Villains ➵ bill skarsgård a.u.

eighteen

“Adrianne? Is everything alright in there?” Uncle Ron's voice rang behind the door, followed by the jiggling of the knob as he tries to open it.

My eyes widened in both fear and desperation as I sat still in the floor, my skull screaming in paranoia. Uncle Ron doesn't go to my room a lot, but when he does it's either because I'm sick or in need of help on cleaning my cast. And at the moment it's neither of those reasons.

“Adrianne, what are we going to do?” He whispers, his eyes frantically shifting between the door and my face, seemingly pleading for assurance.

I could just say it right? I could open the door and reveal to Ron the burden that's already crippling my ability to make rational decisions. The burden that followed his daughter home and entered my window and slept underneath my bed for two days; and then perhaps I would get my peace of mind. Nonetheless, of course I couldn't do that. Not only will Uncle Ron freak out, Aunt Marianne will follow and then before I know it the situation would blow up and Ericka and Ella would find out. Although they haven't messed with me for two days, I'm certain they're only trying to find the right time to ruin my life again; and this is one of good points to start. They're home, I know they are. Uncle Ron is still grounding them because of what I said about Ericka three weeks ago. The thing that started this shithole in the beginning.

I shot up my feet, my limbs wobbly as I vacillate between the stranger and Ron. I looked around my room, my heart jumping each knock on the door.

“Adrianne, open the door!” Uncle Ron orders, his voice physically hurting my ears.

“Go hide in the bathroom.” I instructed sternly and he stood up, quickly running into the bathroom and shutting the door. Once he was out of sight I walked over to the door, wiping my hair out of my face and straightening out my sweater. “Just a second!” The room reeked of dead rats still, his scent lingering in the air, and I'm afraid I won't be able to hide that from Ron's nose.

I finally swung the door open. Uncle Ron stood on the other side, in his bright blue button down, his eyebrows furrowed as his blue eyes examined my room behind me. He looked a lot like Connor, copper black hair with speckles of white here and there and a wide nose, perhaps a bit older now because my father had died in his late thirties. When I had first moved in completely he told me how sorry he was over what happened to me and that he missed my dad dearly. I didn't really know but maybe they were close. Otherwise, my parents wouldn't have left me to him.

His nose scrunches from the smell, a cough tearing out of my throat as I fight the urge to vomit.

“Is everything alright?”

I nodded, covering my mouth with my wrapped up knuckle and the coughs grow impenetrable. “I'm just feeling a little sick, I'll come down in a bit.” Although I know I probably won't be able to eat, not now that there's a stranger in my bathroom and I'm hiding him from my family. Other than that, I genuinely feel like shit. My throat was sore, my eyes stung, and my skin was warm from fever.

“I told you not to walk under the rain, didn't I?” He sighs and shakes his head, folding his arms below his chest. It was the exact same way he reacted when I had shown him my limp arm covered in bluish-purple bruises and white circles, before he drove me to the hospital. “How many times do you have to be at risk of getting sick before learning to listen to me?”

“It's fine, Uncle Ron, It's nothing serious.” I assured, and his eyes land on the new cast on my hand. He reaches for it and examines the brown blood stain peeking from the bandage.

“what happened to that now, did you break your hand again?”

“No, I didn't. Just cut myself in chemistry.” I lied, “We were doing a messy experiment and one of the flasks exploded, jabbed my hand into the shards.”