Villains ➵ bill skarsgård a.u.

nineteen

I walked over to the door and pinched my nose before unlocking it to prevent myself from breathing in the smell inside the bathroom. He might've cleaned himself up, bit the scent is definitely still in there even if the windows are open. As expected there he stood on the other side, and I was partly taken a back. He didn't look like an entirely different person, nonetheless, he still looked better than how I found him curled up and roughly fitting under the bedframe. His face was traceless of any dirt, revealing his pale skin beneath and the brownish cut on the side of his cheek and his lip. Crystals of water dripped from his drenched dark hair and beard, my bright green towel hanging from his shoulder. Dalton's shirt fit him nicely and I would have never known. However my sweatpants barely reached his ankles.

“dry yourself up.” I instructed, referring to the mess gathering on top of his head as I let him pass through. He padded over to the side and sat down the edge of my bed again where he was previously, cautiously rubbing the towel into the tangles of his hair like someone was going to tell at him if he does one wrong move. But be honest, I understand. Perhaps he had realized now how awkward it is for me to have someone I didn't know use the only towel I had, and sit on the very mattress I spent my nightmares in. I was in the exact same position when I spent my first night in this house without my parents. Lonely, scared, and most of all fucking exhausted from crying. Took me a year to finally get comfortable with Uncle Ron and Aunt Marianne.

I stuck my head into the door, taking one quick glance on the bathtub before pulling it shut. The mess wasn't that bad. There were only a few stains on the tub, nothing I can't fix with one bleach scrub. When I looked back he was just sitting there, silence falling in the room as his eyes examined each corner of my room, nevertheless, I get the feeling this wasn't the first time he had done that.

Hitching, I crossed my arms below my chest, gnawing on my bottom lip as I embrace the unwonted feeling of my lungs squeezing even though the smell was surprisingly gone, the scent of the cologne I had sprayed earlier now lingering in the air instead of his stench. I didn't know if it was impatience which burned through my skin or hunger, but I definitely wanted to puke again. I still needed to call Georgie and tell her I was alright, and for that I need to remain collected. However I was having second thoughts. Certainly Jumper had already told her about the clusterfuck I had once again shoved myself into, and I don't know how else I'm supposed to explain. I didn't want to repeatedly tell everyone how stupid I am for letting this happen.

His piercing green eyes finally land on my face, loosening the paranoia knotting in my chest as I stood there in front of the bathroom door contemplating my life. “I apologize for the mess.” He mumbles. “I would help you tidy up if you'd like.”

“No need.”

His gaze trail away from my face, down to my crossed arms, his lips pressing into a tight line. “Well, you don't necessarily look like you could do things on your own yet.” he justifies, “And it's the least I could do.”

Of course I could do things on my own. I don't need anyone to help me. Even if my arms are all fucked up, I've washed suffocating amount of dishes for the past week despite Uncle Ron's constant reminders to not do them, and I've repeatedly soaked my cast in the rain. Speaking of which, I haven't felt it hurt since I dove into this monstrosity, and I can't say I'm thankful.

“I said it's fine.” I huffed, caught off guard by the venom spitting from my throat. I was still angry for some reason, adrenaline remaining circulating under my skin. But then again, I shouldn't be surprised. I had plenty of reasons to be furious. I needed to get away from him even just for a split second so I could drag myself back to decency. I can't keep doing this to myself. Swallow each drop of sting at the back of my throat. A lot has happened today, and I haven't even had the chance to process them  yet. Someday it's going to blow up, and before I know it I'd end up like Jumper inside the therapy center; wrapped up in cotton hospital dresses, thighs and arms warm and tender with wounds. It took us at least two weeks before we saw her again, but when we did she seemed like a different person. Like every piece of her had been ripped and replaced.