In Case Of Emergency
Pairing: Bo Sinclair x fem!oc Jocelyn Hafrey
Warnings: language, murder, canon typical violence/blood, past violence, eventual smut
Summary: She has her cameras and her hobbies. She has a bad habit of smoking when she's bored. She has friends who live in different states that think she's the normal one in the group. Jocelyn keeps her life carefully glued together. And we all know how Bo Sinclair likes to take things apart.
A/N: If this is trash, please don't tell me, I already know and I just want to spread my horror movie lovin' wings and this has been sitting in my docs glaring at me for too long. Hopefully more soon?
Prologue: Remain Calm
There was barely any air flow in the dark space where a small, trembling body hid. The closet was hot and every breath she took was thick with Summer heat, blood, and fear.
"Come out you little fucking thief!" a voice outside the slated doors screeched, piercing the otherwise quiet house, making the child in the closet jump. More tears ran down her blood spattered cheeks.
Her shoulder ached where the knife had dug into it but she pulled her knees closer to her body anyway, shaking arms looped around them as her muscles burned under the strain. Trying to be as small as possible, like when she would play Hide 'n Seek with her Dad.
Only the person looking for her had hit her Dad on the head, over and over until she couldn't see anything but red in his hair. Blood red. And then the person had come after her.
"Liars! Stupid, lying, thieves!" the voice was getting closer now, it's heavy footsteps stomping around upstairs, tossing things around, screaming.
The door to the room suddenly flew open, bouncing off the wall, shaking the pictures and paintings. The girl suddenly felt warm wetness soaking her pajama bottoms, leaking through to puddle in the carpet underneath her. It was a sensation associated with embarrassment and piss stained sheets at 2AM.
Those thundering steps shook the floor as they came toward the closet, the thin doors swinging open, the voice howling through cracked and bleeding lips
"I can smell your stinking piss you thief!"
That girl who had wet herself in terror while her parents lay unconscious and bleeding one floor away from her was now a woman. All grown up, as they say.
On quiet nights like this, that memory became twisted, morphing into what-if's and possible alternative outcomes. They are no less clear in her minds eye though, still just as sharp as the truth.
The woman sits up in bed and looks around for the nearest closet. There is a large one on the far side of the room with grand double doors, a walk-in. So many places to hide in there.
With a stifled sigh, she shifts her legs to hang off the side of the bed before slowly rising until she's standing, feeling all the muscles that would ache tomorrow. Walking around the lavish master bedroom toward the equally lavish master bath makes a knot form in her stomach, threatening to launch itself up and out of her in one violent purge.
It's a feeling that never leaves her in these moments. The day it does abandon her will be the day she ends all this.
The lights are dimmed in the bathroom but she can still see that it's filled with fine marble counters and sleek faucet fixtures, a walk-in shower large enough to fit a handful of people, a toilet with more buttons than her phone and a wonderfully large tub.
She imagines turning the gold tinted handles and feeling the water as it comes pouring out of the spigot until it's the perfect temperature. No fancy scents, no bubbles, just warm clear water that she could lower herself into and relax.
The image almost eases the tension in her gut.
The reality of the slowly cooling body slumped in the tub makes it worse.
Blood is slipping down the outside of the tub, ever so gently trailing it's way to the tiled floor that is swirled with varying shades of grey and gold flecks. The rest of it is busy pooling inside the tub with the body, soaking into the clothes and drying into rusted smears.
The woman steps carefully through the doorway, sighing again as she lifts the camera hanging at her side, the strap slung across her back digging into her shoulder with it's weight.
It's a fairly old camera, it uses film and is finicky at times, but she prefers it to the modern ones she uses for work. For this, there will be no digital copies, just the negatives and what is burned into her memory.
Lowering down onto her haunches, she brings the camera up to find the body through the lens. The face is frozen in a mask of sleep, as if it's wearer had nodded off while reading the paper on a lazy afternoon.
She drags a fingertip over the shutter button, like the camera needed coaxing to capture something this disconcerting, but instead she pans away from the face and down to the blood on the tub. It has reached the floor by now and she begins the fine dance with the shutter. Clicking away around the scene, eventually standing up for a new angle.
It's like jumping off of a cliff but knowing there will be water at the bottom to break your fall, your friends all treading water below and telling you it'll be okay. You could do it a thousand times and still feel that split second of terror once you leapt, certain it was all a lie.
That the water would kill you after all and your friends had been whispering bittersweet falsehoods to you. And then the water was all around you, cradling you, then you were swimming up to breach the surface for air.
Every snap of the shutter is a leap off a cliff. Seeing the negatives is the fall riddled with terror. The developed pictures are the cool slip of water against skin. Hiding the images away is gasping that breath of air.
Finding a new body to point the lens at is tantamount to climbing back up to the edge of the cliff.
Once the film has reached it's end, she steps back, placing the lens cap over the eye of her unwitting accomplice and leaves the bathroom. The house is empty of life once she slips out unseen. The body sitting infinitely patient in the tub.
The woman knew she would find herself jumping off that cliff again soon, she always did.
She also knew that the water would dry up one day and she would hit nothing but solid bedrock and smash herself to bits.
Until then, she would just remain calm. After all, nothing could stop the inevitable.