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jetaime-jespere · 3 years

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The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

This is for the lovely @sequinsmile-x on her birthday. I started reading her stories back in December and was a huge fan from the beginning. Fast forward a few months, and I am somehow lucky enough to call you my friend. For all the pep talks, the inspiration, and the laughs- you have been a bright spot of 2021. But I stand true to my word if harm ever comes to Theo Hotchner, you know what’s coming your way ; ) Happiest of birthdays, my friend! Enjoy every moment and all the cocktails.

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

The Day After Thanksgiving

The fragrant aromas of hazelnut and vanilla waft through the air as Aaron precariously grips two full mugs of coffee in his hands. He sidesteps a few toys and a pair of shoes that were somehow missed in last night’s cleanup as he carefully ascends the stairs. The coffee threatens to slosh over the edge of the mugs and stain the hardwood floors; he slows his steps and tiptoes past closed bedroom doors. He avoids the squeaky floorboards - he knows exactly where they are by now - and kicks another stray toy against the wall in his haste to get to Emily before she wakes up.

Coffee in bed is a sacred routine for them, one they haven’t abandoned even balancing the demands of three children and two grueling careers. It’s one of Emily’s little pleasures, an act so simple Aaron can’t deny her whenever he gets the chance. That alone is how he found himself awake before the sun rises, rearranging the various pyrex containers of Thanksgiving leftovers to locate the coveted bottle of Emily’s favorite creamer in the fridge. It was wedged behind the cranberry sauce and macaroni and cheese they made for Nora, who vehemently refused to eat turkey. Of course, she’d eaten maybe five bites of her specially prepared dinner before she’d crawled into Emily’s lap in the middle of dinner. Yet it still brings a smile to his face; it’s their first holiday season as a family of five - something they never expected, something they’ll never take for granted.

Read the rest here or on ao3

When he shoulders the door open, Aaron finds her awake, feeding Leo. She holds him at her breast, her head tipped back and her eyes closed. She senses his presence innately, attuned to the softness of his steps as he steps over the threshold of the sanctuary of their bedroom. Emily’s face stretches into a brilliant smile when she sees him, but it doesn’t hide the exhaustion that paints her features.

“He’s awake again?” Aaron sets the mug on the nightstand and kisses her cheek then the top of Leo’s head. “I thought you’d at least get another hour of sleep.”

“He had other plans,” Emily murmurs, lovingly shifting their son in her arms. “He’s almost done.” She reaches for the coffee with her free hand, lifts the mug to her lips. “Thank you for this.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Aaron watches her finish Leo’s feed with unabashed awe. There’s nothing but adoration in his eyes, amazement at how she handles motherhood with an abundance of patience and grace. There have been ups and downs, tears. arguments and fights, her nerves stretched thin and his worn down. But these moments make it worth it, ones he wouldn’t trade. He leans down to take Leo to give her a break. The little boy’s eyes are already closed, contentedly asleep once again.

“You’re spoiling me.” Emily says with a grateful smile. She rests back against the pillows, eyes closing again. “What was I thinking when I agreed to go Black Friday shopping with JJ and Garcia?”

“Might be good to get out of the house. Away from the chaos.”

“Into a whole new kind of chaos. Garcia means business. I’m afraid of her ambition.” Emily rolls her eyes at the thought of the shared document Garcia had sent to her and JJ - essentially a shopping itinerary, with all the best deals and discounts clearly marked.

“You say it like you’re surprised.” Aaron gently places Leo into the bassinet before crawling back into bed with his wife. “It is Garcia we’re talking about.”

“Maybe I’ll learn my lesson next year.” She snuggles against him, seeking a few extra moments of peace.

Christmas Tree Shopping

It’s scarcely a week after Thanksgiving when Aaron caves to the persistent demands from Nora and Jack, unable to hold them off any longer. Less than an hour later, as the sun starts to go down in the early December sky, the Hotchners find themselves at an idyllic Christmas tree farm in Loudoun County. They’re not the only ones, as families make their way through the maize of evergreen, the air thick with the cloying, yet not unpleasant, scent of pine needles.

“We’re becoming those people,” Aaron grumbles good naturedly, Leo strapped to his chest in a baby carrier. “Jack, please watch your sister!” A few feet ahead, Nora runs excitedly through the trees, clapping her tiny mitten covered hands with joy. But Jack looks just as excited and takes off behind her as they search for the perfect one. It’s a tradition he never had growing up; one he’d only ever heard stories about from his classmates as he swallowed an emotion he only identified many years later as jealousy.

“What kind of people?” Emily carefully picks her way through the grass, her hand enclosed in his. Her head falls onto his shoulder every few feet; they quietly murmur to each other in broken sentences, interrupted every few seconds by one of the kids, yet it’s a language they’ve mastered over the last few years. Glances and smiles, words that speak volumes, little touches here and there.

“Those Christmas crazed people. Pretty soon we’re going to have an inflatable Santa on the lawn or something.”

“Don’t say that too loudly.” Emily gives him a quick kiss, stopping for a moment to adjust Leo’s hat to cover his tiny head. “Nora said one of her classmates has one. She’s already talking about it.”

“Great.” Aaron rolls his eyes. “I bet Garcia has one we could borrow. Probably more than one.”

Emily laughs, lightly smacking him on the shoulder as Nora grabs her hand. “Mommy, Jack and I like this one!” They all stop in front of a tree on a corner. It’s bigger than Aaron anticipated - he has visions of vacuuming pine needles for the next four weeks - and slightly lopsided, with uneven branches and a few gaps in between. Certainly not what you might see in a magazine, and in no way picture perfect, but Nora and Jack are beaming, their cheeks flushed pink in the chilly early evening air.

“Oh, you mean you two finally agree on something?” Emily quips, letting Nora drag her around the base of the tree, listening as their daughter explains where she wants to put her collection of superhero ornaments. “Who would have ever thought?” But when her eyes meet Aaron’s, it’s clear they’re thinking the same thing too.

It’s perfect.

A Lesson In Gift Wrapping

“Damnit,” Emily swears under her breath as the wrapping paper seemingly shreds in her hands. How does Aaron make this look so easy? With her bottom lip between her teeth, she folds another piece of paper around the box, trying to mimic the process she’s seen him do so effortlessly time and time again. It’s not quite enough paper to wrap around the box, and she shakes her head in defeat.

“Of all the places I looked, I didn’t think I’d find you here.” Aaron’s baritone voice shakes her from her trance. He’s leaning in the doorway of the guest room, an amused but loving smirk on his face. The remnants of the day are there - a hint of shadow on his chin, tie loosened and sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Thought I might get some of this done.” She looks up at him briefly before her attention goes back to the mess of wrapping paper, twisted balls of tape, and gift bows. “There’s a lot still left to do.”

“Did the North Pole finally accept your elf application?” Aaron teases lovingly, pushing the door open and side-stepping a large pile of gifts that still have yet to be wrapped. “Looks like we’re a little behind schedule this year.”

With a roll of her eyes, Emily pushes a piece of hair out of her face. “You’re home earlier than I expected.” She glances at the mess around her with a sigh, and her voice softens. “Leo needs to be fed when he gets up. I need to pick up Nora from school and Jack will be home in an hour.”

He immediately catches the tension in her voice. As the early days of December melted into weeks, the never ending hustle was clearly starting to get to her, especially since cases took Aaron out of town most of the workweek. Evenings were full of obligations - practices and errands, weekends packed with as much family time as they could manage. All the rest was pushed to the side, a never ending list of chores that was only added to, never subtracted from.

