#is making us nauseous from dmitri fucking stressing

[laconic-nightmares]

so fucking bored of having to deal with moral ocd over the use of words

people arent going to stop making progressively stricter rules as to why people who dont have the exact fucking experiences as them cant use certain words

they arent going to stop trying to exclude anyone they percieve as suffering less than them from community, or help, or fucking 'terminology.'

i cannot express how little i give a fuck about this obsession with only ever using the exact right words, only using the words other people give u permission to use once theyve decided youve reached an acceptable level of visible pain. because its only about how much they think ur suffering based on their perception of ur life

#current nightmare; caim #not making this rebloggable because the idea of any of those fucks coming along and starting an argument on this post #is making us nauseous from dmitri fucking stressing #only able to post this thru his anxiety because im a stubborn fuck #if u have a problem with this post do us both a favour and just #fucking. move. on. with ur own fucking life #u can do that on the internet actually #ur not gonna get anything from us other than all of the angry bastards coming out to swear at u simultaneously #ur not gonna get a reasonable rational debate #we arent going to let dmitri get into another fucking 'discussion' that rips it into pieces

[adiseaselikeyouspreads]

A small warning before this chapter: this is by far the most emotionally intense and upsetting chapter in the story. Even if you haven’t been reading the /cw page prior to this, we would highly recommend doing it before beginning this chapter. 

“Damn, dude,” Dmitri says, examining Jason’s cheek critically. They were together in film class, not actually doing any work - this was far more interesting. “That’s fucked up.”

Jason just nods as Dmitri gently turns Jason’s face to look at the stitches better, clicking his tongue irritably when he pulls back. “What an asshole. I wish the Plague Doctor had hurt him even worse.”

“Don’t say that,” Jason mumbles, poking gently at the skin around the wound and flinching when it hurts. “I mean...No one deserves to have prolonged suffering before they die, not even people like that.”

Dmitri narrows his eyes.

“Some people do,” he replies. Then he glances at the front of the classroom, where Beltrami sat at his desk. Turning back to Jason, he drops his voice to a whisper and says, “Like Mr. Bellpepper over there!”

“What did he ever do?” Jason asks, giving Dmitri a quizzical look.

“Well, obviously! He hasn’t given you any extensions even though you’re drowning in makeup work and he’s a total dick to me!” Dmitri folds his arms with a huff and flips his hair.

“That...is definitely not even slightly good reason to kill someone.”

“Huh! Whatever,” Dmitri says, leaning back in his chair, arms still folded. “You going to Film Club today?”

Jason thinks about it. On the one hand, it’d be nice to get away in a space where he knows no one is going to try and murder him. But on the other, Mr. Beltrami has been...unforgiving, lately. Dmitri was right about that much. Jason almost feels like he’s done something wrong, but on the other hand, he’d been pretty annoyed by Beltrami recently. He wouldn’t stop bringing up sensitive topics and then being weirdly insensitive about them whenever the two were alone. Like Sidney, or the many, many attempts on his life.

As if he needed any more reminder. His cheek still hurt like all hell any time he thought he deserved to smile.

“I don’t know,” Jason manages eventually, looking back at his screen. “I...I probably should. I’ve been skipping it too much...At this rate, Mr. Beltrami won’t ever let me be president.”

“You want to be president?”

“I want to pick some better movies.”

Dmitri giggles, putting his hand on Jason’s shoulder and making Jason’s heart race again. No matter how comfortable he thinks he is around Dmitri, he’s never used to how it feels when Dmitri touches him, even a little.

“I know you would only pick the best! You have wayyyy more discerning taste than like, anyone I know! Hey, maybe if you were, I’d even go!” Dmitri squeezes Jason’s shoulder, and he tries not to go red.

“Uhhh,” Jason says, smartly. “Well, I...Uh, yeah, obviously, I would...would love if you came. To the club. With me. I mean, you don’t have to. At all. I, uh. Nevermind.”

Dmitri is making the catlike face again. Jason refuses to look, but he can tell.

“Mr. Morozova,” Mr. Beltrami cuts in, making Dmitri’s hand slip from Jason’s shoulder. “Have you done any work today? I mean, really. Any at all. I don’t want to have to punish you, but I’m going to need some proof you haven’t just spent the entire class hour so far touching Mr. Joon-ho’s face.”

