A/N: Hello! It's been sooo long since I've updated this story, and even longer since I've updated on FF in general. College is kicking. My. Butt. I'm currently on Thanksgiving break, however, and that's why I'm able to even sit down and write this in the first place. YAY BREAKS! I'm bummed this wasn't able to be posted on Halloween, but, ya know, college again. (So, Happy [belated] Halloween!)
Anyway, this one might be slightly creepier than the last two chapters, with a higher sense of hopelessness, and a **trigger warning** for implied sexual assault towards the end.
Short and sour, yet again.
Disclaimer: not mine, yadda yadda yadda.
The shadows crept around the room all night long as I sat tied to this damned wooden chair. They were rather tame when Dark was preoccupied with other things, like sleeping or eating. They were there all the same, though. Always looking at me with faceless heads, the deep abyss of darkness that were the heads seeming like unending despair.
I was aware that sounded incredibly fake and surreal, but this situation was surreal. I never thought I'd be in any situation like this. When I was four years old, I wanted to be an astronaut. By ten, I wanted to be an actress in Broadway. By Sweet Sixteen, I wanted to run off with my boyfriend and camp out for a fortnight, just holding each other underneath the stars. Finally by twenty-one, I realized I wanted a family, maybe a couple of dogs, and live in South Carolina on the coast for the rest of my boring life.
But here, this was not the boring life I envisioned. This was not what I dreamt of. My dreams did not contain faceless demons terrorizing my physical being and torturing my exhausted, susceptible mind.
I was surrounded by horror, by darkness, by literal shadows, waiting to feed on those dreams of years past...
Yet they were held at bay by the only one who they feared – Dark. Not even his creator, Mark Fischbach, triumphed over the demented doppelganger. I had heard particularly gruesome stories about Mark's demise, about how Dark had gotten out of hand and demanded control of dark urges that Mark chose not to succumb to. When he rejected Dark, the cruel demon did not wait long to give in to his own urges and kill his creator, the good one.
To him, evil always triumphed over good. The opposite only happened in fairy tales, though, fairy tales were just tales, stories to give hope to the hopeless, mask the cruelties of the world from the innocent little children.
He told me a few nights before that he loves children most of all, because their minds are so malleable, so tender, that making their lives hell would be a piece of cake. They also had the biggest imaginations, and telling anyone would only result in piteous looks and beckons to just "go to sleep." As he spoke, the sharp teeth in his mouth moved like razors, shaped into a horrifying smile.
I read Harry Potter years ago, and I remembered the feeling that I imagined Dementors would emit, the chilled, saddened air where every last good thought and feeling in your body is pulled away – that is about what this room feels like. They're all faceless. They're all looming. All ready to pounce and take away any happy memory from my being.
The moon from my dreams was a ragged mess of torn and sharp puzzle pieces; the Broadway stage was trashed and rugged; the star-filled sky was a single black-hole; and the South Carolina coast was only a lifeless, grayscale horizon.
My heart jumped as I heard the door behind me creak open, a sliver of dim light coming through. As the door opened wider, the forms of the shadows grew larger, gained their menace from their superior.
I looked ahead as Dark came to stand in front of me. He looked at me and cocked his head. Then, as if mocking me – no, definitely mocking me – he said, "Oh. Seems a bit chilly in here, no? There must be a draft." He mimicked a shaking individual with his arms around himself, hugging himself and rubbing his hands up and down his arms, as if he were cold.
I just glared at him, though. I was cold. I was chilled to the bone. The faceless shadows around the room were so excited that they almost reached the ceiling. Their long, black, clawed fingers eagerly reached towards me, but Dark put up his hand to halt them, and they receded back to themselves.
Dark walked closer.
God, he just kept doing that. He must have known that it made me uneasy. I could smell the dried blood on his shirt.
"You know what I like about you most?" he asked.
I looked up at him, my teeth chattering.
"Your spirit. I knew you had a strong one in there," he said in a honeyed voice. "That's why I was so excited to finally catch you. And you're so fun to play with, why not keep you around longer than most? There's no reason to stop the fun just to follow suit."
As soon as he stopped talking, I spat at him, aiming for his face. The saliva landed on his chin. He flinched, but then he chuckled and shook his head. His right hand came up to his chin, and he wiped the spit off with his thumb. For a second, he looked at it closely, observing it for who knows why, and then he stuck his thumb in his mouth and licked it.
I couldn't help but gag a little as I watched this. His expression was full of pleasure, and he seemed to be getting off on it.
Dark sucked on his thumb for a moment, reached out to my face, and smeared his own saliva onto my cheek. I grunted as he smeared it all the way from the corner of my eye down to my jawline.
"Well, I've got to go find some children to terrorize, but I'll be back soon!" He waved to me as he left the front door, and the ever-present shadows on the walls snickered to each other once again.
And Happy Thanksgiving to you all!