The team had spent almost a week in Bethlehem Pennsylvania, ironically called the Christmas City, searching for an arsonist that had the entire city on edge. Perhaps the nickname was an eerie coincidence yet nonetheless it was a grueling case. Since he’d gotten home he could sense the stress emanating from her, curling like fog around her. She couldn’t hide it from him; she couldn’t hide anything from him. And while he didn’t ask, he somehow already knew. “I asked Garcia to pick Nora up to give you a break.”

“What about dinner?”

“It’s already been ordered.” Aaron says easily, settling beside her on the floor. “Pizza sounded good.”

Relief floods her face. “Pizza always sounds good.” She kicks the abandoned box out of the way to wedge herself against him, lacing her fingers through his. “We’ve missed you around here.” It’s honest, an understated relief that only years of intimacy can bring. Her head finds its way to his shoulder; she leans against him.

“We’re finished until after New Years.” Aaron holds their hands up to the light, staring at the bouncing reflection of their wedding rings. “You have me here until January.”

“Lucky me,” Emily says dryly.

Aaron picks up a stray ball of abandoned wrapping paper and chucks it at her. “What do you say we finish wrapping these together?”

“I say,” she begins slowly, eyes darting between the neatly made bed and his own. “We take advantage of having the house to ourselves.”

He makes her come three times before they hear Garcia’s car in the driveway, and twice more after the kids are in bed, for good measure.

A Deal With The Devil

The name that appears on the screen of his ringing phone is one Aaron can’t ignore. It’s terrible timing, but he’s not at all surprised. His mother in law had an uncanny knack for calling at the most inopportune moments.

“Hi, Elizabeth,” Aaron says hastily, pressing the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he wedges the final plate into the dishwasher. He barely got to the phone in time before it went to voicemail, and something tells him she’s only a little miffed about that fact. Elizabeth Prentiss has an abundance of patience for her grandchildren, but not much for anyone else, he’s come to learn.

“Good evening, Aaron,” she says crisply yet not unkindly. In the background he can hear the mellow crooning of Bing Crosby. He imagines Elizabeth with a glass of wine in one hand, a thick book in her lap. “Is Emily around? I tried to reach her earlier. She didn’t answer my call.”

“She’s giving Nora a bath.” He glances upward, the muffled squeals and giggles coming from the bathroom just loud enough to hear from downstairs. At least things have calmed down since dinner . He decides not to mention it’s already been quite an evening around their house, thanks to unfamiliar vegetables and a long day in preschool. “Is there something you’d like me to pass along?” Of course Elizabeth would call on the one night this week he isn’t away on a case.

“Actually, Aaron, maybe you can help me,” Elizabeth presses, and he knows whatever she’s about to say is something that’s already caused a disagreement between her and Emily.

“I can try,” he offers tentatively, choosing words carefully. The very last thing he wants to do is get caught between their fires. It’s never ended well for him.

“You sound tired, Aaron. Are you not sleeping well?”

“We have three kids, Elizabeth,” he counters back. “I haven’t slept well in years.”

He hears a soft laugh on the other line; for a moment he has to remind himself he’s not talking to his wife. Sometimes the similarities between them are uncanny, much to Emily’s chagrin.

He’s wrapping up the call, assuring Elizabeth they’ll figure out a plan that works for everyone yet doesn’t add any additional stress, while simultaneously cleaning the rest of the kitchen when he hears soft footsteps on the stairs.

“You’re on bedtime duty.” Emily appears behind him, leaning against the counter with an exasperated huff. “She’s in a mood tonight.”

Aaron comes to stand behind her, circling both arms around her waist. Her hips fit snugly against the cradle of his own; he rests his chin over her shoulder to nip at her ear. “I just made a deal with your mother.” He doesn’t miss how she tenses against him, a combination of frustration, annoyance, and exhaustion seeping through her body. It’s the first time they’ve been alone all day. He presses a palm against her chest, feeling the beat of her heart under the warmth of his hand.

“She called again? I let it go to voicemail earlier.”

“Just now. She wanted to talk to you. Luckily, you’re off the hook, because I talked to her.” He kisses her neck. He swipes at a few stray bath bubbles that have somehow found their way into her hair. Of all the versions of Emily he’s loved over the years, this Emily might just be his favorite.

“Let me guess. She wants us to come to her for Christmas Eve dinner instead of her coming here.”

“Something like that.”

“Does she not understand we have three children?” Emily grumbles. “I’ve been over this with her. She’s not the one who has to put them to bed on Christmas Eve, you know. It’s a whole different kind of chaos.”

“I think we can figure it out, Em.” Aaron chuckles. He holds her a little closer, voice reassuring and calm. “I made her a deal.” She noticeably relaxes, her body melding against his. Proximity is one of their love languages, the subtle touches an endless source of comfort for them both.

“ Mommy!” Nora’s voice is an insistent, urgent interruption, one they can’t ignore. “Mommy!”

Emily sighs in defeat, the moment of peaceful bliss abruptly over.

“I’ll go,” Aaron says immediately, leaving a trail of kisses down Emily’s neck. “I haven’t seen you sit down all day.”

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” She presses her hips into his teasingly and turns her head to kiss him. It’s a promise of later, another little luxury they still manage to make time for.

“No, but you can show me once the kids are asleep.” He reluctantly lets her go as he heads in the direction of the upstairs.

“Only if I don’t fall asleep first.”

Visiting Santa

“This is not the smartest idea we’ve ever had, clearly,” Emily mutters under her breath as the crowd around them seems to thicken before their eyes. The mall is packed, full of shoppers and families lined elbow to elbow around a colorful, elaborate display to meet Santa. There’s fake snow everywhere, teenagers dressed up as elves supervising the line and a kids’ rendition of a Christmas song blasting from speakers. “What were we thinking?”

“The same as everyone else in Northern Virginia, apparently.” Aaron finds the small of her back through her coat, rests his hand there gently as Emily pushes the stroller a little to soothe Leo. “Not like we had much of a choice, sweetheart. I’ve been gone all week. When else were we supposed to do this?”

“I could have taken them myself one night.” She looks annoyed and rightfully so, as one of the elves announces it’s time for Santa to take a fifteen minute break.

“And miss all this fun?” Aaron jokes. He’s doing his best to hide his own annoyance, yet the flex of his jaw is a tell-tale sign that Emily spots immediately. “Not a chance.”

They’ve been in line for over a half an hour, and will be for at least another half hour. Beside Aaron, Jack grumbles under his breath and rolls his eyes without even looking up from his Nintendo Switch. He’d obliged reluctantly, partly because Aaron had promised him a new video game if he didn't complain. And from where Nora is nestled in the safety of her mother’s arms, she presses her cheek against Emily’s shoulder. “What if we miss Santa, Mommy?”

“We won’t, honey,” Emily soothes, catching Aaron’s eyes over their daughter’s head of dark hair. It’s the third time she’s asked the question, her dark eyes widening as Santa waves to the crowd before disappearing. “He’s just taking a break.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Aaron mutters under his breath. “Even Santa is over it.”

When they finally emerge from the mall almost an hour later, with three cranky children in tow, Emily passes over the photograph to Aaron. “This is an awful picture,” she snickers behind her gloved fist. It’s true. It was taken at the worst possible moment - seconds after Leo started screaming, Nora’s attention anywhere but the camera, and Jack’s eyes closed. “This is even worse than last year’s picture. We can’t actually display this anywhere, you know.”

“We can give it to Dave. He’ll love it,” Aaron jokes as he tucks the envelope under his arm. “Trust me.”

Twas the Night before Christmas

“Move over, Nora!” Jack elbows his sister squarely in the stomach in an attempt to crawl over his sister to get closer to Aaron. “You’re taking up too much space.”

“Ouch, Jack! Daddy, Jack is being mean!”

