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One shots-

Study Abroad

Ongoing-

Missing Piece (Previously Poly!141 drabbles but I continued them)

Finished yippee! -

You knew after it happened that Simon wouldn't keep his fun a secret, though he was at least gracious enough to keep it to himself until you went to bed. You had planned to stay up and eavesdrop from the top of the stairs, but Simon's stunt left you exhausted for the rest of the day. At some point after dinner, you ended up falling asleep downstairs, again sat in Simon's lap. You were jostled awake when he carried you to bed, though, and you managed to catch John asking why you were so tired tonight, and Simon promising to explain when he came back downstairs.

This morning, you wake up on your own rather than being woken up by someone else. It's surprising at first, the abrupt schedule change, until you try to get out of bed and Johnny grabs your arm.

Right. Today is his day at home.

"Come back," he whines, using his free hand to rub his eyes. "It's cold out there, hen, ye willna like it. Stay in bed wi' me where it's warm."

Even that little comment is enough to embarrass you. Every comment you hear about "making sure you stay warm" could be a reference to Simon going down on you. You don't know if he told the others that his excuse was to 'warm you up', and that's a question you never want to ask. Whenever they make comments like that, you'll just have to guess if they're teasing or not.

Apparently, your thinking is taking too long for Johnny. He tugs on your arm like an impatient child nagging at their parent. "C'mon, nobody's home to tell us we canna sleep in. Take advantage of it." He's got his eyes open now, staring at you with sad, pleading eyes.

Now that you get a good look at his face, though, he looks a bit off. The skin around his eyes is a tad dark, and his overall complexion just seems off. It could be the lighting, or a result of him having just woken up. You press your hand to his forehead anyway; you don't want to share a bed with him if he's got some virus.

He practically purrs at the touch, pushing up into your hand and tilting his head down to make you pet his hair, but you pull away quickly. He doesn't feel abnormally warm. He huffs, pouting and flopping his head dramatically into the pillow when he realizes you're not going to keep touching him.

"You look sick," you tell him, using that as your excuse to stay out of bed. He only sighs and turns onto his back, stretching before he bothers to acknowledge what you said.

"Ye look nice, too," he hums, grinning at his own joke.

He sits up with a sigh when you leave the bedside, pouting over having to get out of bed.

You grab your clothes fast so you can claim the bathroom before he does.

—

Johnny's nose is running. He wanted to make you breakfast, but you refused after watching him wipe his nose on the back of his hand. To be fair, he did wash his hands after, but you don't trust him to not do it again, or to wash every time. So, you take over breakfast duty and make him sit at the table to keep him from touching anything.

You're hungry, and you know you need to eat, but you're really not in the mood to actually cook anything. If Johnny isn't in the mood for toast, he can starve.

He doesn't make any complaints after watching you put bread in the toaster, so he must not care too much. While you tell yourself that you don't care if him, or any of the others, are upset or disappointed with you, there's still lingering a lingering anxiety. You already know the consequences for major disobedience, but what would they do over little things like bad breakfast?

"Ye got a look on yer face," Johnny says from the table. "Feelin' okay?"

"Yeah," you mutter, staring at the toaster as if that'll make it work faster.

Johnny sniffles. You side-eye him, perturbed. "Are you getting sick?" You know you already mentioned sickness, but you can't help asking again.

Johnny smiles, misplacing the question as concern for his well-being. "Nah," he shakes his head. "It's the cold, that's all."

Sure. You'll have to keep an eye on him. A runny nose is strike two for him, after his complexion. You will not sleep in the same bed as him if he's sick.

The toast finally pops, but you leave it in the toaster so you can dig through the fridge for a spread. Strawberry cream cheese sounds heavenly, but you doubt they'll have any. You find some jam hidden in the back and check the date on the jar to make sure it isn't ancient. You find it's got time before it expires, and you're about to close the fridge when you realize you should probably ask Johnny what he wants. He could always get his own spread, but you're already up, and you know he'd ask you.

"…what do you want on your toast?"

You only ask because you'd rather play it safe and stay on his good side.

"Whatever's good," he hums. "Ah'm no' picky."

He's getting jam too, then. You amuse yourself with the thought of spreading some horrid concoction of condiments on his toast, since he's not picky. You bet he'd really appreciate the craftsmanship of toast with jam and dill pickle relish.

Neither of you speak while you eat. You don't mind it, though. It's a comfortable silence, although you hate to admit you can even have comfortable silences with any of them. You think maybe you should be appreciative of the fact that you're allowed moments of peace, of safety, but that thought only leads back to blaming yourself for your situation.

You shouldn't let yourself feel safe. That's how they get you. If you get too comfortable, they'll do something awful, and it'll be your fault for letting your guard down.

You're only hurting yourself by staying so alert. Constant stress is bad for you. You're gonna give yourself an ulcer. Just relax.

You're damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"Are ya sure yer okay?" Johnny asks, pulling you back out of your head. You nod and take another bite of toast, but it's not enough to get him off your back.

"When's yer next period?"

"What?" you snap, dropping your toast. "I don't know. That doesn't have anything to do with anything. Don't ask me that."

How articulate.

He puts his hands up in a mock surrender. "Sorry, sorry. I was just checkin'."

You answer him with a glare before going back to your breakfast, and he goes back to his without anymore stupid questions.

He does make you think, though; you're actually not sure when to expect your next period. It's too hard to keep track of time, but you're going to have to start, unless you want to ruin a pair of underwear every month. You start another mental shopping list to give to Simon: strawberry cream cheese, and a calendar.

—

Johnny wants you to sit with him after breakfast, but you manage to escape when you tell him you have chores to do. He argues at first, but after insisting that you'll get in trouble if you don't do your chores (and promising to sit with him later), he lets you go.

Typically, you dread doing chores, but today it isn't so bad. Instead of following you, Johnny lays down on the couch for a nap he's probably not supposed to be taking, so you get a bit of time alone for once. One of the four is always shadowing you, so some alone time is a blessing even if you're doing chores. It's especially nice that you don't have to try and hide your underwear from them while you sort your laundry.

