[Discontinued] A Killers Cousin | Slashers x Reader

Prologue

The air is thick, putrid, pungent with the scent of rotted leaves and threatening to choke the last shreds of air right out of you. The ground beneath you is uneven, shrouded in shadow; you truly have no idea where you are going and yet you cannot stop, won't let yourself stop. The sounds of the men behind you are still too loud, too close, so you continue to force yourself through the darkness of the trees, praying you can keep yourself together for just a while longer. The image of your mother, your home, flashes in front of you once more and brings with it tears.

Blood. So much blood- you can see it in her hair, on her face, staining her hands, her shoulders, her chest- you can almost taste it, the cloying scent of russet metal, and though you want to let consciousness slip away your fear is so rich that you just can't.

You don't let yourself risk any glances over your shoulder, any pauses to see how close your pursuers have gotten. You've seen movies, you know what not to do in a situation like this; if you pause for even a second they'll catch you and they'll slice you up just like they did with your mother. They'll make you pay for messing with them. This was your fault- you were the cause of your mother's death because you had tried to steal from these guys and you had gotten caught doing it. You had been clumsy and cocky and had knocked over a glass bottle as you tried to slink out of the ramshackle building these men- probably drug dealers of some sort- called their home. They had chased you. You had made the mistake of leading them home.

You remember the gaping seam in her throat, a scarlet ravine, the mouth of a waterfall, spitting gouts of blood and reddening the carpet, her clothes, a new colouring that would never fade, never wash out, as if your mother were leaving one last impression in your home.

One throbbing foot after the other you wail into your hand, your lungs screeching for air and your head spinning from the lack of it. Your legs burn just as strongly as your chest, maybe even more so, but that cold raw terror spurs you forwards as if you were prey, a meek rabbit being hunted by the unstoppable drive of a fox. If you were given the offer to look at yourself in a mirror right now you would politely decline. Your right eye would be swelling, you could tell despite your adrenaline numbing the pain that it would be purple, puffy from the fist that had slammed right across it and split your brow all the same. Your left ankle was moaning and groaning in protest with every hurried step over rocks and roots and branches, twisted odd as you leaped the seven or so feet from your bathroom window. Blood was pouring from a wound in your arm where the sharp edge of a chain-link fence you had hopped over had caught hold of your skin. You can't go on like this; the realization is horrifying, cold and unwanted but entirely realistic. Shit, you think, I'm going to pass out if I keep pushing myself. You don't want to stop but you know that you have to. You're beginning to lag, to limp, and your desperate panting is becoming too loud. Coming to a sudden halt and sucking in a breath you scan very quickly for a place to hide and then dive towards a thick bush blooming with flowers you think are camellias. In a sudden moment of clarity you claw your way into the heart of the plant, trying desperately and silently to shift the branches and hide your shivering form. With the frail scraps of light provided by the moon and the density of the plant itself you think that, just maybe, you can hide yourself in here. Your hands clamp over your mouth, coated in scratches of all shapes and sizes as a result of your petrified scramble through the branches and the stinging of those accompanied with all of your other injuries is the only thing keeping you awake. As adrenaline bleeds away the agony grows and grows like a fire, roaring now, but you swallow down the urge to scream. You have a purpose, (Y/N). You're here for a reason, don't give up. The tiny mental pep talk is interrupted by a silhouette no more than ten feet away. It's one of the men and he seems to be furious, searching frantically around for you. You feel as if you're going to go mad; he's too close and you're going to panic so you remember your purpose and then try not to cry. I need to find him.