Warnings for this chapter: Implied/referenced child abuse, some mentions of violence. Cover photo isn't mine. Enjoy!
be·gin·ning
/bəˈɡiniNG/
Noun
1. the point in time or space at which something starts.
You wake up slowly, (E/C) eyes opening, shutting quickly when the sunlight hits them. You worm your way out of bed, stumbling over to the closet to find clothing, pulling on dark shorts and a green crop top. You walk over to the bathroom, brushing your hair and teeth, pulling (H/C) hair into a high ponytail. You walk back into your room, pulling on a jean jacket, and tying up your heeled boots. Quickly you scoop up your bag, making your way down the stairs and out the front door.
Locking the front door behind you, you settle into a chair on the porch, bag set down on the ground next to you. (E/C) eyes look up to see the forest stretching out in front of you. You see a flash of color out of the corner of your eye and turn to see a figure standing among the trees.
They're too far away for you to see them clearly, but you can just barely see their stark white jacket and dark jeans. You're getting ready to stand up and approach the person when a horn honks. You jump, turning to see who it is, strange person momentarily forgotten as Mariah rolls down her window to yell out at you.
"What are you, deaf? Come on (F/N)!"
When you turn, the person is gone. You shrug, grabbing your bag.
It was probably nothing.
He slowly climbs the tree up to her window, pulling open the unlocked window, and easily climbing inside. The room is small, but comfortable. Bed pushed against the wall, closet door left open. Her vanity is littered with various objects, a set of drawers next to her bed contains a journal, some books, and bags of food.
He walks over to the closet, fingers drifting over the soft fabrics, imagining the girl who wore them. He lies down on her bed, his head on her pillow. Thinks about how she'd been in this bed just a couple of hours ago. He rolls over, pressing his nose into the pillow. Her presence lingers, strands of (H/C) hair on the bed, the artificial scent of cinnamon and vanilla. A smudge of blood on the sheets.
He sits up, turns his head to stare down at the picture frame on the dresser. He picks it up, relishing the feeling of the cool metal against his skin. The picture tells a story, and he wonders about all the details. There she is, his (F/N) glowing in the light of a setting sun, a smile on her face, an arm around her shoulders.
She's wearing a loose white dress in the picture, and he finds himself obsessed with the hollow of her throat, the curves of her shoulders. All of that smooth (S/C) skin.
He feels his throat dry at the thought of cutting into that skin, of marking her up so thoroughly that people would look at her and know she belonged to him.
He pockets the picture frame, shutting the drawers behind him. He exits the same way he entered, and he has half a mind to come the next day as well. He sits in the tree for a moment, mind whirling, imagining the feeling of soft hair and warm skin against his hands.
Soon, he thinks.
Soon she would be his, and there would be no escape.
YOU ARE READING
Walking Tragedy
FanfictionJeff the Killer x Reader ALSO ON MY QUOTEV ACCOUNT Velvet soft skin, a bright smile, (E/C) eyes. He wants to tear you apart, wants to destroy you. He wants you in the worst kind of way. You aren't sure how to feel about that. Or, the one where you'...