Really, you only had laundry to check off your list of things to do, but you exaggerated to escape sitting on the couch and wishing you were anywhere else. Now that your laundry is in the washer, you've got nothing left to do. You don't want to go back to the living room with Johnny. You need something else to do.

Or… if Johnny's asleep on the couch, you could just sneak back upstairs. You could grab one of your books, or a bottle of nail polish, and take advantage of your private time to do something on your own.

You sneak back to the living room, walking on your toes. You treat each floorboard like a land mine— one creaky floorboard, one misstep, and any chance at a quiet morning is blown away.

Deciding not to risk it, you sneak past Johnny without stopping to grab anything. You can find something to do when you get upstairs— you know there's at least one book in your room.

Maybe it's silly to be so cautious. It's not like you're sneaking out, and, realistically, it wouldn't be that hard to get away if Johnny did wake up. All you'd have to do is lie about having more laundry and tell him to go back to sleep.

This level of caution is probably over dramatic, but they've got you on high alert. It's not your fault, you suppose. Again, while you're not sneaking out to escape, you're still sneaking, and the last time you put this much effort into going undetected, John spanked you with his belt. They've successfully conditioned: you associate anything that might be considered bad behavior with punishment.

When you make it to the top of the stairs, you pause, listening for any indication that Johnny is awake. When you're sure it's safe, you tiptoe to your room. Even if your caution is ridiculous, you'd rather be safe than sorry.

You relax as soon as you get the door shut, taking a moment to savor your mini victory. Finally, you get a moment of peace, quiet, and privacy.

Now you need to search for something to do. You know you have at least one book in this room, and you make a mental note to bring up more books later so you're ready if you get this opportunity again.

In your search for something to do, a colorful fabric catches your eye.

Your makeup bag.

Even before you were kidnapped, you didn't do much with makeup. You always wanted to— you have an entire folder on your social media dedicated to products you'd like to buy, and tutorials you promised yourself to try. You just didn't have the time to do it, between school and work. Now, you do have the time. While you don't have your phone for tutorials, you can at least play around.

You take your makeup bag to the bathroom, setting your things out on the counter. A makeup mirror would be nice… maybe Simon would get you one with lights on it, if you asked. Actually, he'd probably get you a whole vanity and all new products. You likely wouldn't even have to ask, instead just suggest you'd like to get back into makeup again.

You go on autopilot as you start your routine, amusing yourself with all the different things you could con them into buying for you. John's already made it clear he'll splurge on gifts for you, so maybe you should target him. You could put on that dumb apron and make sure he catches you baking before you drop a little hint: I've always wanted a vanity… it would be so nice to have my own place to do my hair and put on some blush… I just want to look nice for you.

You imagine he'd hand you his wallet if you said that.

Or you could go after Kyle. Promise him that you'd let him help you with your nails if he got you the gel polish and a lamp to cure it, and that he could do your hair if only you had the tools.

Your mind wanders to bigger things you could get them to buy. It's amusing, thinking of how easy they'd cave to you if you just said the right thing. Telling them how much fun you could have together in a jacuzzi… you always thought it would be hot to sip lemonade in your very own pool while the pool boy watched you float in a tiny swimsuit… you'd love to spend a day on the lake with them, if only they had a boat…

You're grinning by the time you finish playing in your makeup. It's different than what you would have put on before class, but you like that. It's bolder, and it makes your eyes stand out. Having makeup on again, getting yourself dolled up a bit, it makes you feel a lot better than you have in a long time.

While you admire yourself, your smile falls from your face and your spirit fades. It isn't yourself who you see in the mirror. The woman that looks back at you isn't you, but who you were before four men ruined your life. The woman who looks back at you has full control of her life; she has ambitions, a future that's entirely her own. You're face to face with your own reflection, but you only see a stranger.

—

Four panicked men burst into your room, waking you from your nap with obnoxious, loud, and collective sighs.

"What're ye doin' asleep?" Johnny asks. He enters the room while the others disperse, content knowing that you haven't made another escape attempt. "Ya said ye'd come get me when ye were done with yer chores."

You keep your face pressed into your pillow, hoping you won't have to look directly at him— or rather, so that he can't look directly at you. Johnny's keener than he lets on. He'll notice any residual eyeliner, and he'll couple it with your puffy under eyes and then ask questions. You really don't feel like explaining, or even speaking, to him, or any one of them, about anything ever again.

Johnny tries to coax you up from your pillow, nudging you gently in hopes that you'll roll over, but you push him away. He's persistent, though, switching from nudging to pushing, so you turn your head enough to peek at him with just one eye.

He himself looks like he just crawled out of bed. His mohawk is messy, pressed flat in some spots and sticking up like a cowlick in others. You feel a tiny bit better when you imagine the panic he felt when the others came home to discover that he was asleep and you were gone. In that moment, you were missing and it was his fault. You hope he was terrified.

Johnny frowns at you. Apparently even just one eye is enough to ring alarm bells. "Ye feelin' okay, bonnie?"

He pets your hair out of your face, but his touch makes your stomach churn. You swat his hand away and press your face back into your pillow, hoping he'll take the hint and leave you alone.

"C'mon, don't be like that," he sighs. "What's wrong? Ah know there's somethin' goin' on in yer head. You can talk to me."

And say what? That he and his boyfriends ruined your life and you wish they'd all die?

Rage simmers inside you as his words really sink in. How dare he suggest something like that? How could he assume that your problems aren't directly fucking related to him? You're furious, wondering how he thinks confiding in him will help you in any way, when the only real fix to any of your problems is the one thing they refuse to do?

It's a miracle that Johnny doesn't push you any further. It's a blessing that he finally takes the hint and leaves before you can lash out and get yourself in trouble. Maybe the universe is paying you small favors in return for fucking you over.

