#sis writes

'Almost there, Y/N, you're almost there..' Is the only thing occupying your mind as you push your legs to carry you.  'Faster. Run faster!' Your brain screams at you. And you do, you run as fast as you can… but not fast enough. Right before your calloused hand reaches the doorknob, you feel a hand grabbing your ankle. A snapping sound; and pain.  You scream out in agony, tripping and falling down onto the floor in record time. Your tears have stained your cheeks by now, leaving wet trails through the dirt and blood that had accumulated on your face.

A muffled laugh reverberates through the wooden walls of the small shack and you shiver in pure horror. He had found you. The very man… very thing you were trying to escape from has found you.  Your ankle is broken and there's no way out. You look back in terror, your eyes barely focusing. But even in the darkness you can see the hockey mask, and the machete still covered with the blood of your friends, glistening in the moonlight. You can feel his cold hand, still holding your ankle in a vice-like grip. "P-please don't… just stay away from me please!" You stammer out and brace for what's about to come next.  The man, however, doesn't do anything else to you. He tilts his head like a confused puppy, looking you over from head to toe. His calloused hand lets go of your ankle and your limp leg thuds to the floor, eliciting a yelp from you.  His broad figure stills, his large hands hovering above your ankle, afraid to touch it, to further injure it. And for a split second you think he may be feeling… remorse?

You curl into yourself, cornered against a wall, with no way to escape and completely at his mercy.  And his mercy comes in the form of sitting in front of you, cross-legged like a child would, and pulling out a crumpled flower from his pant pocket. He offers the flower to you, fully gripping the stem in his fist, akin to a boy giving a flower to his mother. The man looks at you and shakes the hand holding the flower, signaling you to hurry up and take it.  'He is… giving me a flower?' You think to yourself as you carefully reach out, making sure your hand doesn't touch his when taking the flower from him. Your eyes rake over the flower and you examine it. It's a blue flag iris, which you have seen growing around here before. Though it's somewhat freshly picked, it's obvious it got flattened in the back pocket of his pants. Still, it's the thought that counts, right? "Is- is this some kind of joke?" You wonder out loud and the giant before you exaggeratedly shakes his head left and right.

You sat like that for hours, in complete silence, the man next to you only breathing loudly. You almost fell asleep a few times, the sounds of his breathing sounding oddly comforting. He fiddles with his fingers and then props himself up to stand. Now towering over your sitting form on the ground, he stares down at you and reaches for you.  "No... No, don't hurt me, please let me go..." You back up against the wall once more, shielding your body with your arms. The man's eyes bore into yours as he stops his movements. He shakes his head once more and presses a finger to his mask where his mouth would be, huffing.  "You want me to... stay quiet?" You ask and he nods his head. He reaches for you again, slower this time, careful. His large hand settles on top of your head, gently ruffling your hair (or rubbing your head if you don't have hair). Once finished, one of his hands settles under your knee and the other one snakes around your back to grip under your arm.

           It wasn’t like Christine wanted to wake up at this ungodly hour to take some dumb final for a class she didn’t even want to take. Oh no, she’d much rather be sleeping in, cleaning her apartment, even practicing her vocals! Her phone blared the second alarm, reminding her if she didn’t get up now she’d be five minutes late. She groans and swings her legs over the side of her bed, idly tapping the snooze setting flashing on the screen. Her hair gets tied in a messy bun and she sighs again.               “Stupid calc, stupid test, stupid, stupid, stupid,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. The old coffee machine broke last week and with her pay she knew she wouldn’t be getting a new one anytime soon, so it was another morning based on sheer willpower. She angrily chomps on her protein bar, silently cursing the day ahead of her. Christine’s wardrobe of the day consisted of an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. She finishes her bar, quickly brushes her teeth, but the girl doesn’t bother with makeup. She wraps the red scarf- a gift from her father-around her thin neck, grabs her purse and keys, and steps out the door.                  The air is brisk when she reaches the sidewalk in front of her building. She pulls her scarf closer to her, noting how her breath came out in swirls around her. It always amazed her how in the cold times of winter one could see their breath. The clock on her phone tells her its nearing seven, and Christine hastily gets on her bike. Her savings aren’t nearly enough for a car, and as far as she was concerned, that wasn’t going to change. Though, when it was warm and the sun peaked out from behind the clouds, she couldn’t say she minded.                   She pedaled quickly, hurrying through the crowded streets. Sometimes she’d go through places she knew she wasn’t supposed to, laughing at the honks from the cars with tinted windows. She loved to mess with the daily commuters. That’s what they deserved because hey, who even drives cars in New York? There was one car in particular that seemed to be in a great hurry. She smirked beneath her scarf, thinking to herself that it would be worth it, to hear the aggressive shouting. She dipped in between two cars and swooped over to the lane to cut off the agitated driver, who, to her great satisfaction, honked repeatedly. She let out a mischievous laugh, but it was cut off when she made a collision with some asshole on a motorbike.

      Erik was nearly positive that something felt wrong when he left his loft that morning. Even though his gut did get that awfully suspicious feeling whenever he left his home, something about today felt… different, stronger even. It wasn’t something petty like a coffee machine malfunction or a faulty razor cartridge. His morning of getting ready to face the day ran perfectly smooth. He took his shower, drank his expensive Colombia-imported coffee, even going as far as to shave. Well, his good side. His composition sat soundly in the proper folder where it was to be escorted by the one and only. He was ready to face the day as Signore Erik de Angelo, the absolute genius behind Don Juan Triumphant. Today he was to present his masterpiece to men who called themselves musical geniuses.

No, his morning at his loft was normal. It was the ride to the studio that events became…bizarre.He boarded his motorcycle with his usual comment on the brisk air, placing his precious composition into the interior pocket of his large leather jacket. His helmet securely on his head, he speeds away towards the studio. Erik was a master at everything he did, and he thought driving to be no different. Truthfully, he used the time on his motorcycle to think, and he found himself in a trance-like state. So today, when he suddenly slammed into a girl vigorously pedaling on a manual bike, he snapped the fuck out of it.

The girl couldn’t be more than 20, maybe 22. Her hair was a mess as she lay on the pavement. Erik’s eyes scanned her over quickly on impulse, finding her to be conscious- and quite angry. “Ugh,” she groans, sitting up. He’s frozen, staring at her wrist that was starting to turn an unnatural shade of purple. “What… What happened?” her voice is hoarse. “Are you hurt?” Is all he can think to ask, coming to her side but avoiding any contact. Her wrist is purple and the answer is an obvious yes.“Well,” she holds up her limp wrist that was beginning to tint yellow. “This is definitely broken.” She seems to suddenly remember something, and Erik almost jumps when the girl quickly exclaims, “Shit! Do you have the time?”