Escape (Yandere x reader)

Chapter 1

        As I stand before my grubby apartment, I attempt not to turn around and run back home; the fantasy of having my own home is dissipated by a cynical reality.

I let out a quiet huff of frustration as I open the flimsy door. I am greeted with an even more pitiful sight, a heather gray couch--with mysterious stains-- is perched before a bunny ear TV; the exposed light-bulb on the creaking, ceiling fan flickered occasionally.

Throwing my suitcase and bags onto the shabby couch, I grumble about the gall of the landlord to call this a 'fully furnished studio apartment.' I walk over to the fridge, which was covered in a layer of grime, swiftly placing my water bottle in--trying to not look at the mold for too long.

Rolling up my sleeves, I submit to the ordeal of cleaning for god knows how long. Glad that I went shopping for cleaning supplies beforehand, I open my grocery bags to find my items. Guess I'll have to work before my shift even starts, I think with a huff. Though if I can turn this dump into something aesthetically pleasing, it'll be my magnum opus, I contemplate.

Two hours later, I am covered in a sheen of sweat and dirt, with a semi-clean apartment. Forced to stop in order to get to work on time, I scurry over to my suitcase pulling out my work uniform. The plain brown apron, paired with a white button-up and black slacks.

I fidget with the collar of the shirt, unused to the starchy sensation that caused an insufferable itch, as I walked to the bus stop. In order to not kill my phone battery, I take the time to observe my new environment. The white noise of passerby and cars create a suffocating cacophony, juxtaposed to the superficial suburbs of my youth, filled with more sparse chatter.

Visages of those around me are realistic, no false grins--that often looked more like a grimace-- of soccer moms, scowls and annoyance are clear on men and women as they powerwalk to their offices. I feel no need to create a false cheerful demeanor, with my mother's hot breath threateningly flowing down my back.

The modernistic, blocky architecture of hues of grays paired with black-suited office workers creates a drab landscape; showing a clear power dynamic to the grim faces of the lower class. It seems the city also turns their noses up at us, tasting the bitter taste of disgust. I feel my hands shift, tempted to sketch such an alien landscape. My shoulders tense as I begrudgingly pull out my phone, as a distraction, lost to the world until I hear the squeaky wheels of the bus.

The rocking of the bus is soothing, as I allow myself to briefly daydream, a seldom luxury, indulging in a scattering of ideas that have no connection to reality. A creation with no need to come to fruition, content in just existing, no matter how intangible in reality; ideas of Icarus, Oedipus, and different realities.

My body is left on the bus as my mind drifts into ideas of the abstract, almost completely detached. I am sorrowfully reconnected when the bus comes to an abrupt halt, teetering out of my seat to start a day of mundane work.