“Yeah, I’ve done work,” Dmitri says, an edge of annoyance creeping into his voice. “Sure have. Wanna see it? I wrote a script about a teacher who doesn’t stop harassing one of his students because the student doesn’t fit his oddly high standards. It ends when the student kills the teacher after school. Is that dark enough for you, Mr. Boondocks?”

Jason turns to see Mr. Beltrami giving Dmitri a glare that is almost a little scary with the amount of genuine malice behind it.

“Dmitri. Principal’s office. Now.”

Dmitri makes a disgusted noise and gathers up his stuff, rolling his eyes at Jason before he starts to leave.

He stops in front of Mr. Beltrami’s desk before going out the door, though.

“What is it, Mr. Morozova?”

“You have to write me a pass, Mr. Gelkarma.”

Beltrami doesn’t look amused. He writes the pass anyway, seemingly if only to get Dmitri out of the room. Dmitri skips out, looking as happy as possible as he does so. Jason knows it’s only to piss Mr. Beltrami off, but he ends up snickering at it anyway.

“Is something funny, Mr. Joon-ho?”

Oh, shit.

“Uh, no,” Jason replies, turning back to his computer quickly. “Sorry. I...I just…”

For once, Mr. Beltrami doesn’t press him for his reasoning, just making a quick annoyed grunt before leaving Jason alone for the rest of the period.

Well, that was more stressful than it had any right to be.

At lunch, Dmitri complains.

“Mr. Pastrami is so far up his own ass,” he tells Jason. He stabs his spork into his mashed potatoes. “Can’t even take a joke!”

“It was a pretty… irreverent one.” Jason understands Dmitri’s anger, but he feels bad. Mr. Beltrami has been his favorite teacher since freshman year. He feels like maybe he is doing something wrong. Letting him down, somehow.

“Irreverent!” Dmitri stuffs food in his mouth, but talks anyways. “I’m not going to revere him. He needs to get off his high horse.” Another stab. “Besides-!” He flails his spork as he talks and the potatoes go sailing, splatting on the floor. Dmitri stares for a few seconds, and then pretends like he didn’t notice at all. He jabs the spork in Jason’s direction. “Why’d he become a high school teacher if he was going to hold vendettas against kids?”

“He’s a real jerk,” Regan agrees, speaking up from his seat, where he’s been worrying at some rice.

“You think so, too, Regan?” Jason asks, surprised.

Regan glances at Dmitri, then back to Jason. “I was in his creative writing class last year,” he responds with a shrug. “He basically told me not to quit my day job.”

Well, Jason can agree that that’s pretty rude. Still, he wants to maybe try to patch things up. Get back in the swing of going to club and working on projects. He’s really far behind, but just maybe…

He thinks on it for the rest of the day. Going to club feels like a risk, like some daredevil feat. The final bell rings and he steels himself.

Alright, he’s going.

When he walks in, he’s greeted with, “Mr. Joon-ho. It’s nice of you to join us.” Mr. Beltrami doesn’t even look up as he speaks.

The whole club feels tense. There are fewer kids, like people have been dropping out of the club. He’s heard about some people moving schools. Has he been messing things up for so many people? Is this why Mr. Beltrami is so mad?

They watch a fairly morose film that leaves Jason feeling hollow in the middle. Of course this would happen in his first day back.

When the club meeting winds down, the kids start to file out in a gaggle, like it’s safer to travel in a pack.

“Jason,” Mr. Beltrami says, when Jason reaches the door. “We need to talk.”

Well, that makes Jason nervous. He hesitates, but turns back around and comes to the desk. Mr. Beltrami stands up.

“I heard about your most recent rescue,” he states, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms.

“Yeah. I…” He doesn’t want to talk about it. He never wants to think about the Cannibal again.

“He got your face,” Beltrami comments, sounding a bit sad. Jason covers his scar.

“I really would rather... we didn’t…”

“This is going to keep happening,” he says. Jason feels his heart jump into his throat. “You’re a wonderful kid, Jason. But people are going to keep hurting you. And you’ll keep falling farther behind.” He’s leaning into Jason’s space, subtly. “You can’t take care of yourself.”