“There’s more than enough room for everyone,” Aaron says neutrally and cheerfully. It’s clear he won’t pick a side. “Santa doesn’t want to hear the two of you fighting on Christmas Eve. Last time we checked the radar, he was headed to the United States, wasn’t he?”

From where she cradles a milk-drunk Leo in her arms, Emily stifles a laugh in her fist. She makes a mental note to thank Garcia for showing it to the kids earlier that evening. It’s been the only thing to keep them from completely losing their minds with excitement ever since.

“Nora, why don’t you come sit over here next to Mommy and Leo?” He pats the sliver of space between his thigh and Emily’s, covered in matching flannel pajamas as Emily shifts over.

“Okay, Daddy,” she beams, scrambling off the couch and making a point to stick her tongue out at Jack along the way.

“Nora, apologize to Jack,” Emily cuts in smoothly with a sharp look at her daughter.

The little girl pouts even as guilt spreads across her face. “Sorry, Jack.” She breaks off a piece of the frosted cookie in her hand - the one she isn’t supposed to have on the new couch - and hands it to Jack. “Here.”

“Is everyone ready?” Aaron asks once Nora is settled and Jack has stopped kicking his feet underneath one of the many blankets flung around the couch. “No one needs anything?” He grins at the insistent pleas of both kids, hushes them quietly to avoid waking the sleeping baby on Emily’s chest. “Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house…” He begins, as a silence falls over them all.

Emily watches him read, transfixed by the sight of Jack and Nora completely engrossed in the story they’ve heard dozens of times, as if they never have before. Sometimes it still doesn’t seem real that this is their life now. She would have laughed ten years ago if someone predicted her future.

“A happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.” Aaron closes the book in his hands, looking between Nora and Jack. “I think it’s bedtime, what do you think?”

There are grumbles from them both as they trip over each other on their way towards the stairs, not without frequent peeks over the shoulder to see if in fact Santa somehow materialized behind them.

“Maybe Santa will bring us a puppy, Jack!"

Christmas Eve

“You think they’ll be disappointed when none of these presents bark?” Emily jokes once they’ve finished setting up the pile of gifts. There’s a bottle of wine between them, and It’s A Wonderful Life plays in the background on low.

“I told them Santa doesn’t carry pets on the sleigh.” Aaron tucks his arm around her and brings her into his chest, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head. “Said it was too dangerous.”

“Did they buy that?”

“Seemed to.” He shrugs. “We might have some explaining to do if Allison and Shane end up getting Jude a puppy, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” In the easy silence the movie stretches on; they share sips of wine and leftover cookies and murmur soft whispers over the final few minutes.

“I love this part,” Emily murmurs as George Bailey reunites with his family in a joyous, tearful reunion and the opening measures of Auld Lang Syne begin to play. She doesn't look away from the screen.

“You love this whole movie,” he teases gently. “You always have.”

“You don’t?”

“I have other favorites. But I’ll always watch it with you.”Outside, the snow has started to accumulate; it’s already formed a blanket of white across the grass, and is covering the trees. It doesn’t look like it’ll be stopping anytime soon.

“This never gets old,” Emily says from where they’re snuggled together on the couch, staring at the Christmas tree and the falling snow out the window. It’s been their tradition to do this since having Nora - set up presents and watch the movie.

They watch the falling snow in silence once again, their fingers linked, heads bent together, enjoying the few extra moments of peace. It’s only when Emily’s eyes drift shut does she realize just how exhausted she really is.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Aaron murmurs as she opens them. “There’s one thing left to do.”

“We did everything. We even answered the note they wrote for Santa. We forgot that last year.” Emily stretches as she stands, her limbs aching. “It’s time for bed, Aaron. I’m so tired.”

“Not quite yet, sweetheart.” Aaron is reaching behind the decorations on the mantle for the small hidden speakers, flicking a button. “I think you’re forgetting something.”

“What?” She yawns, not even bothering to hide it. “It’s so late.”

“You remember,” he says, holding out his hand as the music starts.

Emily rolls her eyes good naturedly, remembering just what he means. “Really, Aaron?”

“One dance, sweetheart. Please?”

“I'm tired.”

He rolls his eyes. It’s a line she’s used many times, yet for some reason, she always gives in. In fact, she’s stepping into his arms before she even stops talking.

“That’s what you always say.” He takes her hand and wraps his other arm around her back, drawing her in close. “Yet you always end up right here.”

“Because I love you,” she whispers, following his steps as he takes the lead.

Some soft Christmas jazz starts to play, a sultry sounding medley that might just lull her to sleep. “This is the song you picked?” Emily rests her head on his shoulder as he sways them in time to the music. “You couldn’t have picked anything more lively?”

“Shhhh,” he murmurs, his hand bracing against the small of her back as he dips her down and brings her back up. “Just go with it.”

So she does, letting him move them both around the living room in a series of smooth, even steps. When the music stops, they still for a few blissful, silent moments. Still wrapped in each other’s arms, they’re close enough together to feel the other’s heart beating in sync. “Merry Christmas, Emily. I love you.”

“I love you too, Aaron. Merry Christmas.”

#hotchniss #domestic hotchniss #happy hotchners #wsne universe #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #aaron x emily #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #birthday fics and Christmas fluff #Christmas in July #for you my dear friend sequinsmile_x #I hope you enjoy

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lilbabycee · 4 years

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sundown // steve rogers 🌇

↳ summary: steve’s little ray of sunshine isn’t shining so bright.

↳ relationship: steve rogers x reader

↳ word count: 2.5k

↳ warnings: angst angst angst (i was in my feelings with this one), hurt/comfort and some fluff

↳ author’s note: hi! i wrote a kind of sequel to daybreak today! i’ve been stuck in a writing rut for like two weeks but then @pinksdaydream inspired me to write some more for this! 🥰

READ DAYBREAK

A year later and Steve still hasn’t learned his lesson. Every day, he stares for hours at the brightest light that he’s ever had the pleasure of seeing in his many years of life. He can’t believe how close he is, how easily he’s able to touch and feel something- someone so precious. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t been burned yet, but he knows that it’s because this light doesn’t pose a physical threat to him - emotionally, perhaps, but rather, it’s much more the contrary. He basks it in, soaks in its warmth and revels in its brilliance all because he’s allowed to. He’s allowed to because this light is his.

It’s you.

You’re not perfect - you tripped on the fluffy white rug in the living room and subsequently ran into the sharp marble corner of the kitchen island this morning alone - but you’re still his. However, this time you’re awake and standing in the kitchen - too far away from him. One of his grey Henley’s shields your entire upper half from his eager gaze and he silently curses himself for throwing you that shirt when you’d asked for one - if he was smarter, he would’ve just insisted that you walk around naked. He knows that your legs are completely bare, but his vivid imagination has to be the one to conjure up the image of those miles of exposed skin because his view is obstructed by the kitchen counter. For now, he’s stuck admiring you from the waist up. He bets that he could rip the counter right out of the tiled floor if he tried hard enough, but he knows that as of right now, he has more restraint than that.

No matter what time of the day, not once in any of those twenty-four hours for the past one-thousand-one-hundred-and-eighteen days has he failed to be amazed by how you can make him feel like the asthmatic man he was all of those years ago by simply walking into a room, no matter whether or not you even know that he’s there. You’ve been quieter than usual lately, running endless back-to-back sprints as opposed to marathons inside your brain that wear you out because you refuse to take a water break. He knows what this is - he’s seen it before, watched you run so far only to drop the baton in the relay race at the most critical moment. And as much as he can coach you to not push so hard and pace your running, in the end, you’re the only one who can really make those decisions for yourself.

