My Old Friend (Darkiplier X Reader)

Two

My heart beat against my chest, feeling as if it was going to come out of my body. The rain hit hard against the wooded area. My feet padded against the wet ground as I ran.

Fast, faster. You have to outrun it.

As I reached what could be the end of the forest that I was in, the light from the moon reflected off of the pale skinned creature at the edge of the area.

No. I will not be caught.

"Oh sweetheart, just give up. Give in to me," the demonic voice echoed for miles. Anyone could hear if anyone was around.

I stopped suddenly, spinning my whole body around. As I turned the loud crunching of my ankle echoed. It mixed with its laughter.

I limped as fast as I could, going around in circles. Once it seemed like I was getting to the edge of the forest, it was standing there again.

"Gotcha..." my wrist burned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke in my room, not in the asylum, my body was soaked in sweat. The feeling of chills racked down my spine. The nightmares had stopped, but I knew stressed could cause them. So I wasn't worried.

Should I be worried?

Standing I looked down at my wrist to see the skin was inflamed, and it looked as if I had a burnt on hand print. I shook my head. I'm being dramatic.

I got used to the asylum, the schedule, the routine. I'm a grown ass person, I can take care of myself.

A small knock sounded at my door.

"Hey, (y/n)?" My brothers voice was on the other side.

"C'mon in," I mumbled just loud enough for him to hear.

I was standing at my dresser, throwing clothes on my bed as he stood in the door frame. His arms crossed over his chest, the resemblance to my father was sickening.

"What?" I snapped.

"Whoa calm down.."he put his hands up in defense. "I was seeing what you had to do today?" 

"I have to go to anger management..." there was a slight awkward silence. "Probably go painting after."

My brother just nodded his head slightly and left my room. I rolled my eyes, nosy little shit.

It was odd being home, it was like I didn't belong here. Like when you stay at a friends house for too long, and things start getting weird.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The building that my anger management group was in was an old stone building on the other side of town. The side that my father would look his nose down at. Stones looked like we're cracking, the foundation ready to give out under the pressure.

I know what that feels like.

It's the only meeting this night, it's a small group. That's what my therapist said. He said everyone had been in that same asylum at some point.

We were all alike in some ways, different in others. Some bullshit inspirational quote. 

I arrived at noon, the meeting didn't start for another thirty minutes. The schedule always had me early for everything, except a therapy session. 

"You must be new," a soft voice sounded behind me.

"Oh, uh..." I looked at her startled not sure what to say.

"I've never seen you here, plus you're early. No ones here early but counselors or new people," she smiled brightly at me. "I'm Amy by the way, I can show you around?"

"Yeah, sorry I just got out yesterday and this is my first stop except my house...so I-I'm frazzles I guess," I chuckled quietly.

We made our way into a small auditorium. It smelled like stale cigarettes, and burnt coffee. But something felt familiar about the space, like I was at ease. 

"Yeah, it happens to everyone. My first stop was a mall, I wanted to shop lift, then I came here," a loud laugh erupted from her chest.

She showed me where the concessions would be, where the meeting would take place, and where I could meet with a counselor if need be.

It was 12:30 by the time she got done showing me around. She sat me next to her, and the session start. People talking about their anger, how it churns inside of them, and then they found something that quietens it. Eases the pain.

"Now, (y/n). Would you like to go? You don't have to this session, you can wait. Or you can just let us know the basics about you," Tyler the one over the program announced in his big voice. 

"Yeah, sure, whatever." I mumbled towards him. "I'm (y/n). I have an older brother, my mom died when I was five in a car wreck, I suffer from night terrors, my dads some big ass business man who runs a business. And I'm the mentally ill one who has a lot of anger that just wants to be the next Van Gogh," my voice was quiet, unlucky everyone else's.

"Great, that was great, (y/n)! I'm sure you will fit in just fine here," Tyler spoke at me, not to me, as if he was putting on a show.

Zoning out, I missed the last half of the session. Not caring about what Mister Big Shot Tyler had to say.

"Okay, now next session I want you all to tell me what your rage feels like to you. Not what you want it to be, or what it can be romanticized as. What it truly feels like to you, it could be nauseating, a fire, anything like that."

Everyone started to get up, one at a time. As if they were afraid to leave. They talked quietly in their small groups. Amy looked at me and smiled, she stood next to the concessions with another person.

His masculine figure made my eyes squint, I didn't recognize him from the group.

"Hey!! (Y/n) this is Mark, he's one of the counselors," her bubbly attitude made my eyes roll a bit.

"Hey, I'm (y/n). Obviously." I motioned towards Amy.

"Amy tells me that you just got out, this group thing isn't your thing yet is it?" Marks voice was deep. "I was a therapist there, no one ever wants to do group activities, but give these guys a chance. Definitely Amy here, she'll show you a good time,"

He was her boyfriend. The way he looked down at her, his eyes twinkled at her like some dumb movie.

"Yeah, well I have to go. I'm gonna go paint my rage so I don't have to talk about it, I can show it," I waved at the couple.

"That's really smart!!" Amy yelled from across the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was 3pm by the time that I made it to my studio. My meter for people was at max level, all I wanted to do was paint it out.

What is my rage? What does my rage feel like?

A storm. The electricity. The thunder. The rain. The clouds. Everything about it.

So that's what I painted. I stood in the dimly lightened room and painted a lighting storm. I wasn't good at talking about my feelings.

But I could show them how I feel. Maybe then someone could understand. That's how I got comfortable with my therapist at the asylum. Maybe it'll work this time with the group.

"A storm? I've never seen you paint anything like that," my fathers voice echoed behind me.

"Well, you'd have to actually see my paintings to see anything like it so," I snorted. Not even looking back at him.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, how are you feeling father?" My voice was raw from the lack of water.

"You're having nightmares again, i thought you were better?"

What a joke.

"I am better, nightmares are induced by stress. I'm under some fucking stress, can you not see? Or do you want to send me back? It hasn't even been two days," I turned to him looking him in the eyes.

A pitiful look came across his face. I had never seen him like this before.

A storm was coming. And I couldn't stop it.