Jason clears his throat and shifts backwards a step. Mr. Beltrami closes that distance in a second. Jason’s whole body is suddenly on high alert.

“This is going to ruin you. You’re too talented to let that happen.” He leans in. “You need someone to protect you.” His hand is suddenly on Jason’s waist and Jason doesn’t even think, just turns and bolts.

He feels a hand try to grab the strap of his backpack, but he’s fast enough that he manages to get into the hall.

“Jason!” Mr. Beltrami calls after him. He doesn’t even consider turning around. He doesn’t even stop until he’s outside the front door of the school, chest heaving, lungs burning.

Fuck. What the fuck was that? He’s been targeted by killers six times and that’s still one of the scariest things he’s ever experienced. He’s shaking all over. He feels nauseous. He feels like he’s half a second away from upchucking all his organs. He feels tears welling up in his eyes and has to push up his glasses to rub at his face with his sleeve.

When his mom pulls up, he slings himself into the car and clutches at his backpack, hugging it.

“Bad day?” She asks, glancing at him. He wants to tell her, but he doesn’t even know what he would say. My teacher put his hand on my side. No, it’s weirder than it sounds, I promise. Jason just nods. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Hopefully things will calm down soon.”

Somehow he doubts it more than ever. Things won’t just go back to normal.

The next day proves him right. It feels wrong from the second he gets out of bed. His body feels off, like he doesn’t want to be inside it, like he would rather crawl out and sulk, ephemeral, in the corner. He sleeps through first period and drools on his notebook and hates himself for it.

He dreads third period. For the first time in his life, he considers cutting. Genuinely cutting. Not staying-home-faking-sick, but real, leaving the school grounds, going off to hide somewhere cutting. Instead he reluctantly shuffles into class and keeps his head down, avoids looking at Mr. Beltrami. He can feel his eyes on him anyways and he scrunches down in his seat.

“Woah-ho, you look like hell,” Dmitri comments as he plops down next to him.

“I didn’t sleep so well last night,” he lies. Some part of him really wants to tell Dmitri. Maybe at lunch. But not here, not right now.

“Happens to the best of us, Voorhees.” He pats Jason’s shoulder.

“I hope you two aren’t planning to spend the whole class talking again,” Mr. Beltrami’s voice comes harsh from the front of the classroom. Jason can almost feel the physical bite of it.

“Come on, Bellpepper. Class just started. Besides, it’s not good for my creative process to have to stifle myself.” He throws one arm over the chair casually and doesn’t seem to hesitate in locking eyes with Mr. Beltrami. Jason wishes he wasn’t brave, for once.

“Your work is still unsatisfactory, Dmitri. You need to focus.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m almost done.”

Jason breathes a sigh of relief when the conversation lapses.

He tries to concentrate, for a while, but it doesn’t really work. His brain is too scattered, keeps drifting to unpleasant places. He reaches into his bag and pulls out his phone. Putting in his earbuds, he goes to search put on some music when the phone is yanked out of his hands by Mr. Beltrami, headphones going with.

“I think you’re a little too behind to be playing on your phone, Mr. Joon-ho,” he says, coldly. Just as quickly, Dmitri is leaning across him to grab Mr. Beltrami’s wrist. Jason can tell it’s a mistake as soon as it happens.

“What the hell is your problem, man?” Dmitri asks, glaring up at Mr. Beltrami. “Lay off of him.”

“Mr. Morozova. Principal’s office.” There’s no debate in his voice. It’s an order.

“No!” Dmitri protests anyways. “It was funny when it was just you being a dick to me because you’re petty, but what has Jason ever done to you? He’s going through enough, so just leave him alone.”

Mr. Beltrami yanks his hand back. “Dmitri Morozova. Principal’s office. I’ll be seeing to it that your parents are contacted to discuss your repeated outbursts.” He starts to wind up the headphones. “Jason. You can pick this up in my classroom after school. In detention.”

“Detention?” Dmitri snaps. “All he did was-”

“Enough!” Mr. Beltrami snaps right back. Jason feels cold pour through his veins. The whole room stills.

Dmitri sets his jaw, and stares him down for a minute. Then pushes his chair out. Dmitri doesn’t say a word, but he glares at Beltrami the whole way out of the room. He doesn’t bother Beltrami for a pass this time. Jason has his doubts that he’ll even go to the office.