—

You get only an hour to yourself before someone comes knocking again. You keep your back to the door so the intruder can't see your scowl.

"Hi, lovey. I brought you something to eat."

Kyle.

You relax a bit and turn to face him. Admittedly, you are hungry, though you don't think it would matter much whether you were or weren't in the mood for lunch. You should get in the habit of accepting their offerings no matter how you're feeling, just to make things easier on yourself.

Kyle sits himself down in Johnny's side of the bed, handing you your plate and a glass of water. He gets himself comfortable, waiting patiently for you to start eating. You're a bit disappointed he didn't just leave you in peace, but you know that was an unrealistic thing to hope for. Alone time is a foreign concept to them, apparently.

"Johnny told us you're not feeling good today."

Your response is automatic; you slump your shoulders and roll your eyes, already annoyed with the conversation when it hasn't even started. You stiffen a bit when you realize how much attitude you just gave him, but Kyle doesn't look too upset. He almost looks amused.

"He said you wouldn't want to talk." He offers you a small smile, and you relax again and go back to eating.

You finish your food without any further conversation, but you notice Kyle frequently glancing at your face. He must be looking for the little bit of eyeliner that Johnny saw earlier. If he sees it, he doesn't bring it up. You hope that means he doesn't see it at all.

"You wanna come downstairs?" There's a hopeful lilt to the question, but you make sure to snuff it out.

"No." Don't ask again.

Kyle sighs, but he doesn't press. He takes your empty plate and leaves you alone again.

He listened.

You're not entirely convinced this is actually happening. Maybe you should pinch yourself, just to be sure this isn't a dream. He actually left.

This could be a reward. Maybe they're giving you a bit more slack after seeing you stayed put when you could've made a run for it while Johnny was sleeping; a longer leash as reward for not trying to slip the short one.

—

Johnny wakes sick.

At first, his cough and runny nose seem like the end of your good fortune; yesterday's alone time must've used up your supply of luck, and now you have to return to your misery. Then, though, you realize this means that Johnny is staying home from the gym again, and you don't have to spend the morning alone with John. It's said that good things come in small packages; apparently that includes a virus.

While John, Simon, and Kyle are away, Johnny stays tucked in bed, and you get free reign of the rest of the house.

You get to watch whatever you want on the television, you get to sit wherever you want without having to sit in someone's lap, and you get to decide when (or if) you're going to do any chores.

If every day were more like today, you might be able to get used to this…

No. Dangerous thought. Don't go there.

But why not go there? It's not like you have a good chance, if you have any chance at all, of escaping or even being rescued. The best thing to do for your mental state is accept the situation.

But you're not helpless. You don't have to accept the situation. You can get out, if you just try!

A hurricane of emotion storms inside you, so fierce you can physically feel it; hot flushes of anger, tense rigidity of frustration, pangs of helplessness and sorrow. You have no outlet for it other than your own body— you can't scream, so you clench your jaw so tight your teeth threaten to crack. You grab fistfulls of hair and tug, using the pain as a distraction from your inner turmoil. When you feel your hair snapping free from the root, you move on to hitting. You hit yourself hard, over and over in the same spot on your legs until you feel bruises forming beneath your palms, and even then it doesn't feel like enough. You need something stronger.

There should be razors in the bathroom.

How long will you suffer the torment of your own conscience? You've said it over and over: you're damned if you do and damned if you don't, so stop thinking about it. Stop letting it plague your mind. How many times will you have to say it before you let yourself listen?

You need a break from the turmoil. You need to feel something else, something real and physical that you can see, that you can start and stop whenever you want. You need to be back in control.

There have to he razors in the bathroom.

You don't spare it another thought before you're standing up and moving for the stairs. You're on a mission, focused on your objective and that only. You don't think about the after, you don't worry about consequences, you just move. It's as if your mind has been separated from your being, your body running on the last signal sent to it before splitting off from your conscience.

You just barely make it to the doorway of the bathroom when a miserable groan freezes you in your place.

Johnny is awake.

"Bonnie? Are ye there?" He calls for you from his room, borderline desperate.

His call for help snaps you back to reality; it throws your mind back to your body so forcefully that your knees give out, and you fall to the ground. Disoriented, you close your eyes and breathe hard, trying to get yourself back together.

You have a choice: you could ignore him, and continue on with your mission. You're right there, so close to what you were so sure you needed just seconds ago.

Or you could go to Johnny. In helping him, you'll help yourself. He could save you from yourself. He could distract you long enough to calm down— shift your attention, your focus, your thoughts, from yourself and your pain to him and his.

Taking a steadying breath, you stand back up and turn to Johnny's room. Today, he can save you.

Johnny looks… rough. His eyes are glassy, and his skin shines with sweat. His face is pale, and his undereyes are dark. He smiles when he sees you, but it doesn't make him look any less miserable.

"There ye are," he sighs, reaching out for you. He's laying on his side, the blankets balled up at the foot of the bed. "I miss ye," he whines. His voice sounds raspy and stuffy. "Can I come downstairs?"

His question takes you a bit off guard. If you hadn't just had a mental crisis, it might've been funny to hear him asking you for permission. You ignore his question and press your hand to his forehead. It's visually obvious that he's got a fever, but you check anyway.

"Holy shit," you murmur, trying to keep your voice down for his sake. "You're really warm."

Johnny doesn't seem to care much about his fever, apparently too busy enjoying that you're willingly touching him. He leans into your hand like he did yesterday, sighing happily when you don't immediately pull away.

"We should take your temperature," you murmur again. "You're too warm."

Johnny dismisses you with a wave. "Nae, Ah run warm. Ah dinna have a fever."

Your brow furrows with concern— concern for yourself, of course. If he has a fever you should know, because he'll probably pass this virus down to you. You should know if a fever comes with it, just so you can prepare. No other reason.

"Where do you keep the thermometer?" You ask, taking your hand off his forehead.