Of course, you always take his advice in stride, using it to propel yourself those last few meters to the finish line. But time and time again, he’s watched you fall short, letting all the different facets of your overactive and often noisy brain speed past you to snap that finish line tape in half much like the way that they break your soul. Your aura dims considerably in moments like these, despite the glow of the late afternoon sun swallowing the white walls of your apartment and spitting out rays of golden light. One shines right on your face and Steve almost laughs - it’s as if the sun itself knows how deserving you are of the limelight - a star in his eyes having taken center stage in the production of his life.

He’d let you take all of the attention any day. But you’re not like that - as much as you can be his little social butterfly, the taste of pink lemonade and cherry lollipops in your speech, there are still those days when he can both physically and emotionally see you sink in on yourself, the words you speak stinging him in a way that makes his entire body shudder just thinking about it. They always taste like copper to him.

He knows that you don’t mean it. It’s the way you’ve always been and who is he to think that he’s entitled to make you change it? But the way that you deal with what goes on inside your head isn’t healthy. He knows that. You know it, too. And you’re trying. That’s all he can ask for.

And so here he sits on the floor of your living room, large body wedged in the sizable space between the coffee table and the couch that his back rests against. You’re directly in his line of sight - still too far away - but that’s okay because even though you haven’t spared him a glance or uttered a word to him in the past hour, at least you’re together.

Sometimes he regrets the mantle that he carries around - Captain America. True, it is such an integral part of him but he can’t help but resent it some days. It keeps him away from you all too often. Time and time again, people have chased him just to meet the man in red, white, and blue. They’re not interested in the man behind the shield and honestly, he doesn’t know if he is either. There have been plenty of times where he’s spiraled into an identity crisis, unable to separate Steve Rogers from his superhero persona.

But every single time, you’ve been there to work through it right alongside him. You’ve dealt with him at his very lowest - when he was in a hole deeper than rock bottom and couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed in the morning. So there has not been even one moment when Steve has thought about leaving you alone when you get like this. He now knows not to pry just as well as he knows that you don’t want to be by yourself in times like these. You may not explicitly vocalize it, but in the seconds when you do meet his stare across the dinner table or right before you fall asleep, he can see the love housed in the depths of your eyes and that’s more than enough for him.

His own eyes haven’t left you for the better part of the hour. His favorite black leather-bound sketchbook is open to what was once a blank page at the beginning of the day but is now an almost complete sketch of the angel in front of him. The luminosity of the sun on your body reveals your halo, usually hidden during the day but in rare moments like these, he’s able to appreciate your otherworldly presence casually standing in the middle of his kitchen with a hand propped against the edge of the counter. A notebook is set in front of you and Steve never thought that he could be so jealous of an inanimate object before - it’s held your undivided attention for hours.

His eyes widen as you shift, leaning forwards to rest both of your elbows on the counter top to type something on your open laptop and giving him a clear view of your breasts through the gap in the front of your shirt. Your lips have been wrapped around a ballpoint pen for virtually the whole day which is how he knows you’ve been working hard because sucking on the ends of pens always helps you focus. He, on the other hand, can’t seem to focus at all as soon as you whip out one of those godforsaken pens. Steve swallows hard - almost immediately regretting wearing grey sweatpants as he adjusts the crotch as subtly as he can - and tears his eyes away from you to flip to a new page, sketching profusely so as to immortalize this moment in his sketchbook before his mind can even dare to forget it.

In his haste, he doesn’t even realize when the silence is broken by the chime of your voice.

“Steve. Steve.”

His hand moves fast and he’s squinting at the page in concentration, willing his brain to hold onto the picture of you bent over the kitchen counter as if he doesn’t have the real thing standing right in front of him-

“Stevie,” you call out, your brow furrowing slightly in concern. This makes his head snap up - finally - and you can’t help but notice how blown his pupils are and how strategic the placement of his sketchbook seems to be. You can pinpoint the exact moment that he starts to panic. For someone who is usually so stoic, he wears his heart proudly on his sleeve. Realization quite literally dawns on his face but it does nothing to alleviate the dusting of light pink across his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, baby,” his unused voice is raspy but he doesn’t bother clearing his throat, as if he knows exactly how it makes you clench your thighs together where he can’t see them. “I was just really invested in- uh,” he hesitates, gesturing vaguely at the page that you can’t see, “the sketch. What’s goin’ on, doll?”

And the flower of your heart blooms at the look in those eyes that remind you so much of April showers, those eyes that are filled to the brim with the rain that has watered all of the dead and decaying blossoms that line your stomach, crawl up to your ribs and up your throat, their vines climbing up through your skull to wrap around your brain. That look alone, framed by those insanely long eyelashes, has extended a helping hand to your beaten-down spirit, telling it to dust itself off and keep going.

“You’re staring, sweetheart,” Steve’s sinfully pink lips quirk up into a demure smile as he teases you, his thick beard shielding the brief flash of white teeth. You decided a long time ago that the beard has been the best thing to happen to you, as is the long hair that he’s currently running his hands through.

“Sorry,” you say but continue to stare unabashedly at his beautiful face because you don’t mean it. You can’t help the way that your eyes trail down his chest that has woefully been covered by one of his too-tight black t-shirts, though you don’t miss the way that it strains against his bulging biceps, nor the way that it’s slightly rucked up at the bottom which gives you an eyeful of the dark blonde wisps of hair that travel downwards towards one of your favorite parts of his body.

Steve, always so perceptive, doesn’t miss where your gaze has traveled, and he can’t help the self-satisfied smirk that grows on his face. It’s easy to forget that you’ve been down for these past few days when you have seconds like these in between those tired hours when you oversleep and he hasn’t slept at all because he’s too busy watching you.

“See somethin’ you like, baby?” he hums, continuing his sketch absent-mindedly because he knows that the image of you standing in front of him like a dream will forever be ingrained into his memory.

Heat ignites your veins and blooms in your cheeks; you can’t help it when you look away, smiling shyly to the side. Steve has resigned himself to the fact that you won’t answer, going back to tracing careful lines with the point of his pencil.

“In fact, I do,” you murmur, knowing that if it was anybody else, they wouldn’t have heard you. Steve’s eyes meet yours and you can almost taste the saltiness of the ocean on your tongue as he drowns you in their depths. He stands abruptly, casting his book to the side carelessly and taking long strides to get to where you are.

Once his hand lands on your hip, the warmth seeps in through the cotton of your shirt and melts your entire body; it catalyzes the small eruption of the volcano in your chest, causing the burning lava of the breath that you didn’t know you were holding to spill over and out of your mouth in an audible sigh. His other hand soon joins the first, framing your body and pulling you back into him. You stare down at the dusting of hair on his forearms when he slips them around your waist and you squeal when he turns you around in his hold, meeting your eyes with a softness that you weren’t expecting.

“Do you wanna talk about what’s goin’ on with you, sweetheart?” he probes lightly in that same low voice, recognizing your deflection and not wanting to cause that volcano to explode. You bite the inside of your cheek, avoiding eye contact because you don’t want him to worry (you don’t know that he worries about you every second of every day because you’re almost his entire heart) but he grasps your jaw in his right hand. He ducks his head down a little, trying to catch your darting eyes. When they finally rest on him, he thinks that he’s dying because your stare is glassy and your lip is trembling.

“Baby,” he coos, tugging you into his chest. You relent, releasing your hold on his forearms to throw your arms around his middle. It’s hard to hold back the tears anymore: Steve’s concern has kicked down the fragile floodgates of your emotional control. Pressing your head into his chest, he says nothing while your body shakes but it’s better this way. You know that you’d only cry even more if he started speaking. Instead, you inhale gasping breaths between babbling as you try to explain why you haven’t been yourself recently. He listens attentively, rubbing circles into your back and dropping frequent kisses on your forehead.