But he can’t worry about Dmitri right now. He’s too busy thinking about his own looming fate.

When lunch rolls around, he sits with Sidney and Regan. Dmitri must’ve gone to the principal like he was told, because he’s nowhere to be found. Regan seems troubled by it, snapping his breakfast bar in half and then not touching it again. He keeps looking around like he expects Dmitri to join them, but it never happens.

“Why did he get sent to the office, again?” Regan asks for the third time that lunch, still not touching his meager portion.

“Regan, asking again isn’t going to change it,” Sidney sighs, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

“Why did he give you detention?” Regan insists. “I don’t get it. He always talked so highly about you every time he mentioned the film students.” 

Jason’s stomach does a little flip at the thought that Mr. Beltrami was punishing him for running away. Part of him wants to tell Regan and Sidney, but a larger part of him thinks it’ll just cause more trouble than it’s worth. His mouth twitches down, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know. He’s...He’s been harsh, lately. Maybe he’s stressed by something else?” The lie sounds strained even to his ears. Regan gives him a scrutinizing look, but doesn’t press. Jason is thanking any God that might exist for that fact.

“He’s a teacher. He shouldn’t be taking his stress out on students anyways,” Sidney comments, sounding at least a little miffed.

“Yeah, but...Teachers aren’t perfect.” He picks at his sandwich. No appetite again. Ever since this had all started, he’d been eating less. Even though he was hungry, just because he hadn’t eaten anything since...whatever had happened the afternoon before happened.

“Well, he still shouldn’t get pissed at you and Dmitri for just...Dmitri was defending you! You hadn’t even done anything.” Regan snaps his meager lunch into thirds, making a face. “God, I hope he’s okay.”

“You really think Dmitri will take anything they say into account?” Sidney asks.

“He’s...He fronts like nothing anyone says bothers him, but if word gets to his parents, he’ll…” The breakfast bar is in quarters, now. Jason is surprised he hasn’t just crushed it yet. Regan brushes his hands off on his jacket and then pulls out his cellphone. “He hasn’t been answering my texts, either.” His leg bounces. “I think I might skip. I need to go check on him.”

He stands up, already dialing a number, scooping the fractured bits of his lunch into his hand.

“Tell him I’m sorry I got him in trouble,” Jason says.

“I doubt he’ll be upset at you,” Regan reassures. “I’ll text you when I figure out how he is.” Then he turns and tosses the bar into the trash, holding his phone to his ear. As he walks away, Jason can hear him say, “Hey, tina, I’m not feeling good…”

“So are you going to go?” Sidney asks Jason, brows furrowed in concern.

“I don’t think skipping will be a good idea. It’ll just cause more problems.” Even if he would really rather not go, he’d prefer even less to have more problems with Mr. Beltrami in the future.

The lunch period ends and Sidney wishes him good luck. For the rest of the day, he imagines what Mr. Beltrami will say to him- imagines them patching things up, just to keep his nerve. Maybe it was all just a terrible misunderstanding, and he’d just caught Beltrami in a bad mood today. He almost had himself thinking everything was going to be fine, until the bell for the end of school rang. When he made it to outside Beltrami’s door, he felt a wave of what could only be described as terror wash over him.

He really, really didn’t want to go inside.

He takes a deep breath and reassures himself that the fear is unfounded.

It’s all a misunderstanding. Mr. Beltrami will explain what’s going on. It’ll be fine.

He repeats that to himself, a mantra, it’ll be fine, until he manages to open the door.

Beltrami doesn’t look up when Jason enters. Instead, he gestures at the desk directly in front of his own, one of the ones away from the computer work spaces lining the walls. Jason looks at the desk, unsure, before sitting in it obediently. He drops his backpack to the floor with a thud. Beltrami still hasn’t moved. Not even a twitch.

“Do you know,” he finally says, drawling the words out, care taken for every syllable, “why you’re here?”

Jason stares at Beltrami, who is still focusing on whatever is on his desk. He searches for some sign of what the right answer is. There’s none.

“You… I was using my phone.” Jason grips his desk, curls his legs up as much as he can manage. His sneakers squeak as he does, cutting the silence.