Johnny groans and rolls onto his back. "Ye dinna need it."

"Johnny. Where is it?" You demand this time.

He shoots you a sulky look. "With the medicine," he grumbles. "Yer only wastin' energy."

You have to dig around a plethora of old prescriptions before you find it. Do they not get sick, or are they all as whiny as Johnny is about taking their temperature?

Johnny's still sulking when you return, thermometer in hand. "Open."

He begrudgingly agrees, huffing when you push the thermometer under his tongue. "Keep it there," you tell him, and he grunts in acknowledgment.

The thermometer beeps, and Johnny hands it over to you without even looking at it himself. You know it's because he's that confident about not having a fever, but to amuse yourself, you decide it's because he's a big man-baby who needs someone else to read his temperature back to him.

You get a tiny shot of satisfaction when you read his temperature to him. "37.9. You have a fever."

"Can I come downstairs now?" Johnny asks, unconcerned with his fever. He really is acting like a baby— pouting about having to take his temperature, and now waiting for permission to leave his room. It might've been endearing if you were in some parallel universe where he was your boyfriend instead of one of your kidnappers.

You want to tell him no, that he should stay upstairs and go back to sleep so you don't have to give up your alone time. Maybe any other day you might've said just that, but today, you aren't sure it's a good idea for you to be by yourself.

"Fine," you sigh. "Just don't get too close. I don't wanna get sick, either."

Johnny smiles at you and sits up with a groan, stretching before he stands. He grabs his pillow and follows you out of the bedroom. While you turn for the kitchen, Johnny turns to the living room.

Playing nurse for your kidnapper isn't ideal, but you don't want the others to come home and find out Johnny has a fever and you didn't do anything to help him. So, you make him something to eat— more toast— pour him some water, and search for some cold medicine. In your search, you find a bottle of ibuprofen, too, and curse Kyle for only bringing you paracetamol on your period when you could've had the ibuprofen as well.

Johnny's turned the couch into his own little bed, covered under the big blanket John got you. He gives you another tired smile and sits up, reaching for the plate of toast.

He's pleasantly quiet when he's sick. All he says before eating is a quick thank-you, and when he's done, he just takes the medicine and goes back to sleep.

You'll still get your peaceful day after all.

—

Ignoring your intrusive thoughts isn't as hard as you anticipated; somehow, you manage to get a routine formed with Johnny being sick. At first, the plan is for you to stay in Simon's room so Johnny doesn't get you sick, too. This only lasts one night before they move you again, because Johnny whines that he can't sleep alone when he's sick, and Simon "doesn't get sick." You hoped you'd get to stay with Kyle, but stupid John made the stupid executive decision that you should stay in his stupid room with him.

Every night you scoot as far away as him from possible, and every morning you wake up in his arms. He insists that you move there yourself, but you're certain he's the one moving you when you're in too deep of a sleep to wake up and stop him.

Your mornings start the same: you wake up, realize you're curled up against John, try to move away, and wake him up in the process. The variation comes here— sometimes John holds tighter and makes you stay with him for a little longer, and sometimes he lets you go and teases you for being so squirmy. Then you get dressed, brush your teeth, and go downstairs, where you spend the rest of the morning with Johnny.

He's been sick for four days, and you're starting to wonder if it's more than just a cold. He's only just now starting to feel better, which is good, but it's still taking a seemingly long time. Maybe this cold is just dragging on, but you hope it'll be over soon. Whatever this is, it's making him mean.

Taking care of Johnny is only a good distraction when he's being nice. When he's not, it just makes everything you're dealing with that much worse. He's apparently on a hunger strike now. He refused to eat anything yesterday, not until the other three came home and made him, and he's refusing breakfast again today.

While you make your breakfast— switching it up this time with a bagel instead of toast— Johnny sits at the table with his head down. After playing your bagel (spread with strawberry cream cheese, courtesy of Simon), you pour a glass of milk for Johnny to take with his morning dose of cold medicine. You're not sure if he should be taking medicine on an empty stomach, and milk is the best alternative since he's refusing to eat.

Johnny keeps his head down when you join him at the table, so you say nothing. You'd like to enjoy a little bit of quiet before you have to argue with him. You finish the first half of your bagel before nudging him.

"You need your medicine. I brought you some milk to help it sit better in your stomach."

Johnny lifts his head to glare at you. "Ah'm no' drinkin' that shite."

Taking a breath, you try again. "It's only a small glass, and it's to keep the medicine from making you sick."

Johnny lays his head back down on the table. "Ah said nae. Just get me some water and I'll take the stupid pills with that."

"Johnny," you start, irritated that you have to keep explaining this to him, "you can't take this stuff on an empty stomach. It'll make you sick. If you're not going to eat, then you have to at least take it with milk."

"Fuckin' fine!" Johnny snaps, sitting up abruptly. Instead of taking the glass of milk, though, he snatches the other half of your bagel and bites into it.

All you can do is stare, completely caught off guard. Shock wears off when he takes a second bite, and anger fills its place. You offered him a bagel. You offered to actually cook him a real breakfast just so he'd agree to eat, and he said no. Now he's eating your bagel, with your strawberry cream cheese that you had been craving for days.

You want to hit him. You want to lunge, to grab him by the throat and throttle him. Everything that you've been resisting doing to yourself, you want to do to him, and the fact that you know you can't do anything to him only makes the urge stronger.

Johnny finishes your breakfast and swallows the pill capsules dry before making his obnoxious exit.

"Ah'm goin' back to sleep. Dinna bother me."

You just barely resist the urge to throw the plate at his head as he walks away.

—

Typically, your day gets worse when the other three come home from the gym, but for the past few days, it's a relief. When they come home, Simon takes over watching Johnny while Kyle and (sometimes) John watch you. You never imagined you'd look forward to them being home, but here you are, at peace, sat on the couch next to Kyle.

