Mine.
Hear me, when I don’t speak.
I'll haunt you in ways not even your ghosts dare to.
You’ll beg for me to stop, but I’ll never listen.
Your body talks to me. Traitorous little thing.
I can’t breathe, can’t fucking think straight. His obsession wraps around me, and suffocates me, and there’s nothing I can do to escape it.
He must have done this this morning when I was training. And he took me to that fucking locker knowing this was all waiting for me when I got home.
I turn in an instant I lean down, rummage through my bag for my charger, plug it in, then rush out of the trailer into the night to go and confront him.
As I approach the Hollows trailer, my feet walk faster than my frantic heartbeat. I’m torn between anger and awe, my mind reeling from the constant pull and push of this unhinged man.
I don’t bother knocking. I shove the door open and step inside, but the trailer is silent and empty. No sign of Wrath or Soul.
I move through the kitchen, heading straight for the back of the trailer, where I think Wrath’s room is. As I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks. The black door stares back at me and every fiber of my body screams to turn around and leave. To forget this, to run in the other direction. But my mind refuses to back down. I can’t. Not now. I’m here.
I step forward, each movement heavy with tension, my heart thumping like a war drum in my chest. I reach for the door, hand trembling, but I push through the fear, twisting the handle with force.
As soon as I step inside, my eyes dart around, taking in the suffocating, oppressive darkness. The walls and ceiling are drenched in matte black, every inch covered in faded, rushed red writing and it’s frantic, like a mind long gone.
There’s no windows, no escape, but at the far end of the room, a large round bed looms. A sheer black curtain is drawn loosely around it, black sheets and pillows scattered carelessly across the mattress.
I step further into the room, the door quietly shutting behind me. Chains hang from the ceiling, more than in my trailer, more domineering, more deliberate. They coil around the bed to be used as restraints, waiting and gleaming under the dull, red glow of a lone bulb.
I can almost feel the metal on my skin, the cold bite of it as I imagine the horrors that must unfold in here. This is his domain, a place where only darkness reigns, where pain and silence blend.
Moving forward, my feet barely whisper over the black, chipped wood floors. I’ve stupidly wandered into his den, and if he comes back and finds me here... Fuck knows what he’ll do.
I’m just about to turn and leave, every instinct tearing at me to get out, when something catches my eye. To my right, tucked against the wall, sits a heavy black dresser with a large, cracked mirror framed above it. A matching chair sits crookedly in front, shoved back like he left in a hurry.
Papers spill across the surface in a chaotic mess, some crumpled and fallen onto the floor like discarded thoughts he couldn’t bear to look at.
Something pulls me forward until I’m standing over it, peering down. Drawings, hundreds of them, look back at me. Faces, bodies, eyes too wide, mouths half-screaming, all scrawled in violent strokes.
A black quill rests beside the chaos, and next to it, a small pot of ink so dark and thick it almost gleams. But the colour... it’s wrong. It’s too deep, too viscous and far too much like blood.
My eyes drift back to the red words scrawled across the walls, something cold and heavy settling in my chest.
It probably is.
Jesus Christ. What the fuck have I got myself into?
My shaky hand drags across my mouth, trying to steady my shallow breathing, while the other gently trembles through the scattered drawings.
Women.
But every single one looks the same, and they all strangely look similar to me. Sketched in obscene, brutal poses, captured like he’s seen them that way firsthand. Like he’s lived it.
Not to mourn it. Not to regret it. But torememberit.
To etch it into his memory so he never forgets and the realization slams into me harder than fear itself. Because this isn’t just fantasy for him. This is far more than that. This is real.
Their hair looks like mine, long, straight and black, but their faces are odd. Twisted, blurred and unfamiliar. Not like the ones he drew for my trailer. Those lookedexactlylike me. This feels different. It’s like I’m staring through the lens of his disturbed mind.