After some pause, Beltrami pushes himself up and walks to stand in front of Jason’s desk. He puts his hands on the sides of the desk top, leaning into Jason’s space. Jason tries to lean away, but where can he go? Beltrami blocks him on all sides - left, right, and centre.

“Sure,” Beltrami agrees, smooth. “But it was more than that. You were insolent.”

“I...I don’t unders-”

“You let Morozova talk over you. You laughed at his disobedience. You fucking let him defy me!” Beltrami slams his hand on the desk and Jason jumps. His entire body is shaking. He needs to leave. He can't do anything but stare forward.

If he tries anything, Beltrami is going to hurt him. How much, he doesn’t know. That's what scares him. The uncertainty. The why, how, most of all, the how much.

��Why are you afraid of me, Jason?” Beltrami cuts into his thoughts, still too much in his space. Choking him through proximity. “Huh? What did I do, that made you so scared? I thought we were friends.”

He reaches out to stroke Jason’s cheek, and Jason flinches away, scared noise escaping before he can stop himself. Beltrami’s faux-sweet smile turns into a scowl.

“If it's going to be that way, I can see I’ll have to change tactics.”

Jason’s head is slammed into the desk before he can react, his entire world spinning and going blurry. Was the snapping sound he heard his glasses or his nose? Impossible to tell. He’s held down for a few seconds, blood pooling in his nose, before he’s jerked up just as suddenly.

“Oh, wow, you're still awake!” Beltrami sounds genuinely impressed. Jason makes a crackly groan, and Beltrami laughs. “I can see how you survived all those other attempts. You know, I think the scar is starting to grow on me. It’s going to be a pretty picture, you covered in hundreds more just like it. I usually don't keep them more than a week, but for my favourite student?”

Beltrami leans close to Jason’s face, now. Jason can smell his breath, feel its heat. He wants to pull away, but his head is still reeling.

“I think I can make an exception.”

His ears register a harsh squick sound as his battered face is brought down a second time. Just like that, he’s knocked out.

If he had a nickel for every time he’s passed out and then woken up in a torture hut…

Jason doesn’t complete the thought as he comes around, head pounding. Even without feeling, he can tell that there’s a solid welt on his forehead. The room’s too bright. Opening his eyes hurts.

There’s a crick in his neck. That’s because his head is slumped forward, but the rest of his body can’t follow. There’s straps around his shoulders, keeping his posture upright. His legs are bound to the legs of a chair, and his arms to the arms. The arm straps bite into his flesh, too tight. He’s not wearing his hoodie. He feels strangely naked without it. 

Lifting his head slightly, he forces his eyes open. There’s a studio light trained right on him. He has to squint, turn his head away from it until he adjusts.

 “Jason, you’re awake,” Beltrami says, sounding pleased. Jason can hardly see him; he’s standing at a weird angle behind the light. “I’m glad. I was just wondering if I should get started before you came to.”

“Wh...what?” Jason’s throat is dry, making his voice croak. He can tell that there’s still dried blood caked on his face. 

“That might’ve brought you around anyways,” Beltrami hums like it’s an idle thought. He moves to the camera and peers through, adjusting it. 

 “What are you talking about?” Jason rasps, struggling against his bonds. He can’t get much leverage in any direction. 

“Don’t move around too much.” Beltrami chides as he steps around the camera and walks towards him. “I’ve got you positioned perfectly.” 

“Let me go!” Jason insists, trying to scoot the chair. He can’t get the force he needs with his upper body restrained. He can’t. The best he can do is lift his hips a little. He glares at Beltrami as he approaches. Beltrami pulls a perplexed face.

“What happened to us, Jason? You used to hang off me like I was your only hope. I pretty much was, really. Your girlfriend couldn’t give you what you wanted - what you needed. I always hated the little bitch anyway. Her art was almost as trite as she was.”    

Beltrami sighs deeply, pacing. “But then something changed. When you started talking to Morozova.” He spits the name out with disgust, stopping and turning to face Jason, scowling.

“What did he offer to you, I wonder? Was it camaraderie? Knowing you both were naturally feminine, trying to pretend to be something you definitely aren't?” Jason’s face screws up in anger, hurt. “I don't know. I didn't understand it. I thought what I had with you was special, but I guess teenagers will be teenagers.” He shrugs.