The room is more orange than yellow by the time you can finally speak coherently.

“M’sorry,” you sniffle into his shirt, fists clenching the material tightly. He pushes you away from him so there’s just enough space for him to lift his hands to your face. Slowly, he wipes any residual tears from your cheeks and underneath your eyes with this thumbs.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for, baby,” he speaks softly, your face still in his hands when he presses a kiss to your nose, both of your now mostly dry cheeks, and then right on top of your lips. It’s chaste, only lasting about a second but it makes your soul sing nonetheless.

You stand in silence for a beat longer, merely staring into each other’s eyes before something flashes in Steve’s eyes. You squish your face to his body again, feeling his chest rise slightly, signifying that he’s about to speak.

“What did you need before, sweetheart?”

You’re confused.

“What do you mean?

“When you were calling me before - what did you need?”

Now you get it.

“Oh- I was just going to ask what you wanted for dinner...”

Your voice falters at the end because - and you have no clue why - this makes Steve throw his head back as he barks out a surprised laugh. You frown, narrowing your eyes at him slightly.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing - I just love you, that’s all,” he clarifies, casually throwing the sentiment out there because it’s so easy with you. It’s always easy, even when it’s not.

“I love you, too,” you place a lingering kiss on his jaw before pulling back to stare in his eyes with a grave expression on your face. Now it’s his turn to frown in confusion. “But seriously, what do you want for dinner?”

576 notes · View notes

sending-the-message · 6 years

Text

Etch-E-Sketch (FINAL) by MidnightWritings

Part 4

The word pain couldn’t even begin to describe what I felt when I woke up. I didn’t bother opening my eyes right away, too afraid to see what was around me. I didn’t wake up thinking I was back at home, in my bed, safely tucked away. And I didn’t wake up like last time, worrying about where I was, being completely disoriented. Instead, I woke up with a flood of memories, it seemed like the entire day played back in my head the minute I regained consciousness. That’s why I was afraid to open my eyes.

My head was flopped back, my neck and upper spine screaming at me. I could tell I was sitting in a chair, but not a very comfortable one. My arms rested on something in front of me, from what I could tell it felt plastic. Maybe a table? I tried lifting my head up, but it felt like gravity was working against me. I went to lift my hands to my neck, but they slammed back down against the table.

I opened my eyes, looking at the foamy tiles of a drop ceiling. I blinked through the blaring fluorescent lights and grunted as I strained to lift my head. My eyes followed the walls down to a collection of children’s desks in front of me.

I went to fully sit up, pulling my legs in, and my kneecaps whacked against the top of the attached desk. My eyes fluttered across my exposed arms. Strips of cloth were tied around them, connecting to the legs of my desk and chair. I went to lean forward and felt a braided cloth dig into my stomach. I was seat belted and strapped down to a children’s desk. I tugged at my restraints, but they hardly moved. These weren’t just plain, white clothes, they were colorful, some held sparkles and designs. I turned my wrist and saw a white ruffle intertwined with what looked like a glittery unicorn. Tucked underneath one piece of fabric was a white strip of silky paper stitched into the seam. A clothing tag labeled ‘small’. I was being held down with clothes from children.

I started to feel it again, the same feeling from the missing posters room. Their eyes. I kept twisting my wrists, the skin turning red and raw, burnt from the growing friction. The makeshift belt around my stomach dug further into my torso, pressing against my bladder. Thank God it was empty. The legs of my seat scratched against the concrete ground as I tried to loosen myself, making me look around to see if Ms. Jennifer was close enough to hear my movement.

The walls of the makeshift classroom were worn and dirty, dark ooze dripping down where the ceiling and the walls met. Discolored posters were taped against the walls, trying to hide old stains, but not doing much for the overall feel of the room. The old cartoons’ faces were barely visible, spots of blue from their eyes or a tooth here and there poked through every once in a while. The bold printed words screamed out to ‘Wash Your Hands’ or to ‘Learn Something New Today’. A felt rug covered the cement floor. It was designed with different colored shapes, blue and yellow swirls filling in the gaps between. The edges of the rug curled up, snags and pills scattering over the surface.

Strewn around the room were children’s toys of all kinds. Three different stuffed animals were sat huddled together under the broken window, stackable, plastic blocks were scattered around the mat, and even an ant farm lay forgotten by the chalkboard.

It wasn’t until I twisted my head around that I really started to yank at my restraints. Behind me was a homemade cubby section. Wooden planks were sloppily nailed together, ends of bent nails sticking out from each board. At the top of the crooked square cubbies were names written on painter’s tape, the white sharpie marks popping out from the blue material. My eyes filtered over name after name, stopping at ones that I recognized, Max’s friends.

Amy

Donald

Gary

Gregory

Max

My eyes watered as I found my brother’s name, his backpack neatly hanging on the hook underneath his cubby. The main zipper on his bag was opened, the unattached teeth exposing the contents of his bag. I saw all his toys from home except for one. I spotted his red toy car, his mini dump truck, his roaring t-rex, and his stuffed rabbit named Cooper, but one toy was missing. The Etch-E-Sketch.

I practically jumped out of my chair, thrashing around to try to break free. I kicked the legs, trying to bend the rusted steel and slip the bondages off. I winced each time the legs slid across the floor or every dull thwack my heel gave to the iron. I wanted to get out, but I didn’t want Ms. Jennifer knowing I was awake.

“Oh, looks who’s up from their nap?” her airy voice sailed into the room, her lanky body following quickly after.

Her jacket was off and, despite the biting cold around the room, her forehead had broken into a sweat. She carried three green glass bottles in her arms, neatly setting them down on her dust covered teachers desk. She walked around the desk and pulled out her seat, quietly plopping down. She bent over and pulled open one of the desk drawers, bringing up a stained wine glass. A permanent ring had tarnished the glass about three quarters from the top.

She neatly folded her hands atop the desk, smiling sweetly at me, “Ready for your lesson?”

“You’re about to get a lesson. Piece of shit,” I mumbled, no longer hiding my temper.

“Oh, what language,” Ms. Jennifer scolded. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

“Touch me and you die,” I warned, still yanking at my arm restraints.

Her shrill laugh cackled around the room, vibrating in my ears before churning in my stomach, “Oh, you’re a treat.” She stood up and grabbed a bottle and her glass, walking around to lean against the front of her desk. “Fun fact; did you know that blood has been in all sorts of beauty treatments since the Victorian Era?”

I refused to look at her, staying focused on getting away. I tried to block out her voice, but it was like a fly constantly buzzing around my head.

“Back when being pale was all the rage,” she continued, “people would actually drain some of their blood to get a lighter color. There’s even one story of a woman bathing in blood to keep a youthful glow to her skin, did you know that?” she asked, her voice somehow getting even higher.

I still refused to look at her. I heard her pop the cork on the bottle she held, bringing to her nose, and sniffing its contents. A sigh escaped her lips that made me want to vomit all over myself.

“And most recently something called a Vampire Facial?” she asked, an incredulous tone taking over her voice. “Wasteful. Injecting your own blood into your face isn’t going to help anything,” she laughed. “They were all on the right track, but the trick is to start from the inside out.” I heard her slosh the liquid within the bottle around, stirring up whatever was inside. “I assume you found your parents?”

This made my eyes flash up toward her, my body freezing.

“Oh, there we are,” she smiled. “They weren’t the best candidates, but I was running out of time. Thirsty?” she asked, holding the bottle out toward me.

I could feel my eyes grow, starting to realize what might be in that wine bottle. I pushed my feet against the ground, trying to move away from her.

“Come on, I made it myself,” she smiled, slowly tipping the bottle over her wine glass.