Evenings have been surprisingly bearable lately. You're not entirely sure why, but your guess is that they're granting you more privileges because you're taking care of Johnny. Nobody breathes down your neck when you do your chores, and you get to wander the house more freely. You really, really hope things are changing because they're starting to trust you and not just because they're too busy focusing on Johnny to worry about you.

You chase away some more distressing thoughts— what will you do if they go back to normal when Johnny's better?— and grab your book. You're not in the mood for reading, or for anything, really, but you need to keep your mind busy. During these quiet parts of the day, you'd typically pass the time by daydreaming. Your mind isn't a safe place anymore, though, so until you can get your impulses under control, you'll be spending your time reading.

It's harder than you anticipated to focus. Your eyes move over the words, but you absorb none of them, stuck in your own head. When you catch yourself drifting away and fix your attention on the story, your eyes skip words, and even whole lines of text, breaking your focus again. It's starting to grate on your nerves, the frustration making you feel almost twitchy.

Something brushes against your shoulder, startling you hard enough that you almost drop your book. It's only Kyle, putting his arm around you like he usually does.

"What's the matter, lovey?" He asks, his voice soft. "You're grinding your teeth so hard that I can hear it."

Already irritated, you snap out a non-answer. "Nothing."

He sighs at you, but it's not his 'I've done all I can do' sigh. It's the 'you're testing my patience' sigh.

Ugh. You're learning and labeling his sighs.

"It obviously isn't nothing. Just tell me what's wrong so I can help."

You take a breath. It's supposed to be a deep belly breath, the kind someone takes while they count to ten so they don't kill someone, but it's shallow, tight in your chest. "I'm trying to read," you mutter. He gives you a warning look, and your frustration heightens with the realization that instead of an answer, you just implied he's bothering you. Apparently you can't do anything right. "But I can't focus," you add, saving yourself. You're too angry with yourself to be relieved when his expression softens again.

"I can turn the TV off," he offers. "Or, you could pick somethin' you want to watch." He grabs the remote and holds it out to you, waiting for you to take it.

It's not a bad idea, really. It'll probably be easier for you to focus on the TV than on your book. What good is a distraction if it can't keep your attention? You take the remote from him and flip through channels. Maybe later you can convince them to get a streaming subscription.

Excitement sparks when you see a familiar title. When you were in uni, you used to turn on shows for background noise while you studied. This one was one of your favorites, and you can actually pay attention to it now that you don't have assignments to do.

For a moment you feel content. Familiar characters and sets fill up the screen, and you start to relax. This is something you know, something normal. It's so small, trivial, but watching a show that you know, that you picked, in a new place where you have little control, is the biggest comfort you've had in a while.

This is your show. You know the characters, you know the setting, you know the story. For once, you're in the know and everyone else is in the dark. Well, Kyle is in the dark… but if the others were here, you'd still be the only one who knew what was happening, and that's enough for you.

The episode airing now is one you've seen before, a rerun. You catch new details now, though, fully focused on the screen.

"What are those two fighting over?" Kyle asks. He pulls you a bit closer to him, but you're too happy with your show to be annoyed by it.

"He's in love with her, but she thinks they're just friends and she just started dating someone else. He's pissed off at her but he won't tell her why, so she thinks he's being an asshole just because he can."

He asks questions all throughout the episode, and then the ones that come after, but it doesn't bother you like it might've before. It's actually kind of nice; you get to talk about something you like, and it helps refresh your own memory. You get Kyle mostly caught up around by the end of the third episode. Maybe this can become a regular thing. This can be your show, and you can watch it when they come home from the gym. It'll be your time to watch your show, a break from the schedule they've built for you to do something of your choosing. Kyle seems to be enjoying it, too. He can help you convince the others, if you need to. I should get to watch my show because Kyle likes it too.

Mid-episode, you're hit by an unwelcome memory: you, back in your little apartment, studying for an exam with your show playing in the background. You had looked up from your notes at this exact scene.

It only takes that one memory to send you into another spiral. You stand up abruptly, mutter that you're going to the bathroom, and nearly run for the stairs.

You lock yourself in the bathroom and slide down onto the floor, your back against the door. It's the makeup all over again— you tried something from before you were here, and you lost your mind.

Why can't you have anything good?

The thought to look for razors crosses your mind. You're in the bathroom, now, closer than you were last time. You're right here. All you have to do is find them.

Just as you're about to get up from the floor, footsteps sound from the hall, and you freeze. Technically you're not doing anything yet, but still, it feels like you're about to be caught breaking a rule.

There's a small pause— whoever's out there stops in front of the door— but they only linger for a second before leaving.

The fear of being caught overrides the compulsion to cut. This is twice now that someone had to save you from yourself. Maybe they were right.

Maybe you are better off here, with them.

—

You're left home alone with Johnny after dinner. Simon groaned that he needed out of the house, and Kyle and John decided they did, too. So, they went out. You don't know where they're going, or what they'll be doing. All they told you was that they'll be back in a few hours.

Who gives a shit about you, though. Who cares that you've been stuck in this fucking hosue for so long that you've lost track of the time? Who cares that you don't have anywhere to go when you need a break from them? Maybe they think you're getting a night alone, that this is a reward for you.

Is this another reward? Or is it a test? Are they letting you stay home alone as a treat for being so good? Are they trying to show you they trust you to behave? Or are they going to camp outside, waiting for you to try and slip free again?

Why does it matter? It's not like you were planning to try in the first place. And even if you did try, you wouldn't get very far. Not with the little tracker nestled under the gem in your bracelet you're stuck wearing. Why bother working yourself up? If they are testing you, that just means they have to spend a few hours outside, in the dark, while you get to stay in the warm house and do whatever you want.

Watching TV is a no. You're not interested anymore, even in other shows. You decide it's in your best interest to find something else to do. For now, you're stuck with your books.

It's too quiet in the living room. The space feels too big, now. Rather than sit around wondering why it feels so empty today when it hasn't before, you take your book and go upstairs.