“No need to dwell on it. We’re here now, alone. And I can finally show you all the film techniques I’ve been working on. Too bad you can't be behind the camera with me.” He turns on his heel, crossing the room. When he comes to a little metal cabinet, out of frame, he stops. “But that ship sailed when you decided to snub me… Or maybe when you didn't turn in your make up work.” He looks over his shoulder, smirking just a bit as he opens the door. “I’ll let you decide.”

Inside the cabinet is an array of… tools, for lack of a better word. It’s a random assortment, really. A window scraper- the kind with an exposed blade, a hammer, a fire poker, to name a few. Beltrami settles on a hunting knife, and then- is that a fucking cattle prod? A short, red one, not like the movies, but the prongs are unmistakeable.

“Don’t touch me, don’t you dare-” Jason squawks as Beltrami starts his short journey back towards him, testing the weight of the prod in his hand.

“You know, there’s probably interesting commentary to be made, on what we’re willing to do to animals, but find morally repulsive to do to humans,” he states.

“You have me tied to a chair!” Jason counters.

“We’re all bones and meat, after all,” he continues, without acknowledging Jason.

“Is that all I am? A piece of meat?” Jason asks, rage and distress bleeding into his voice in equal measures.

“Oh, no, you’re so much more than that,” Beltrami replies with a fanatic spark that makes Jason physically recoil. “You’re a muse.”

“You’re disgusting.” Jason glares at Beltrami. Beltrami sets his jaw.

“I liked you much better when you were a bookish Freshman. So compliant, so eager to please.” He steps into his space, one hand on the side of the armrest, now, thumb barely brushing Jason’s arm. “Am I a bad teacher, Jason? So bad that I took that out of you?” Then, before he can reply, “That’s okay. I can put it back in.”

A jolt travels up Jason’s right arm, makes his whole body seize and then shake. An explosion of static forms at the site and radiates out. His whole body is jell-o. He knows if he’d been standing, he would’ve collapsed. As it stands, his joints ache, shout in protest at being locked in position.

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds that Beltrami held the prod to his arm, but it feels like hours later that the jittering stops. Jason is breathing heavy, ragged. His arm feels numb, the sensation coming back in slow waves. His skin feels clammy, sweat cooling on his brow.

“There we go,” Beltrami coos. “Oh, that was definitely a good shot. I can already tell. How are you feeling? Not so rebellious anymore?”

Jason does what any nonsensical teenage horror protagonist would do, and spits on Beltrami to the best of his ability. It hits his jacket collar, but that’s close enough.

“Fuck you,” Jason sobs. “Fuck you.”

A number of emotions flicker across Beltrami’s face in the span of a few seconds, none of them comforting.

“You really hate me,” he says, as if that should come as a surprise. He brings the knife to Jason’s upper arm and slices, not deep, just enough to draw a trickle of blood. He stands up straight, wipes the blood off of his knife with his gloved fingertips.“We could’ve been beautiful, Jason. We could’ve made something beautiful here, together.” He drops his arm, seeming passive for a second before he snaps, “Then you had to go and fuck it up!”

He kicks the bottom of Jason’s chair, not hard enough to knock him over, but hard enough to rattle him, make his back teeth clack together, make the pinpoint pain shoot up into his jaw.

Beltrami runs his hands through his hair and chuckles, quick and stressed, like he’s trying to calm down from a little snap.

“You should be grateful,” he whispers, suddenly, like it’s the honest-to-god, objective truth. “You think you’re ever going to be anything? Everyone knows you. Your name, your face. Colleges and employers. They’ll know you as the liability. The target. The weakling who can’t defend himself. You think anyone will want you?” His volume increases, as he talks.

“No one will. Not as much as I did. I appreciated your uniqueness, but you were a freak from the get-go. Trying to play at being masculine, blend in where you didn’t belong. I was willing to lift you up anyways. And now look at you.” His grip shifts on the knife. Jason feels tears leaking out of his eyes, despite his best efforts. “At least if you die, you’ll be more loved; loved as a tragic story. You get to be the star. Ungrateful little brat.”

Jason turns his head away, shoulders shaking, hiccupy little breaths coming out.

Beltrami sighs.