The thick liquid seeped from the open bottle top, chunks of coagulated blood slapping against the glass. She gently filled it up, three quarters of the way, before setting the bottle down. She brought the glass up to her nose, sniffing the iron into her lungs. I couldn’t watch as she brought the glass up to her lips.

GULP. GULP. GULP.

I bit my tongue, not wanting her to hear the sob slowly crawling up my throat. I flinched at the sloppy pop her lips made as an audible ‘ah’ rocketed through her mouth.

“I must say, your parents aged like…a fine wine,” she smiled, her white teeth stained red.

“You’re disgusting,” I hissed.

“Well, if you can’t appreciate that little joke, you’re going to hate what I labeled them,” she said, picking up the wine bottle and reading the cursive writing on the makeshift labeled. “A Baker’s Dozen. Nice little play on your last name, huh?” she teased.

I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer. I thrashed and cursed every curse I could remember. I screamed until my voice went horse. I violently tipped my chair on it’s two back legs, threatening to fall backward. My hair stuck to my tear stained cheeks, itching my skin, and poking my eyes. I huffed, trying to catch my breath between sobs and curses.

Ms. Jennifer stood back, watching me with a tilted head. “You know,” she said, once I had quieted down, “they say to ignore a child that’s throwing a temper tantrum, that they’ll tire themselves out eventually.” She slowly walked forward, bringing the bottle of my parents’ blood with her, “But sometimes, I think they’re just hungry.”

“No,” I breathed, all feeling draining from my face as she got closer. “Stay the fuck away from me!”

I felt her boney fingers wrap around the back of my neck, her nails pinching into my skin. I tried to lean back as far as I could, only further trapping myself into her grasp. I felt the sticky bottle tap against my lips. I squished my mouth shut, sucking my lips into my mouth, trying to stop any way for blood to get in. The bottle dug into my mouth, bashing against my teeth through the thin layer of skin protecting them.

She tipped the bottle and I felt the still warm liquid sop over my face. The syrupy blood stuck to my skin and hair. I grunted and tried turning my face, making her nails dig further into the back of my neck. She fully tipped the bottle, making the blood run over my mouth and up into my nose. I felt the warm goop run down my sinuses, making their way into the back of my esophagus. I couldn’t help the gag that erupted out of my mouth, blood now coating my tongue and teeth. I couldn’t catch my breath through the bombarding gelatin that slid down my throat.

It tasted like metal, salty and sour at the same time. My eyes watered as I gurgled against the intrusion. I heard her creepy giggle as she pulled the bottle away from my face. I turned to the side and wretched, everything coming back up my throat and landing on the cement with a splat. I was horrified to see most of it was red. My shoulders bounced at the sobs falling from my mouth while snot, tears, blood, vomit, and drool dripping from my face.

I briefly felt something on my left leg but didn’t kick my foot out in time. I could only freely move my right leg now, she had tied my left ankle to the desk. She stood in front of me and shook her head, walking away with the now empty bottle. Ms. Jennifer pulled open an armoire in the corner of the room, revealing rows of empty wine bottles. She carefully pushed one aside and placed my parent’s empty bottle with the rest of her collection.

“Now, I want to do a little experiment,” she giggled, pulling something else from a drawer in her desk, hiding it behind her back, “consider this the science part of your lesson.”

She stopped in front of my desk and I swung my right leg out to kick her, snarling as I did. My face dropped when she caught it midair, squeezing the muscle in my calf. I winced as the cramp starting to form and tried to wrench my leg away. She smiled and turned around, tucking my leg under her arm, my foot in front of her. I felt her slowly lift my shoe up and off my foot, exposing my toes to the winter air.

“I just want to see how much of a difference you would make to my recipe,” she explained, holding the pliers up for me to see.

“No!” I screamed, trying to wiggle out of her grasp.

My leg barely moved. She was too strong, abnormally strong. She threw her head back in laughter, some of her stringy hair landing on my desk, brushing against my fingertips. I got a handful of her hair and yanked as hard as I could, bashing her head against the desktop.

She growled and pulled my leg up, hyperextending my knee. It felt like my kneecap was going to pop off, the tendons burning all the way up to my hip. I screamed and let go of her hair, wanting the pain to stop.

“I don’t want to kill you just yet,” she hissed through her teeth, “so I’ll only need a little drop.” She placed the pliers over my big toe, the two metal prongs gripping it tightly. “This little piggy went to the market,” she sang, moving the pliers down my row of toes. “This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had roast beef. This little piggy had none. Now this little piggy,” she jeered, squeezing the pliers around my baby toe.

I yelled, trying to flex my toes out from her grasp. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but I could imagine what was coming next. I felt the ends of the plier prongs slip under the edge of my toenail, grabbing hold.

“Cried, wee, wee, WEE,” she barked, slowly pulling my toenail from my skin.

The scream started from my stomach and radiated through my chest, finally exploding out of my mouth. It made my body jerk forward, the braided belt digging even further into my stomach.

“All the way home,” she smiled, holding my toenail up between the plier’s mouth.

She let my foot drop, the vibration of when it landed on the floor sent a shock of pain through the exposed skin on my toe. She walked over to her desk, wiping the little flecks of blood off her hands, and grabbed another full bottle. Ms. Jennifer glided over toward me, yanking my foot back up and pinching the bottom of my baby toe, squeezing blood out of the exposed skin. I felt the hot droplets pool and slowly drip into the open bottle top.

She let my foot fall again and swirled the few drops of blood that were taken from me around, mixing it all together. She brought it up to her lips and winced, spitting a wad of red gunk from her mouth.

“Ugh,” she shuddered, “not good. You’re…sour. Bitter.” She bent over the desk and spat in my face, “Rotten. You’ve ruined a whole bottle!” she yelled, throwing the green glass aside.

I jumped as it shattered against the wall, splattering blood and glass around the room. She moved behind me and I felt her boney fingers grasp onto the back of my chair, grating the iron legs across the floor.

“Time for a field trip!” she chirped, her dreamy voice echoing around.

She pushed me through the room and out the door into the hallway. I scraped my heel along the floor, trying to stop her as much as I could. I felt my skin being shredded by the rough ground, chunks of my flesh being sanded away.

“MAX!” I screamed, my voice being carried down the hall. “MAX!” I just wanted to hear that he was alive, that he was still okay.

“Oh good,” her airy voice wafted from behind me, “call him. Little brat ran off before I could get a good grip on him.”

My heart felt like it did a cartwheel, excitement pumping through my veins as I realized Max was alive. He had escaped her. He had done it. I couldn’t help but smile through my tears.

“MAX!” I yelled again. “STAY WHERE YOU ARE! STAY HIDDEN! DON’T COME OUT! YOU’RE GOING TO BE FI-”

I gagged as something was shoved into my mouth, it’s rotten, stained taste sinking onto my saliva. I tried to move my tongue, tried to shove the cloth out of my mouth, but the more I tried the more juice squished out from the fabric.

“Shh, shh,” Ms. Jennifer babbled, whispering into my ear, “we’re almost there.”

She pushed my desk into a wall, hidden hinges squealing as my knees bashed against a swinging door. My eyes couldn’t adjust fast enough to the blackness in front of me, but Ms. Jennifer seemed to have no trouble at all navigating through the musty, hidden hall.

The air smelled burnt, not like firewood or smoldering food, but like asphalt and hair. It felt like I was leaning forward, my chair tilting at an angle as I was pushed along. The temperature seemed to, somehow, get hotter and for a good, long while I genuinely thought we were going into Hell. I could hear a distant crackling sound, something spitting and snapping, getting louder as we got closer.