Your stuff is still in John's room, but you don't want to be there, either. So, you grab your things and move to Kyle's room instead. You wish you could kick Johnny out of your room. Then you'd have your own private place again.

Just like earlier, it's difficult to focus on your book. This time, you abandon it entirely and decide to just go to sleep. It's too late in the evening for a nap, but you can't make yourself care. It's not like you have a real need for a regular sleep schedule, not when you've been stolen away from your life.

Bad thought.

You give yourself some grace, anyway, now that it's colder out and it gets dark by 5 PM. Any other mammal would be conserving energy for the long winter. It's only natural for you to have a nap. If it wasn't, then it wouldn't be so easy to drift off.

If you were supposed to be hibernating, you probably wouldn't have been woken up so easily. A noise from downstairs startled you out of your faux hibernation. Johnny must be up, then. You turn over, getting comfortable again. You're not sure how long you've managed to sleep, just that however long you were out isn't long enough. Just as you're about to fall asleep, another sound from downstairs startles you awake. It's muffled through the floorboards, too hard to tell exactly what it was, but it's followed by cursing. There's only one voice, so you know the others aren't home yet. It's just Johnny.

It's not your job to look after a grown man, yet somehow you feel responsible for making sure he's alright. It's a nagging at the back of your mind, but you try your hardest to ignore it. You're groggy and disoriented from being woken up so abruptly, and you feel you deserve a peaceful nap. It's not until your rest is interrupted a third time, by another noise loud enough to travel up to Kyle's room, that you throw the covers off and storm downstairs to see what the hell he's doing that's making so much noise.

You find Johnny in the kitchen, on the floor in front of the cabinets, holding a bottle of some dark liquor. Across from him, on the floor, is a mess of broken glass. When he sees you, he looks at you blankly for a second before smiling. "Hi, bonnie." The words come out a bit slow, and if he said more than two, they'd likely be slurred.

How much has he had to drink?

"What happened?" You demand, pointing to the shattered glass on the floor.

Johnny turns his head, looks at the glass, and then turns back to you, all at a snails pace. "Ah dropped it," he mutters.

How helpful. At least he's a being friendly now, instead of snapping and bitching at you.

"Why are you on the floor?"

Johnny shrugs. "Got tired. Wanted tae sit."

He pats a spot on the floor next to him. "Drink wi' me."

You ignore him, walking past him and to the mess of glass. Thankfully, this glass was empty when he dropped it. Cleanup will at least be easy.

You pick up the biggest shards with your hands, cursing Johnny under your breath as you clean up his mess. You know better than to clean up broken glass like this, you know you should be wearing shoes right now, but you can't bring yourself to care. You just want to clean up this mess and go back to sleep.

"Yer gonna hurt yerself," Johnny slurs. "C'mon, just leave it. Drink wi' me instead."

Again, you ignore him, grabbing the pieces of glass more carelessly to spite him. Of course, just like the drunk bastard said, you slice your finger open, cursing louder now. Johnny should know you're angry— this is his fault.

"Och, see?" Johnny sighs. He's infuriating. "Let me help."

Before he can push himself to his feet, you spin around and point your bleeding finger at him. "No. Do not move. You stay right where you are, while I take care of your mess."

You dump the glass you had picked up into the garbage before storming off to wash and bandage your cut. Then, you find a broom and dustpan and aggressively sweep up the rest of the glass. You need to take your anger out on something, and the broom is your best choice.

By the time you get the glass cleaned up and the broom put away, you're too agitated to go back to sleep.

Johnny's still sat on the floor, and when you get back to the kitchen, he holds the bottle out to you. Right now, a drink doesn't sound that bad, even if it's the gross strong stuff. You snatch the bottle from him and drink, gagging at the burn.

"Atta girl," Johnny grins. He pats the floor again, inviting you to sit back down with him.

You cast him a weary glance. Do you have the mental capacity to sit with him right now? Maybe you will, if you get drunk. You turn the bottle around to read the label. Scotch. You'd rather something else, something that actually tastes good, but you doubt they'll have any booze you'll like. This will have to do.

You take another swig before you sit down, knowing you'll need it and more.

—

This was a bad idea.

You haven't even had half of what Johnny drank, but you feel just as drunk as he's acting.

"Yer a wee lightweight," Johnny laughs, his accent thicker. He takes the last drink in the bottle, and while you definitely don't need another, you still pout.

"'S okay," Johnny slurs. "Ah can jus' get another bottle."

He pushes himself up and stumbles over to the cabinets. You pay close attention to which cabinet he goes to, trying to burn it into your brain so you'll actually remember when you wake up tomorrow.

He ambles back to your spot with a new bottle, plopping back down next to you. He takes the first drink, but his face twists in disgust.

"This is Ghost's shite," he gags, but he takes another drink anyway before passing the bottle to you.

You giggle at the look on his face, which sets him off, and soon the two of you are doubled over laughing. Everything is funny right now, the alcohol making you feel warm and fuzzy. You're spilling the bottle, so you take another drink, gagging like Johnny did. You had just gotten used to the taste of the scotch, too.

When you hand the bottle back to Johnny and watch him drink, you feel a pang of sadness. You should be at uni right now, drinking with your friends. What month is it..? It's cold out. Is it cold enough for it to be finals season? It has to be. It's finals season. You should be at uni, getting trashed on the floor with your friends to cope with the stress of final exams. Instead, you're trashed on the floor with this fucking guy.

There's no hope of stopping your tears before they fall, not when you're this drunk. Johnny frowns at you, his bottom lip forming a pout. "Wha's wrong, bonnie?"

Of course, the question only makes you cry harder. You can't manage to get a single coherent word out, but that's okay. You don't want to tell him what's wrong, anyway. You'll never tell him what's wrong.

Johnny sets the bottle down and clumsily pulls you into his lap, cooing something you don't understand. Your body feels heavy, too heavy to resist, and you end up slumped against him, crying into his shirt. He rubs his hand up and down your back, whispering little platitudes in an attempt to make you feel better. When your breathing finally starts to even out, he asks you the dreaded question again.

