Skin
Oliver Thredson x OC
Warnings: This is an Oliver Thredson fanfiction. Meaning, virtually anything could be expected. Mentions of trauma, abuse, neglect, sexual abuse, murder, smut, gore, breathplay, knifeplay, etc. 18+
Chapter 1
“Daddy?”
The wide-eyed girl takes a timid step into the shadowed hallway, her bare feet making contact with the hardwood floor, sending shivers throughout her entire body.
A resounding thud had carried itself through the otherwise voiceless house, and she had gotten out of bed to inspect the source. It was not the jarring sound which had concerned her, as she was accustomed to such things, but it was the silence which followed.
“Daddy?”
The floorboards creak beneath her frigid feet as she continues down the hall, eyeing the doorway leading to the kitchen.
With her next step, her foot kicks an empty can across the floor, causing a loud clatter to reverberate off of the walls. She jumps back, awaiting a reaction, but the house falls silent once again.
Slowly entering the dimly lit kitchen, her eyes fall upon her father, sitting slumped in the foldout kitchen chair, his face down on the surface of the table.
His once blue jeans are covered in mud and grass stains, the soles of his boots are worn down to nothing, and the posture of his stocky form signifies defeat.
“Daddy?”
He seems to stop breathing for a moment, and she follows his lead, as his head rises from the table, staring straight forward for a few long moments, before slowly turning to face her.
His eyes are devoid of emotion, yet his mouth forms a close-mouthed smile as he stands and lurks toward the girl.
__
Rosalie’s eyes fly awake, adjusting to the darkness around her. Her face remains stoic, yet her body shakes involuntarily, and her heart feels as if it may leap from her chest.
The anguished shrieks resounding from the near and many dark corners of Briarcliff do nothing to ease her racing mind.
“36,” She whispers to herself. She had made certain to keep track of each day that passed by while she was trapped in this place. She worried that if she were to lose track of time, then she would lose track of herself. “Today is day thirty-six. It is November of 1964. You are in Briarcliff. Your name is Rosalie Amor.”
Rosalie had managed to steer clear of the harsh hand of the staff, keeping quiet, only speaking when spoken to. While at times, in order to keep her temper in check, she did have to bite her tongue so hard that it bled, she believed this to be much preferred to the abuse that she had seen patients subjected to.
Abruptly, the door to her room, or rather cell, is unlocked and swung open with careless force, and she is met with the unforgiving gaze of Sister Jude.
“Common room. Let’s go.”
__
“Dominique -nique -nique s’en allait tout simplement”
Though Rosalie had only been shown the horrors of Briarcliff for little more than a month, she was beginning to believe that this repetitive song playing on a never-ending loop would be the inconsequential thing which finally drives her over the edge.
Kit Walker, Bloodyface, had arrived only a few days prior, and Rosalie had been studying him from afar, having nothing better to do with her free time than to feed her curiosities. That and reading when she could get her hands on a book, due to Frank’s kindness toward her.
Though her mind may wonder, Rosalie made certain to keep to herself, as she had learned that she sees far more watching from afar, remaining nothing more than a fly on the wall.
Kit Walker was not only a supposed woman killer, but he was a man, and that fact alone told Rosalie that she should be weary of him. However, she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t seem like an inherently violent person.
While Rosalie was not naive enough to believe that what he chooses to present to the world is his true self, she couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t give her the slightest of uneasy feelings, no more than any other man does at least. His smile was kind and his eyes showed depth. His actions, especially with the girl that Rosalie had come to know as Grace, were gentle. Perhaps he’s simply an amazing actor.
Or, maybe, he truly was psychotic and only believed himself to be innocent.
Little did Rosalie know that, while she was studying Kit, someone else had been studying her from their own corner of the common room.
__
Thredson’s POV
She is radiant.
The way her dark hair flows past her delicate shoulders. The manner in which she sits, solitary and content, lost in thought as her eyes slowly analyze those around her, particularly Kit Walker.
Interesting. I light a fresh cigarette at this thought, taking a long draw before returning my gaze to her.
Her porcelain, freckled, skin glowing under the vibrant sunlight pouring in through the common room windows.
It looks so soft.
Untouched by the, from what I have witnessed, barbaric nature of Briarcliff. Everything about her is simply…
Warm.
I need to learn more.
Silently excusing myself from the common room and making my way up the main staircase, I find myself at the door of Sister Jude’s office.
Knocking a few times, I wait for a response, but am met with silence from the other side.
Cautiously checking my surroundings, I make my way inside, gently shutting the door behind me and making my way to the single file cabinet which sits adjacent to her desk.
Checking one of the drawers, I find it unlocked.
Perhaps Sister Jude isn’t as clever as she prides herself on.
Swiftly inspecting through the files, I find her.
“Rosalie Amor”
“Born June of 1939 — Struggles with the sin of lies — Admitted to Briarcliff by her father after she spread false rumors in order to ruin Mr. Amor’s career — cannot seem to discern reality from fiction”
How brilliantly vague.
No clear diagnosis, likely due to the fact that a psychiatrist had never set foot on the premises prior to my arrival.
I will have to get my own answers. After all,
she could be the one.
Removing all traces of my ever being here, I exit the office and, only making it a few strides down the dark hall, turn the corner nearly colliding with Sister Jude.
“Sister.”
She glares, glancing in my wake inquisitively.
“I was meaning to speak with you regarding one of your patients.”