She slid my chair and desk around a sharp corner and I was bathed in an orange glow. An oven, a big vat of wrought iron, sat squat in the middle of the room. The furnace unleashed a torrent of flames, most staying inside the iron confines, but some snuck their way out, licking the sides of the container.

My chair was pushed a little too close to the open flames, the heat making my skin moisten with sweat and I was afraid I was going to come out of this with no eyebrows. But honestly, if eyebrows and one toenail was all that was missing from me when I got out, I would be a happy camper. I was going to get out of this, both me and Max. There was no other option.

Ms. Jennifer walked around me, sticking her face closer to the open flames and wafting the smoke to her nose. Little particles of what looked to be dust floated around the air, giving everything a hazy lens.

She turned to me and smiled, her skin glowing bright orange in the fire’s light, “The kiddies love coming down here, dancing around, seeing how close they can get.” She smiled, remembering all the times she had brought the little kids down here. “It seemed only right that this was the last place they saw.”

It wasn’t until I looked through the flames and into the embers that I saw it. Bones. Skinny bones, some still covered in bits of sizzling fabric, others completely browned from the hot flames. I was looking at the cremated remains of hundreds of children. It wasn’t dust in the air or that covered the ground, it was ashes. I held my breath, not wanting to breathe anything in.

Ms. Jennifer reached into a cabinet next to the furnace, grabbing a shovel that was leaning against the wall at the same time. She held something in her hand, but I couldn’t see what it was until she stepped back into the firelight. A Barbie Doll. She popped off the head of the doll and set it back down. She grabbed a hidden funnel from the shadows behind the furnace and jammed it into the Barbie’s neck. Taking she shovel, she scooped some of the cooled ashes into the funnel, filling the dolls hollow body with the children’s remains.

“They make the best toys, don’t you think?” she asked, popping the doll’s head back on.

Images flashed in my mind; the teddy bears laying under the window, the scattered blocks on the felt rug, the forgotten ant farm. Those toys weren’t stuffed with teddy bear fluff, or made from plastic, or packed with dirt, they were all filled with children’s ashes. That’s why Max has so many friends at daycare, they were trapped there, even after death.

“And I have just the toy for little Max,” she smiled, pulling out a box labeled ‘My Pet Rock’.

I jumped as Ms. Jennifer’s knees were swept out from under her. She crumpled over, hitting her head on the edge of the furnace and laid still on the ground. From the shadows, Max stepped out with the baseball bat firmly in both hands. His face was covered in soot and his yellow shirt was now a dark mustard.

“Max,” my muffled cry sounded. He ran over to me, ripping the cloth from my mouth. “Are you okay?” I whispered, not wanting to wake Ms. Jennifer up.

“I’m fine,” he nodded. “I’m scared, Joanne,” he cried, tears leaving trails of clean skin over his cheeks.

“Don’t be, we’re going to get out,” I nodded, eyes flickering over toward Ms. Jennifer’s still body. “I need your help. Can you untie me?”

Max nodded his head and took the cloth in between his little fingers. He worked at the knots but couldn’t seem to loosen them. We both jumped as Ms. Jennifer groaned.

“Joanne!” Max cried, fingers trembling.

“It’s okay,” I assured, “stand back.”

I waited until Max stepped away before I rocked my chair, tipping the desk sideways. I landed on my right set of ribs, bouncing a bit against the cement floor. I bit back a hiss, trying not to focus on the blooming pain. I pulled my left ankle down the leg of the desk, feeling it fall free as the restraint slipped off the bottom. I tried to reach down and slip my arm restraints off, but the desk leg was too long. I had to break it. I tucked the iron leg in the nook behind my knee and pulled.

I saw Ms. Jennifer try to slide her arm up under herself, groaning as she pushed her hair away from her face.

“Joanne!” Max shrieked.

“Max, run,” I ordered, hearing the metal leg whine as I bent it.

He ran into the shadows and came back out with the Etch-E-Sketch in hand. I heard the patter of his gym shoes run up the vaulted hallway, hopefully out the door and away from this entire place.

I gave one final grunt as the desk leg snapped off at its rusted joint. I pulled my arm down and around the bottom of the ragged end, finally being able to stretch my arm freely. I leaned over the other side and freed my right hand as well. I was almost completely out. I looked up and saw Ms. Jennifer was gone, along with the bat, a clear print was marked in the ashes where her body once laid.

My hands tore at the cloth around my stomach, but I couldn’t get the knot undone either. I pushed it down lower on my hips, wincing as it ripped at my skin, almost too tight to shimmy out of. I forced the cloth over my hips and butt, kicking my legs as I pulled myself free over the cement ground.

I heard her grunt and I turned, rolling away just in time to miss the bat. She had swung it over her head, intending on bashing my skull open. The bat cracked against the cement floor as she growled. I scrambled away, snagged the broken off desk leg. I stood up and swung as she looked over at me. The jagged edge of the broken leg made contact with her forehead, right between her eyes. She flopped backwards and bounced on the ground, moaning as she pushed her palm on the open gash in her skin.

“Stay down!” I spat, quickly running over to the furnace.

I tossed the Barbie Doll she made into the fire and stuffed as many matchboxes from the cabinet into my jeans as I possibly could. I ran right passed her, picking up both the iron bar and the bat, and sprinted up the inclined hallway, the orange light disappearing behind me.

“Ugh,” I heard her growl, a base tone reverberating in her throat. “I think someone needs a time out.”

I just pumped my arms harder, limping slightly at the fact one of my shoes was missing. The dusty floor irritated my open wound, ash and soot settling into the area where my toenail was supposed to be. For a while, the only sound I could hear was my breathing and the irregular stomp and slap of my booted foot and bare foot bounding up the hall.

STOMP. SLAP. STOMP. SLAP.

SCREEEEEE

Something sounded from behind me. I could only imagine what it could have been, but I didn’t dare look back. I saw a faint halo of light coming from around the hidden door in the wall. I braced my arms and burst through the door, back into the afternoon sunlit hallway. I saw Max at the end of the hall. He stopped and turned toward me, running back my way.

“Max, no!” I yelled, sprinting as hard as I could. “Keep going! Get out!”

I spared a look behind me and saw her pale, insect like fingers slowly creep around the door. I stumbled a bit, but quickly regained my balance, bursting back into the classroom. I looked around and spotted all the toys. I couldn’t let the kids stay here. They needed to get out. I grabbed the nearest teddy bear and jammed the spiked iron bar into its stomach, ripping open the fabric to see grey dust puff out instead of cotton. I dumped out the ashes and watched them swirl into the air a bit, seeming to evaporate among the oxygen.

“Joanne,” Max called, suddenly appearing behind me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, ripping into another stuffed animal. “I told you to get out.”

“Not alone,” he shook his head.

I glanced at him as I shook out the second stuffed toy’s ashes. I nodded and handed him the bat, “Alright, then help me. Smash everything in this room. Anything that can be broken, break it.”

He nodded and went to work, bashing walls, denting the cabinet doors, shattering glass vases, and even sent spider vein cracks into the window. Between the two of us, the air was filled with ashes before we had time to cover our noses. I coughed a bit as I threw the ant farm to the ground, grey particles seeping out from the glass instead of brown dirt.

“Joanne!” Max called through the hazy air.

“Here!” I called, wiping the sweat off my cheek. I reached my hand out and felt Max’s shoulder. “All done?”

“I think,” he shrugged, now holding onto his red, plastic toy.

Like lightning before thunder, I knew what I had to do next. It made sense, the roll the Etch-E-Sketch played. The messages, how it always seemed to know what was going on, how it moved on its own. The one-word notes flashed through my brain.

STOP. They were telling me to stop sending Max to daycare. To stop letting Ms. Jennifer take my brother. To stop ignoring everything.