"What's wrong?"

When you start bawling full-force, he goes right back to the soothing back rubs and the whispering.

"'S okay, lass… yer alright. Now tell me what's wrong."

All you give him is a weak shake of your head. You'll never tell him what's wrong.

"Ye can tell me anythin', bonnie. Just tell me wha's wrong, and Ah'll make it all better."

"I miss my old life," you cry.

Damn it. You just told him what's wrong.

"There we go," he coos.

You feel a twinge of suspicion at the praise— shouldn't he be upset that you miss your life before him? But you're too drunk to care. You need this right now, to vent without fear of punishment.

"I shouldn't be here. I should be at school, with my friends, doing something with my life!"

Johnny says nothing, his only vocal responses being occasional hums of acknowledgment. It's cathartic, finally getting to express everything you've kept bottled up. Yeah, you hated working your stupid gas station job, and yes, juggling lectures and homework on top of your shitty job was killing you, but it was still your life. You had a plan for yourself, for your life. All you had to do was make it through that rough patch, but they came along and ruined everything.

When you finish, Johnny lets you cry it out until your sobs wane to just tears and sniffling. For once, it feels nice to be held like this, comforted by him. This isn't something you could've managed without soothing, and you manage to feel grateful, even to him.

It's not until he's sure you've got it mostly out of your system that he starts to share.

"I miss my old life too, sometimes," he admits. "'Fore I got a fuckin' bullet through my brain."

Oh.

"'S a miracle Ah'm alive, bonnie. And walkin' and talkin, at that? I dinna ken how it's possible."

…is this supposed to be comforting? Is he trying to bond with you?

"I thought my life was over. The military was everythin' tae me, and then I was discharged. Ah had no purpose. I spent years bein' angry, hatin' the world for not just lettin' me die." His macabre speech is interrupted by a single hiccup. "But now? 'S not so bad. I'm happy to be here, wi' the people I love."

Johnny reaches for the bottle again, taking a swig before he continues. "It's hard, havin' yer life change on ye so fast." He gives you a squeeze. "It takes time, gettin' used tae everythin' bein' so different. But it gets easier aye?"

He kisses the top of your head, humming "mhm" to himself, like he's answering his question for you. "It takes a lot of time, but Ah promise it'll get better. And, when it starts ta feel like too much, just come find me, and we'll have a drink."

This conversation is surprisingly sobering. You pull away from him, sitting yourself upright and grabbing the bottle from him. If you drink more now, you numb the dread that's coming before you actually feel it. You're never getting out of here.

Johnny laughs at the big gulp you take. "Tha's the spirit."

—

At some point, you blacked out. You wake up, still on the kitchen floor, to someone sitting you up. That alone is enough to make you dizzy, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them again, you have to blink a few times to reorient yourself. Simon is kneeling in front of you, wearing a black surgical mask. That's weird. Why's he wearing a mask? He's not a doctor.

You turn your head, slowly, and find Kyle smacking at Johnny until he wakes. He's yelling about something, but you can't focus on what he's saying. God, your head hurts, and Kyle's being so loud.

Your attention is pulled back to Simon, who's now inspecting the bled-through bandaging on your finger. "What the hell did ya do?"

Oh, the glass. You forgot about that. You open your mouth to explain what happened, but all you manage is one word. "Glass."

Simon rolls his eyes, muttering something to himself, before standing up to pull you to your feet. Your legs are useless, though, so Simon has to hold you up himself. Johnny and Kyle are arguing, and you giggle stupidly when you turn your head to see Kyle trying to pull Johnny up, and Johnny refusing vehemently.

"For fucks sake," Simon groans. He passes you off to John— when did John get here?— and goes to help Kyle with Johnny.

John half drags, half carries you out of the kitchen and to the couch. He sits you down in his lap, making sure you're facing him.

"Havin' fun, were ya?" He asks, a soft smile on his face.

You don't answer, hardly comprehending the question anyway. You're tired, too tired to answer questions, and all you can think about is going to sleep. You lean forward to rest your head on John's shoulder, and you sigh when he wraps his arms around you. He's warm, comfy, and he smells nice. You can just sleep here, until your legs work again and you can take yourself upstairs.

You're almost asleep when Simon and Kyle drag Johnny into the living room. They drop him off on the couch, and Simon takes you from John's lap and over to his own chair. You hear John coo at you, saying "poor thing" as Simon none-too-gently drags you away.

Johnny's in a better state than you are, but he's angry, cursing and arguing and swatting everyone away. "We were just drinkin'," he snaps. "Yer actin' like ye caught me holdin' my lighter under a spoon."

Simon yells at him to be quiet, his voice so loud you have to cover your ears. John doesn't seem to be nearly as upset as Simon is, and Kyle only seems annoyed that he has to be here.

"Look at her," Simon snaps. "She's so fuckin' drunk, she can't even hold her head up."

Johnny doesn't get to answer back, his reply interrupted by John. "I don't think you need to be this upset, Simon."

That doesn't seem to calm him down, though. "Well it wasn't your fuckin' liquor they were drinking, was it?"

John laughs again, but he shakes his head no, conceding. "Alright, that's fair."

Your world spins, and a wave of nausea rolls over you. When the dizziness fades, you realize you're laid across Simon's lap. Huh. That's weird. Why would Simon be putting you over his lap? That only happens when you're being punished, and it's only ever John who does it.

You lift your head up enough to see Johnny being dragged across John's lap, and you feel a little pang of sympathy. Poor Johnny. Simon must be really upset about this.

Wait. Simon is upset, not John. So why isn't Simon punishing Johnny?

Logic finally catches up to you, and your breath hitches at the realization. You try to squirm, but you're so tired, and your limbs feel so heavy.

Johnny doesn't seem too concerned at all, only muttering and cursing to himself. It's not until he looks over at you that his face falls.