“Let’s see if I can make you useful at all. I’ll pull a few good screams from you. That ought to do it.”

Before he can decide where to bury the knife, there’s a crash from awfully close. Just behind Jason, really. Beltrami takes a surprised step back. There’s some clambering, some more glass crunching, and then sunlight streams in, brightening up the room, as if a heavy curtain was just torn down. Jason knows who’s there before he even sees them.

The tall shadow of the Plague Doctor sweeps past his periphery and towards Beltrami. They grab him. He pushes them backwards. There’s a scuffle.

Jason realizes that this is the first time he’s seen the Plague Doctor have to fight to succeed.

The sound of crackling glass from behind him isn’t gone, yet. He hears a mechanical grunt, then unsteady footsteps.

“You really keep us busy,” comes the voice of, presumably, the shorter Plague Doctor. The straps binding his shoulders loosen and breathing is suddenly much easier. The strap comes off his right arm.

He hears an electric crackle. Him and the second Plague Doctor look up from the binds just in time to see the first Plague Doctor staggering, the cattle prod as close to their neck as Beltrami could get it.

One leg gives out and then they’re on a knee.

The next instant, their stomach sprouts a knife. Beltrami’s stabbed the Plague Doctor.

“You motherfucker!” The shorter one shouts, with a degree of anger Jason hasn’t heard from either of them ever before, and charges Beltrami.

Jason starts to undo his second arm strap.

The short Doctor tackles Beltrami and their knife sinks into him.

Left leg strap.

The knife goes in again. Beltrami is pushing on their mask, trying to shove them off.

Right leg. Jason stands.

A third time.

The one on the ground wheezes, “Dimka.”

The shorter one sits up, breathing hard, and then pushes off of Beltrami, scrambling towards the other. Their hands hover around them, like they’re afraid to touch.

Beltrami starts to stand up, hand searching for his knife, other hand pressing into the wall.

Jason runs to the supply cabinet, grabs the fire poker, and wheels around.

“Just stay down, Mr. Beltrami,” he says, trying to find a comfortable grip. He wants this to be over. Anger is filling up his chest, threatening to spill out. He can feel the tears bordering on blurring his vision. He doesn’t want to be pushed. Jason moves forward. It’s his turn to protect the Plague Doctors.  

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Beltrami spits, leaning against the wall, hand pressed against his gut. “This is my movie.”

“And this is the part where the credits roll,” Jason responds, hesitating when he gets closer, shifting forwards, then backwards.

Beltrami lashes out. Not even with the knife, at first. He reaches forward with a bloody palm and balls his fist into Jason’s shirt, tries to pull him in. Jason takes several swift steps backwards, lifting the poker and solidly whacking Beltrami’s forearm with the side of it.

Beltrami releases him, but that doesn’t stop his advance. Jason keeps backing up. He only wants to defend himself, he only wants to defend himself.

“I should’ve taken you when you were younger.” He swings the knife. Jason jumps back, further. “You don’t know how often I thought about this.” Beltrami won’t stop pressing the advance. “Thought about molding you.”

God, the flames are being stoked, building higher in Jason’s chest, licking at the back of his throat, on his tongue- he wants to spit everything at Beltrami but there’s too much rattling around in his head.

His shoulder bumps against the wall. He’s backed himself into a corner. Beltrami holds the knife out to his side, like he’s ready. Jason’s chest is heaving.

“You were supposed to be mine.”

Clarity strikes. Jason grits his teeth and swings. The fire poker knocks Beltrami upside the head. Beltrami stumbles back, shocked.

“I was never supposed to be anything to you,” Jason says, stepping forward, swinging again. Beltrami ducks back. Jason is the one pressing, now. “You used me. Everyone before this, all the people who tried to kill me, I thought they were just results of their environment. Misguided.” Another swing. The iron head hits Beltrami in the ribs. “That if we were in another world, they could’ve learned better. But you. You trick people into trusting you and then you hurt them.” Beltrami half stumbles, fumbles with his knife. Jason continues,

“I had you as my teacher for years and the whole time, you were thinking about ending up here, in this room. It would've been the same in any world. You think I needed you? Need you?” It’s Beltrami’s turn to press against the wall. “The only thing I need is to make sure you never get the chance to hurt anyone else.”

