Monsters (EJ x Reader)

Chapter 1

I sat on my stolen laptop, reading yet another Eyeless Jack x reader. I usually do this, I hide up in my room and read or write or whatever.

My radio was playing Sleepwalking by Bring Me The Horizen.

 I’ve always loved creepypasta. It’s one of my favorite things in the world. My favorites are Eyeless Jack and Ticci Toby. Toby is pretty cool, but Jack, in my opinion, is better, hence the Jack x reader I’m reading at the moment.

“(Y/N)!!! Turn it off! Or so help me I will beat your ass so hard you won’t be able to stand up again!”

The voice of my abusive father rang throughout the house. I immediately slid the laptop under the bed, scrambled to the radio and shut the whole thing down. I looked at the door and expected him to burst through and beat me up. But he didn’t show.

Then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Shit.

He burst through the doors with a look or rage only an insane man can manage.

“You…I have had it with you! Why won’t you ever listen! I said no radio! You don’t need that shit!” He shouted.

I backed into the corner and cowered like a scared puppy. I looked to the drawer of my dresser; I had a kitchen knife hidden behind my shirts. I couldn’t use it now, this isn’t a huge fight. I’m saving it for if he actually tries to kill me. I’ve heard him talk about it to himself and how happy he would be to get rid of me.

He walked up to me and hit me across the face. I cowered farther into the corner. He grabbed my wrist and lifted my up, my hand above my head. He started twisting my wrist, farther and farther.

I heard it crack and yelled in pain. He probably didn’t break anything, but it still hurt like hell. Seemingly satisfied, he dropped my wrist and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

I slowly got up. I felt my cheek, no blood, but definitely gonna be a red mark. I felt my wrist, it hurt to move, but I could touch it. It had a purple-ish color to it, sprained, not broken, good.

I heard footsteps down the stairs and the front door slam.

I waited until I heard his car engine start and drive away down the narrow road into town. We live in the country part of town.

I walked to the door and opened it with my good hand. I made my way to the second floor bathroom. My dad may be crazy, but he’s organized, he knows when anything is moved. I once used his TV when he wasn’t home.

He found the remote on the bed not the dresser and flipped out on me and almost gave me a concussion.

Ever since then, I’ve figured out how everything is in the house and keep it that way. I now use his TV every time he leaves. He still didn’t notice.

I got to the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I sat down on the edge of the bathtub. I dug through the dusty first aid kit my father kept in case he got hurt. Not for me, for him, in case I hurt him.

Thoughtful, huh?

I wrapped my throbbing wrist is gauze, so I wouldn’t move it and make it worse. I looked in the mirror above the sink. I pulled my long (H/C) hair behind my ear to see the wound clearer. My left cheek had red scratch marks from him high-fiving my face.

I went to the kitchen and went to the way back of the fridge. There was a few plastic sandwich bags filled with sandwiches and fruit that was a little past expiration date.

 I grabbed a slightly moldy sandwich and headed to my bedroom. I set my dinner on the bed and went to the window.

I unlocked the latches and cranked it open with my good hand. I grabbed my sandwich and climbed out the window with little grace. I stepped onto the rooftop and headed to the top. I sat and ate my sandwich in peace.

I looked out onto the surrounding hills and little houses that dotted the town off in the distance.

There were no houses around where I lived. I think that’s partly why dear old dad moved us out here after mom left him, so no one could hear me yell for help.

I thought, I think a lot on the roof, it’s quiet and I’m alone.

I wish some things were real. I wish I could kill him. I think about killing him a lot. I would gladly go to jail, if he was out of my life. I have a knife, so I’ll do it.

Next time, next time he goes to hit me, next time he screams at me, he’ll die. I have a kitchen knife, it’s rusty, but it’s sharp enough to do the job.

God, I sound insane. Kill my father? God, this isn’t right. But he hurt me; I deserve to hurt him back, right? Yes.