"Wait, she didna do anythin'." Johnny starts to squirm, but John holds him down. "Let her up, Ghost, she didna do anythin' wrong!"

Simon ignores him, though, tugging your sweatpants down. You manage to whimper a protest, telling Simon no, but he ignores you, too.

Johnny gets a bit more frantic. "Ghost, she didn't fuckin' do anything! It was my idea, alright? Dinna punish her for somethin' I did!"

Johnny's voice cracks… is he crying?

Simon slaps your ass once, through your panties, hard enough to make you yelp. "Maybe this will be your fuckin' punishment," Simon snaps. "Look at 'er, Johnny. She barely even knows what's happening right now. I doubt she even remembers her own fuckin' name!"

Simon spanks you again, forcing out another yelp. Johnny shouts again, demanding Simon stops. You glance up, catching a glimpse of Johnny's face before Simon pushes your head back down. He was definitely crying.

"Since the cut on her finger and the state of her haven't taught you anythin', maybe watchin' her get punished will teach you that your bright ideas and your actions hurt other people, and not just you."

Simon's hand comes down again, harder this time, and tears spring to your eyes.

Johnny's shouting, now, begging Simon to let you go and apologizing repeatedly. He's frantic, thrashing against John's hold on him.

"You're sorry?" Simon snaps, but he stops hitting you. "Sorry for what?"

Johnny blubbers that he's sorry for getting drunk, sorry for getting you drunk, and sorry for drinking Simon's stuff. You're not sure if he's incoherent because he's crying, or if you're just having a hard time understanding him because you're so inebriated.

"You know better, Johnny," Simon scolds him. One hand rests on your head, keeping it held down, and the other rests on your bottom, warm and heavy, but not hitting. "Y'know better than to drink that fuckin' much with the pills you're takin', and you know better than to let this one join ya."

There's more sniffling, more apologizing, but finally, Simon lets go of you. He tugs your sweatpants back up, and Kyle comes to collect you, helping you up from Simon's lap and taking you to the stairs. He carries you upstairs to his room, humming when he sees your things already situated in his bed.

He lays you down and tucks you in, petting your hair away from your face. "Stay on your side, love. I'll be back soon."

Kyle returns dressed in pajamas, holding a glass of water in one hand and a pair of your pajamas in the other. You don't fight him when he undresses you, already half asleep. When you're in your pajamas, he gets into bed next to you, pulling you close.

"You're not in any trouble, sweetheart," Kyle mumbles to you. "Don't worry about any of that, yeah? Just go to sleep. Everything's okay."

You feel a bit better knowing that you're not in trouble, but there's a part of you that worries about Johnny. You hope to hell that you're too drunk to remember any of this in the morning.

So winter usually kicks my ass but this case of winter blues is a bit different. I was supposed to be back in college for the spring semester but I postponed my attendance to make sure my health was in order because having to drop out a second time would only reinforce my lack of confidence and also unnecessarily waste tuition money.

I need to get back into therapy lol (don't we all) and try to work on my confidence. Y'know how you only have to burn yourself once to learn not to touch hot things? Well apparently you only have to have a health emergency once to learn that college is an evil and dangerous place.

I spent a long ass time feeling like a failure for having to come home, and now I've managed to convince myself that I can't do anything! Like, logically I know this isn't true. I've done hard things in the past and I know I can keep doing hard things, but after this I just feel kind of stupid and dumb and useless. I've got a lot I need to work through

On a positive note... I'm pretty sure I've got my routine meds sorted out. I haven't had an episode in a long time, and I got put on ADHD meds! now all i have to do is remember to take them

Also, I've started writing again. I'm only managing little bits at a time but that's more than before so I'm calling it a win.

Probably not what you had in mind but I imagine this could be a killer start to a supernatural au

They refuse to accept that she’s gone. Maybe she’s not here physically, but she’s got a soul out there.

They keep her body frozen. John has to be the one to stitch up the gash across her throat because nobody else can stand to look at her bruised, broken body. They’ll find who did this to her and make them pay… but they have to get her back first.

They hire a medium & pay them an insane amount of money to keep quiet about the things her spirit might reveal. Hush money so their medium doesn’t go report them for kidnapping and all the other stuff they did.

Next up is the necromancer. Once they make contact with her spirit, they need someone who can force guide her back to her body. Her spirit isn’t particularly keen on speaking with them, but it doesn’t discourage them. They don’t blame her for being angry with them— it is their fault she was murdered. She’ll forgive them when they bring her back.

To say the least, they have to be very persuasive before the necromancer agrees to help them. He makes it clear he’s against it, and they make it clear that his choices are help them or die.

It’s a long, long night. When she realizes they’re trying to force her back into her battered body, she becomes violent. The four of them experience first hand the cliche ghost story scene: losing power, candles extinguishing on their own, items flying off shelves and breaking against the walls, wind blowing in the middle of their house, the temperature dropping below freezing…

Until finally, it all stops. Nothing happens, not at first. It’s silent, dark, and tense. The four of them are just starting to decide they’ll have to kill their necromancer when a ragged, painful sounding gasp reverberates from her once lifeless body.

She’s living through the pain of her torture all over again, her bones still broken and her bruises still swollen. The stitches on her throat pull and burn with every sobbing breath.

She’s back.

The necromancer is shoved out the door, a thick envelope of cash in hand. They need him out of the house so they can put her back together.

Simon injects her with pain medication, John starts wrapping her broken bones, Johnny bandages lacerations, and Kyle holds her hand and wipes her tears. He, of all four of them, feels the most guilty for letting this happen. He was the one watching her when she was taken, he was the one to ignore her pleas to stay with her, he was the one that failed to protect her. As bad as he wants to help with the bandaging, he can’t make himself focus on her body when she’s so distressed.

They try to keep her awake as long as possible, worried that if they drug her back to sleep she won’t wake up again, but after hours of her screaming and sobbing, it just seemed too cruel to keep her conscious.