#doom head

“Care to elaborate?” The roughness of his voice grates against the low, dripping ceiling. All around, pipes hiss and steam to fill the space with suffocating heat.

Your tongue darts out to lick away the sweat dotting your upper lip. Tasting salt, you stammer, “Well…I’ve been at this for almost ten hours now. No food, no sleep.” You motion to him with your pipe, your lifeline, “And you just got here. You’re in tip-top shape. It’s like shooting—well—stabbing fish in a barrel.”

Bloody teeth are revealed, one at a time, as a manic grin stretches across Doom-Head’s face. He slowly tips his head to the side and asks, “What gave you the impression this game we’re playing would be fair?” You’re about to answer, but his next shouted words startle you so bad you almost drop your only weapon. “At the risk of sounding cliche, I will remind you what THEY-“ he violently jabs his knife toward a speaker, “-what the WORLD is so keen on drilling into that pretty fucking head of yours: Life, little girl, isn’t even in the same realm as FAIR!” Spittle flies from his lips when he snarls the last word.

You tremble on the spot, heart slamming into your ribs. “It should be.” Your voice breaks when you speak. “It should be fair. It’s a game. They-“ you mimic his movements and point the pipe toward the speaker, “-Want a good show, right? How…entertaining could it be when it isn’t even a challenge for you?”

“Your naïveté,” Doom-Head speaks low and slow, a complete shift from just a moment ago, “Leads me to wonder how you made it this far. But who am I to judge a book by its unassuming cover?” His blade gleams in the low light when he holds it aloft and points the tip straight at your chest. “Words keep us from our purpose. Come hither and allow me to ease your suffering.”

You turn on your heel and bolt. The slapping of your shoes on damp concrete and your gasping, haggard breaths ricochet off the walls of the small hallway. God, you’re so tired, so scared, your legs ache, your head pounds. What’s the point? Where will you go that he won’t find you? All outcomes lead to those knives buried in your guts. All this fleeing and evading will be for nothing.

-His usual method of self-soothing is kicking back with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, as cliché as it is. He was raised by a father who imparted upon him the principle of having a stiff upper lip, so to speak, but you've given him a softer side.

-Although...he's never going to say no to you if you do reach for his whiskey or his pack of smokes. What can he say? Doomhead doesn't believe that you have to have healthy coping mechanisms all the time, or even any of the time if it's his life he's talking about - you're different. He wants you to take care of yourself.

-He likes playing with your hair if he's able to, twisting strands between his fingers and inspecting how they glint like jewels even in the barest hints of light his half-drawn bedroom curtain allows.

-He'll rub circles on your skin with his thumb, settling you down, grounding you. They're hesitant at first, the touch of a man not used to being gentle, the touch of a killer, but the more you open up to him about your anxiety and your struggles the more comfortable he becomes with providing respite for you.

-If you're socially anxious, Doomhead is happy to accompany you to anything you'd like, set up appointments for you if he's able, and handle situations that might make you nervous should you ask him to do so.

-If you get panicked quite easily, he's always there to get you whatever you need: a glass of water, a hug, or space if it's what's best for you. He's gruff about it, faux-complaining, but you can tell by the spark in his eyes that being your safe haven is a point of pride for the killer.

-He's so proud of you. He doesn't care whether you miss that doctor's appointment when you feel so anxious you became physically ill, or if you mess up and say the wrong thing in conversations with him, if you need to hold his hand or his jacket when you're out...he loves you. He doesn't give a shit. He's so proud of his baby.