Chlorine (Creepypasta x Male Reader)

Six

You sat on your back porch, soft music playing through the speakers of your phone and a thick book in hand. Wind rushed through the trees, making a rustling sound that carried across the expanse of empty field before the clustered tree line. The smell of sage and citrus wafted in the air around you from the candle burning on the wooden side table tucked into the corner next to your rocking chair. Ezra, fast asleep on the steps of the porch, twitched slightly in his sleep. The day was so far perfect for relaxing before your gig the next night and return back to your studies.

The fall term was officially over now, finals behind you and a new set of classes set before you, making it that much closer to your graduation and entry into the work force in the near future. You took a sip of your steaming tea, turning the page and thinking about what possibilities your new classes would hold. New professors and new peers in each subject, a hectic schedule that was sure to make practicing and future shows difficult to continue, as well as possibilities of new relationships that could form over the next few months.

At the thought of a new relationship you sighed out through your nose, marking your page and leaning your head back with your (e/c) eyes shut weakly. You weren't quite sure how you felt about pursuing a romantic partner just yet, not when barely a week before you had broken up with Daniel over text. Which - in your opinion - was one of the worst possible ways to end it with someone. Where was the emotion in a text? Did someone mean that little to someone that they'd just send a text and then block the other's number just like it was nothing?

You would have broken up with him any other way if it had been possible, but seeing as you were a practical coward when it came to conflict, and due to the fact you were so angry and upset with him - among other things on his part - you were really left with no other option than the dreaded Break-Up Text that so many teenagers feared to receive from their significant other.

Which brought you to the fact you had hardly ever dated while you were in high school. Sure, the thought of being able to hold hands with someone and go on dates with them had sounded nice, but the idea never truly interested or was ever really all that important to you when you had grades to worry about keeping up. While everyone of your friends had gone off and dated like there was no tomorrow, you had stayed in at home to work on projects and assignments or to read in your sparse free time. You supposed the true reason was that you weren't a very social kind of person.

Yes, you enjoyed going out with friends every now and then, and you had a great deal many of them to choose from, you hardly ever had the energy to keep up with them for long. It wasn't a physical drain that going out put on you. No - it was an emotional and psychological kind of drain that tired you out after a few short hours. If you had the option to, you would much rather be able to stay at home reading or watching Netflix all day, maybe even work on your solo music. You liked things to be quiet for the most part, but you didn't like absolute silence either. Which was strange because those two never traditionally crossed paths - reading and noise.

The sun is setting when you next look up, your phone gives off a buzz and you open it to see another text from Nate letting you know the address and what time he'll be picking you up. Without your music playing you can clearly hear the ringing that swarms the air like insects on particularly hot summer nights. The noise has been bothering you since the attack a few weeks ago and you're starting to wonder if maybe you should go to see a doctor about it. You've been seeing things out of the corners of your eyes too - shadows and a white blurb that vanish when you look towards where you think they are.

When Nate pulls up outside of your house in his black van you're ready for him at the window seat by the door. You are dressed in an old sweater with the extended sleeves rolled up to your elbows and a pair of old, torn skinny jeans and a pair of converse to pull it all together. You place your guitar case in the back part of the vehicle, Nate's music blasting and screaming from the volume he has it at. The windows are rolled down and he gives you a large smile as you put your seat-belt on.