Jeff The Killer X Blind!Reader [Read-Dsc.]

Chapter 14

"Commence Test Number 3." That metallic voice sounded from somewhere I couldn't see.
I glared at the white walls around me, searching for the dark spot of a camera or window. Anything that told me how they were watching.
There was nothing.
A ragged growl loosed from my throat as I threw my eyes around, searching for any sort of exit. My bleached starchy clothes clung to my raw skin, itching it with the coarseness of the material. My small body was shaking with anger and fear. My voice rang out in the cold room with the youth of a 10 year old.
"Let me out!" I yelled into the whiteness, still searching for the disembodied voice's owner. There was no response besides the telltale whirling of machines I couldn't see within the walls and floor. I stumbled backwards as a drain opened up in the ground, releasing some sort of gas. It distorted the whiteness of the room as it spread across the floor and began to lift into the air.
My breaths quickened in fear of the unknown, stumbling backwards till my back connected with the wall. I called out again, my young voice filled with desperation.
"Please!" I yelled with rising fear. "I want to go home!" I cried out, wrapping my arms around my torso as I noticed the gas rise in the room. "I want mommy!"
When it reached my face, it swirled around my form and slipped into my frenzied lungs.
The invasion caused immediate pain. I doubled over in an instant coughing attack, feeling the hacks move my small frame. I tried to hold my breath, but the lack of air caused me to gasp new mouthfuls of the sickening gas into my lungs and burn the insides with a pain I had never felt before.
I gathered my courage and coughed out a last plea, "plea- augk, uck- please, stop!" My frail voice called out, cracking with immaturity.
"You can stop this." The disembodied voice responded, void of emotion or inflection. "You know what will stop this." The voice continued, not a drop of feeling in it. It almost sounded mechanical. I knew what it was referring to.
"But- auk, uck – but, I can't!" I struggled to say as the gas thickened around me. "No-Not again." I whispered out, falling to my knees as the pain intensified in my lungs. There was no response, no sympathy – only agony.
I held out my left hand, clenching and unclenching it carefully. The lack of oxygen was making my brain fuzzy and movements strange. I felt light, like a feather. A heat seared through my gut, causing me to cry out into the thick gas and cough harder and eyes burn. My hand clenched into a small fist and I felt the heat leap up my arm. I cracked my eyes open just in time to see a flash of shadow around my hand. Just for an instant, there was a mass of... something clinging to my arm.
"End Test Number 3." The voice sounded from all around me, emotionless and cold. Immediately, unseen fans began turning and the gas quickly cleared out of the room. I was relieved as I could once again gasp without pain. I glanced at my hand, which was now its normal skin tone color. The darkness was gone.
Fresh tears rolled down my cheek as I sat down heavily, staring at my hand. I really hated it when they made me do that.
I really, really did.
--
When I woke from the memory, fresh tears were still falling down my face. They followed the rivets left by the old scars. My mask covered them, but the feeling of them slipping from the corners of my eyes to the fabric of my pillow was scary. I hadn't cried in a long time, and I didn't want to now.
I quickly sat up, forgetting the damage inflicted on my body the day before. I hissed in pain as I felt both of the wounds pull along with their bindings, bonded into the fabric by dried blood. A fresh dampness spread out from the wounds, seeping new blood into the old bindings. A sigh glided past my lips.
"Time for new bandages." I mumbled to myself as I pulled out of the covers and gingerly placed my feet on the floor. I kept my face down, my neck felt as if it couldn't support the lingering weight of the memories. I hate those memories, why do the dreams have to bring them back?
I felt the drying coolness of the tears as they evaporated or absorbed into the fabric of my sweatshirt. I took an unsteady breath and tried to push the unsavory memories back into their pit.
"_________." A voice called out softly, quietly. My head snapped up in its direction, realizing it belonged to Jeff. His presence was fully awake and he seemed to be sitting on his bed, facing me. A tiny wave of fear flitted through my mind, tensing my muscles and sharpening my focus. I couldn't help but recall the previous day's chase and fight. What would I do if he were still in that mood? He didn't feel unhinged currently, well no more than usual. Did he remember everything? Did he notice, in his messed-up state, the power that surged through my arm when I hit him?
"________, look at me." He said with a little bit of purpose. If this were a different circumstance, I would laugh – but it's not funny. It's not funny he doesn't know I literally can't look at him. It's actually quite sad.
"I..." Jeff started and then faltered, thinking. "The others told me that I... forgot who you were and... attacked you." He explained haltingly, uncertainty in is voice. "They wouldn't explain much more, but they said you knocked me out." He continued. "Is that all true?" He asked, those his tone implied he already knew the answer.
