiction(Collab with the wonderful Ashley) SECOND ACT to Vendetta Heist, so please go and read that FIRST before reading this act please. WARNINGS: I own nothing but the story, the fan art belongs to their respected artists, music belongs to it's respected...