“Jason, you don’t have to do this-” He replies, in a strained diplomat’s voice.

“I don’t. But you deserve it.” Throwing all his weight forward, he sinks the fire poker into Beltrami’s chest. The poker stalls, for a second, on the small prong, before Beltrami’s flesh gives. It makes a sick, wet sound. Beltrami coughs, spraying Jason with blood. Jason feels his stomach flip. When he steps back, Beltrami falls, pushing it through further, like in a cheesy horror film.

Jason takes a moment to breathe, hands shaking, head rushing. The adrenaline that was rushing through his veins feels like a curse, making him shudder all over. When his heart no longer feels like it’s in his throat, he turns to look at the Plague Doctors.

The injured one is sitting up, now, if only slightly. The shorter is tending to the wound to the best of their ability, silent now.

“You killed him,” the taller one says. If it weren’t for the voice changer, Jason would be sure he’d heard a hint of concern.

“He wouldn’t have stopped,” Jason breathes.

“Welcome to the grey area,” the smaller one states, quietly.

“Are you okay?” Jason asks.

“I think I’m doing alright.” They answer.

“Can you see if there’s any bandages around? Thread and needle?” The short one asks.

Jason nods and goes to search on shaky legs. He can hear them whispering as he searches.

“Nothing,” he responds, apologetic.

“Shit,” they respond as they press down on the wound, again, earning a groan from their companion. “Sorry,” they whisper.

“I’ll go see if there’s another room,” Jason offers, walking towards the exit door.

“Jason, wait.” He stops, looking at the two of them.

The shorter one fumbles with the back of their hood a bit and Jason’s heart speeds up. What?

“Babe, don’t,” the taller one tries to protest.

But the mask comes off. Jason’s heart stalls entirely.

Dmitri Morozova, leading man in every play since their freshman year, brilliant actor, vigilante serial killer.

He looks genuinely scared.

There’s a sigh, and the remaining masked Plague Doctor does a bit of work to get theirs off, too.

Regan. Star of the wrestling team, hottest girlfriend in the school, always Dmitri’s partner in crime.

“What the fuck?” Jason asks, voice tight.

“We were going to tell you,” Regan says, softly.

“No, you - you should’ve told me straight away, you should’ve -” Jason makes a strangled noise, backs up again. “Is that - is that why you became friends with me? Of course. I should’ve known, no one has ever wanted to talk to me since this started unless - fuck!”

“You’re wrong -” Dmitri begins, but Jason cuts him off with bitter laughter.

“Am I? Okay, then why’d you come talk to me? You never took pity on me before then, that’s for fucking sure. I didn’t exist to you. I wish I still didn’t!”

Regan cringes. “Jason...We kept talking to you because we liked you, because…”

“Because ‘to be frank, I’m a murder magnet’! Isn’t that it? You said so yourself!” Jason pulls at his hair as hard as he can. Gritting his teeth hurts his scar, but he does it anyway.

Dmitri looks between Jason and Regan, surprised.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Regan says, shaking his head. “I was getting frustrated-”

“Frustrated? You? You shot Christian in my fucking kitchen! My mom had to mop up the blood!”

“We were trying to help you, Voorhees,” Dmitri says, voice wavering a bit. “We were just trying to fix things, for everyone, and then you turned out to be cool, we didn’t-”

“Save it.” Jason glares.

Dmitri quiets so quickly it’s disconcerting. Regan grips his hand and runs his thumb over the back of it.

“So are you guys going to call 911? How are you going to avoid taking the heat this time?” His voice is cold.

Dmitri and Regan look at each other, like they’re silently communicating. Then Regan looks back to Jason.

“How about a head start?”

“What? You don’t plan on going to the hospital?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had to handle a stab wound. We just need to get back to my car.” Dmitri starts to help him up. He doesn’t look in good shape. Dmitri picks up their masks and puts his back on. Then he walks the short distance to the camera and destroys it, wordlessly, tossing it onto the ground and then stomping on it.

Dmitri grabs Regan’s hand again once that’s done and helps him out of the room. Jason doesn’t follow them down the hall. He just waits in the doorway until he thinks they’ve had as long as they deserve, and then calls the police.

#a disease like you spreads #adlys #chapter 7 #gif / #glitch /