HELP. They needed me to do something, say something. To help stop this.

HER. They were telling me it was her. Her who was causing the trouble. Her who had taken my parents. Her who would hurt my family.

RUN. They knew she was outside my house, in the woods, stalking me. I needed to get out, leave, run.

“How did you know where to hide?” I asked, eyeing the Etch-E-Sketch.

As suspected, he looked down at the toy’s screen. “My friends,” he whispered.

“Max, give me the toy.”

“No,” he backed away.

Down the hall, I could hear heavy footsteps. Footsteps that sounded too loud, too big. The ground vibrated underneath us with each footfall.

“Kiddies!” Ms. Jennifer’s dreamy voice wafted down the hall. “Now’s not the time for hide and seek.”

“Max, please!” I begged.

“No!” he cried.

“We don’t have time-”

“They can’t go,” he cried, hugging the toy to his chest. “They’re my friends.”

“They’re stuck,” I shook my head. “They want to go home, just like you do. We can help them go home.”

Max peeled the toy from his chest and looked down at it, tears spilling over his cheeks. He looked up and nodded, handing over the Etch-E-Sketch. I grabbed it and went to bust if over my knee but stopped. A final message was scrawled over the screen, the last letter being squiggled on.

THANKS

I nodded, wiping my own tears from my eyes, crying for the babies that didn’t make it out. For the families that put out the missing posters, who went to bed at night wondering where their sister, brother, child went.

I gripped the edges of the Etch-E-Sketch and shook the message away. I jammed the flat surface over the boniest part of my knee, splitting the toy right down the middle. Grey ash tumbled from the crack, black flecks of magnetic dust sprinkled throughout. I watched the ashes sink to the floor, getting swept up as a winter breeze blew through the broken window of the room.

I gently bent down, shaking the last bits of ash from the toy before placing the plastic remains on the ground. “You’re welcome,” I whispered, stepping away with Max.

“Run down the hall, alright?” I told him, reaching into my back pocket for a box of matches. “Don’t stop running until you’re out of this building.

“Okay,” he said, backing away from the room.

I lit five matches at a time, throwing them around, wanting to burn the entire place down. The curtains were the first thing to catch, then the wooden teachers table, and then the teddy bear skins. I didn’t stay to watch the rest. I ran out into the hall and kicked open the missing persons room, striking more matches and tossing them around. The papers lit instantly, throwing a yellow glow out into the hall.

“What have you done!?” I heard Ms. Jennifer shriek.

I turned just in time to see her walk into her old classroom. Her back was hunched, and she seemed to almost bounce as she walked. I heard her bones snap and pop and she walked into the classroom.

I threw the last bundle of matches and ran across the hall, seeing Max standing at the corner, watching me. I shooed him away and covered my nose, pushing open the door to the room I wish I could forget.

I couldn’t leave Mom and Dad. They couldn’t stay here. They needed to be buried, have a funeral, they deserved at least that. I tried not to focus on their faces, tried to ignore the fact that my parents sat in a pile on the floor, looking like raisins. I grabbed one of my dad’s arms and one of my mom’s and started tugging. My fingers dug into their skin, feeling their bones, and dried up veins under my fingertips. Their skin moved and slid freely under my hands. It made me gag, but it reminded me of fried chicken, how the greasy skin can so easily be removed.

“Joanne,” Max whispered, making me jump.

I turned around and put my body in between his eyes and my dead parents, “Max, don’t look.”

“I know,” he hung his head, wrapping his fingers around the belt loop of my jeans. “we need to go.”

“Max,” I tried speaking, the lump getting too big to hold back, “I can’t leave them.” I openly cried, allowing my legs to give out. “They need to come home.”

“They are,” Max cried, hugging me around the neck, “they are home.”

I couldn’t help but smile at him. This four-year-old was stronger than me in every way. Stronger in knowledge, spirit, and even faith. I nuzzled my wet cheeks against this hair and pulled away.

“You’re right,” I nodded, turning back to my parents.

I set both their arms back down, laying their hands next to each other. I pulled both their wedding rings off before standing up, slipping the gold into my pocket. I felt in my other pocket and pulled out the last box of matches. I led Max out into the hallway and lit a handful, throwing them down the hallway. I didn’t bother trying to catch fire to the room my parents were in, there was too much blood. I walked backwards, throwing ignited matches down the hall all the way.

I didn’t start running until I saw Ms. Jennifer snake her head out from one of the classrooms, her hair making an appearance before her face. Her stingy locks were thrown out of their regular braid and her eyes were milkier than usual. Her smile was what made me turn and run.

I scooped Max up into my arms and ran like I had never run before. I told him to keep his eyes closed and head down. The extra weight didn’t make anything easier, but the adrenalin helped. I couldn’t feel my legs, but I knew they were still running. I couldn’t feel my heart, but it still pumped. I clung to Max and tried to regulate my breathing.

I turned my body and slammed my weight against the front door of the house, getting slapped by the biting wind and snowflakes. Piles of snow erupted as I trudged through them, soaking my clothes, and numbing my exposed skin. I ran into the street and through the neighborhood, crying as I heard police sirens in the distance.

I collapsed to the ground as their red and blue lights flashed around the snow-covered buildings, finally allowing myself to rest.

It was over.

It turns out, the police station had been able to track down my location when I attempted to call 9-1-1. They said it helped that I had my GPS tracker activated.

Me and Max were taken to the nearest hospital, he was completely fine, not a scratch on him. I was given some antibiotics once I told the nurses that I was forced to drink blood. They bandaged up my toe too, and I was treated for frostbite and a bruised rib.

They said by the time the firemen got there, the building was about ready to collapse. They didn’t really have any other choice but to let it burn down. They had found the remains of my parents, but only their skulls and some partially disintegrated bones, everything else was gone.

Me and Max were released from the hospital a week later. Instead of being able to nap and fully grasp what we had been through, I had to plan a memorial for my parents. It was small, just close family and friends. My lab partners were the first people there, bringing food and flowers. Max filled up a jar with his favorite rocks, the Geode going in last, and I wrapped a little ribbon around it, their wedding bands hanging on each bow. It was what we had left of them, instead of an urn or funeral flowers, we had a jar of rocks.

I dropped out of school and work from home now, filing lab data from the comfort of my childhood living room. My boss says I am welcome to come back to the lab any time I want. I don’t think it’s going to be soon. I want to be here for Max. Maybe once he starts high school I’ll go back, but for right now I’m staying put.

I’ve just been able to sit down and process what had all happened. Being able to write it out helped a lot. I’ve only recently gotten my appetite back. I can’t eat anything fried and nothing with cucumbers, those smells alone make me want to vomit.

I’ve developed a bad habit of rechecking things. I go around the house at least three times at night, checking that the doors are locked, the windows are latched tight, and making sure the blinds are shut. Max never leaves my sight either. I can tell he’s growing annoyed with me, but I can’t help it. He’s starting kindergarten soon, I signed him up for class and cried the whole time. We meet with his teacher next week. You better believe I have been doing nonstop research on the school. I will be driving him to class and picking him up every day.

I don’t sleep anymore, not at night at least. I’ll pass out on the couch in the middle of the day and wake up shaking. I only have nightmares. The doctors say they will go away and I’ll be able to sleep like normal soon, but I don’t think so. I won’t be able to rest until I know what happened to Ms. Jennifer. Whether she burned or ran away, I don’t care. It’s the not knowing that keeps me up.

I think back to the first day I talked to my brother and how far we have come. It makes me sick to think about all the ‘what if’s. What if I continued to ignore him? What if he went to daycare one more time? What if Max had never brought that Etch-E-Sketch home?

And to think, I yelled at him for stealing.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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