"Yeah, pretty much." I replied, feeling cold and depressed from the lingering memory.
"How close was I to killing you?" He asked bluntly, seeming more curious than anything else. I paused in thought, debating on how much detail I wanted him to know if he really didn't remember. As I recalled the struggle, my hand instinctively went to my chest and pressed securely over the wound near my heart. I felt a need to leave the room as I recalled the encounter. Fear is a powerful emotion and now tainted my interactions with Jeff.
"Your knife was in between my ribs before I managed to hit you." I muttered, hand still over my heart. His mood was surprisingly void of turmoil. It was calm. His steady mind was dashed with a wave of guilt and further curiosity. There was sound of fabric rustling as he stood up and walked over to me.
"Look, I'm sorry. I can't remember what happened, but please understand it's not you." He told me urgently. "I... I killed my brother... I just can't seem to stop it... sometimes." He revealed in a voice barely above a whisper. My eyebrows raised and I tensed up again. He was revealing a lot to me, more than he ever had. His mind was wide open and he felt truly apologetic. Did he trust me, or was he trying to make up for the near-death experience?
I stood up and found his shoulder with my hand, barely letting it touch him. I didn't fully understand the gesture but knew it was supposed to be comforting.
"I think I understand." I told him, a small smile coloring my voice. "Thanks for telling me." I continued, keeping to the comforting voice. "Let's just avoid it happening again." I replied, keeping my voice light.
"Mm'kay." He responded, happiness leaking back into his mood. I smiled under my mask and sauntered over to the bathroom, completely aware that my back was to Jeff – a move that hadn't gone so well last time. My mind and body were on high alert, tuned into Jeff's position and mood. I was half expecting another attack.
However, the Jeff that was present now was the Jeff I had originally met, complete with an open mind and steady happy glow. There was little danger as of now, so I continued with what I was doing. Knowing the bandages needed changing before the congealing blood sealed the fabric to my sensitive skin, I bent to search for the supplies. Jeff's footfalls alerted me he was trailing behind me. He stopped in the doorway of the bathroom, watching me fish out the bandages from under the sink.
I stood up and set out the supplies, feeling Jeff's focus on me. I walked softly over the doorway he was standing in, my hand finding the edge of the door.
"I'm going to change the bandages, ok?" I asked, moving the door to indicate I wanted to shut it.
"I'll help." He said easily and took a step inside.
Oh, hell no.
"No, that's okay. I've got it." I explained uncomfortably, biting my lip under the mask. Though it'd be nice to have someone else wrap the wounds, I still wanted to keep my marred skin quiet. I was already a weakling in Jeff's eyes, no need to add to that feeling by showing him a litter of marks all over my body. Not to mention I hadn't shown anyone the marks – ever. It just felt better to keep them to myself, my own personal reminder.
"__________, I'm the one who put those injuries there... I'm gonna help you heal them." Jeff rationalized confidently. Before I could come up with a clever response, his hands had already reached out and found the bottom of my sweatshirt. As his hands started to lift, I freaked out.
Do these people have no sense of decency? Of modesty and personal space? Jeff seems to not think twice about lifting someone's top off – the hell is wrong with him?
"H-hey!" I yelped, jumping back and pushing the sweatshirt back down over my lower belly, smoothing it back into place. I scrunched back, braced to defend myself if need be. "Don't do that!"
"I just want to help!" Jeff murmured, frustration tinting his voice. His mood darkened immediately and his mind swam with feelings of... frustration, guilt, and rejection? "But you keep pushing me away!" He continued, hurt coloring his tone.
"I know I've hurt you – I know we're different. But seriously! Every time anyone comes close to you or invites you to something, you spit it back in their face!" Jeff exclaimed, releasing pent up emotions verbally. "When we first met – I thought you were better than that!" He continued, obviously needing to vent. "I believed all the things you said about knives and killing and fighting – but they were lies." He said dismally, voice dropping.
"You aren't like that." He paused. "You're... you're..."
"Weak." I supplied, coldness in my voice. He didn't answer, but his mind was clear enough.
"________... You can trust me... just let me help." He finished, voice almost taking on a pleading sound. His mind shifted and there was a dash of pity in his thoughts, pity for my situation and lack of skill.
"...No." I replied. Pity, sympathy, shame were all the same to me. His mood was sickening me and I just wanted it to stop. "I got it." I told him, voice level despite my acute desire to be alone.
"Fine." He mumbled and departed, walking quickly away from the bathroom.