Content warning: Injury, blood mention, self-surgery
Lord were you tired.
The ground under your back was the first thing you registered as you were roused from unconsciousness - with scratchy pine needles and small protruding rocks making an uncomfortable mattress for your poor back.
The sound of someone's voice was the second thing you registered. It was a harsh voice, tone frustrated as the person muttered loudly just a few feet from you.
"Jesus Christ this is boring. Could literally be hunting right now but instead I've got to be here and wait for this stupid bitch to wake up. Why the fuck did I agree to this..."
It took a second, but as soon as you registered what exactly was said all drowsiness washed away because - first of all, rude, and second of all, was this person referring to... you?
He must have been, which only meant one thing.
You were in that godforsaken forest again.
"Maybe if I kick them- am I allowed to kick them? Probably, it isn't inflicting too much ha- oh hey."
You had sat up and opened your eyes, staring full on at a man who you had seen once in near total darkness and had hoped to never see again. Yellow goggles perched atop his head of curly brown hair; a facemask puled under his chin so he could worry at the black leather gloves he had on with his teeth. His cheek was torn, exposing pink flesh and gums alongside his molars. He wore a striped, brown hoodie and blue jeans with holsters weighed down with a pair of hatchets. He was leaning against that dilapidated barn you had come across in the past. Acting all casual, like he was waiting for the bus and not for your prone body to wake.
Jesus, he looked exactly your age. Well, serial killers didn't just spawn in at age forty with a mortgage and five bodies in the basement. They had to start somewhere. You couldn't judge.
But you could run.
You just barely caught a look of surprise on the man's face as you jumped to your feet and spun around, rocketing into the trees. A faint "ah, shit" made its way to your ears and you had to suppress the urge to giggle nervously as you leapt over bushes and waved around tree trunks.
You weren't sure what new trial was waiting for you but you sure as hell weren't waiting for it. Any previous reservations were gone with the wind as you ran, gritting your teeth as your bare feet were torn by branches. If you got far enough ahead you could quickly hide and avoid the guy completely.
Unfortunately, you were not faster than him or his weapons.
A whizzing sound came up from behind, and you shrieked as a heavy object whipped just past your ear. You stumbled, flinching as it slammed into a tree just in front of you. As you regained your balance, the blood drained from your face.
Embedded in the trunk was the worn, brown handle of a throwing axe. The head was sunk so far in the bark that it was nearly hidden from view.
A second later you heard swift, heavy footsteps, and turned to see the man approach, goggles obscuring his eyes and one hand on the holster holding the other hatchet. The mask was pulled over his face now, and through the tint of the lenses you could catch a glimpse of his eyes narrowed in annoyance.
"Really? Not even a greeting? Some of the other-" he caught himself as you began to shake, cowering away from him.
"What?" he asked, looking like he had no clue why you were afraid of him.
"You-your-" your throat was bone dry, and just as your eyes began to get wet did he understand.
"You're not supposed to run."
He said this matter-of-factly, pushing his goggles up back into his hair. You stared at him with a blank expression.
"You could have- could have killed me. Right then."
"Nah."
He brushed right past you and went to the tree, yanking his hatchet from the wood like it was nothing. He was seriously strong, despite looking more like a twig than a person. He took a second to assess the blade before placing it back in its holster.
As he turned around he took several steps forward and leaned in close, uncomfortably close, speaking with a smile in his voice.
"I missed on purpose. If I wanted you dead, you would be already."
You could see the reflection of your own scared face in his goggles. You squirmed in discomfort and he laughed, leaning back.
"Come on," he waved his hand, gesturing for you to follow, "we've got things to do."
As he began making his way back in the direction of the barn, you had the fleeting thought of once again running. Your feet even twitched. But as that happened, you felt all your muscles tense. The thing in your brain rumbled, sending your thoughts careening like a bucket of ping pong balls.
You needed to follow. If you didn't, he'd just turn right back around, maybe get fed up and sink a blade into your skull. You were sure that he told you the truth of his aim, no reason to lie when you were trapped here.
If you followed, the nightmare would eventually end. You'd return to bed, just like last time.
So follow you did.
The barn soon came into view again, and the man pulled his goggles back to rest on his head as he grabbed a door handle. With a swift yank the door opened, the hinges groaning as it swung outward.
"In here." The man said, not even looking back, knowing you were right behind him. He disappeared into the depths and, obediently, you followed.
The inside was a shock to your senses.
Any stalls for animals were long gone, leaving the interior as one cavernous space. The inside panelling was of a much better condition than the outside, with fresh wood making the place smell of sharp, fresh pine.
It was also not the murder shack you were expecting. Rather, it was set up more like a rage room, with empty oil barrels, barrels of hay, and several large electronics all in various stages of destruction. Pieces of plastic lay scattered everywhere as a result. To the very right was a workshop bench laden with various tools and, well, weapons.
Hammers, spanners, wrenches, baseball bats, axes, hatchets, and many, many knives.
The man made a beeline to the bench and picked up a baseball bat, weighing it in his hands before flipping it and offering the handle to you.
You stared at him with unequal mix of hesitation and pure confusion, dumbstruck.
"You're giving me a weapon?" you asked, incredulous.
He crooked his eyebrow and suddenly dipped his head in a nod, blinking hard.
"Yeah?"
You blinked back, and his head dipped to his chest again. A nervous tic?
"...Ok."
You took the handle and he dropped the bat. It swung to your side in your loose grip.
"Well, I wouldn't-" he nodded again, "try anything on me. That'd be-" another nod, "- a bad idea."
You stared again as this man twitched a little more, his hand's clenching and unclenching. Finally, he broke the silence, sounding frustrated.
"Don't stare at me." he snapped. You jumped and immediately looked away, gulping. You had the thought of apologizing, then of laughing. This was just... So absurd. You were standing across from one of the men that had assaulted you, in a murder-shack-not-really-murder-shack, holding a baseball bat with the thinly veiled threat that if you used it against him, things would end badly. So here you stood, silent.
That silence stretched on. Again. Then,
"... You know how- how to swing a bat, right?"
"...Yeah?"
"Then do it."
You turned to the man.
"What?"
He pointed at a printer in the corner, already worse for wear with a huge slash running the length of it.
"Take a swing at that printer."
"Okay, I'm sorry," a laugh finally left your mouth, and you smiled out of both nerves and the absurdity of the situation, "But are you asking me to... like, 'go ham' or something? On this broken-down office equipment?"
"Doy. Are you stupid or something?" he appeared to grimace and you swallowed, looking away as he nodded/twitched again. Shuffling your feet, you weaved around a torn-up barrel and approached the printer, tightening your grip on the baseball bat.
"Don't know why this is even happening, but whatever..." you grumbled under your breath, eyebrows knitting together as you raised the bat over your shoulder, taking a breath and holding it before swinging.
Crunch!
Pieces of plastic flew past your face as you closed your eyes tight at the impact. At the same time, a thrill went down your spine. You opened your eyes to see a good dent in the side of the printer, grey plastic cracked and small pieces missing. You readjusted your grip and swung again.
Crack!
More shrapnel, another thrill. Though a quake ran up your hands and arms in a painful echo of the force you applied, you grinned with all your teeth. The siding was broken, innards of the printer spilling out onto the floor.
You swung again. And again. And again.
Crunch!
Bam!
Crack!
This was oddly... relieving. As the printer broke under your weapon, you felt a ball of anger and fear within you loosen some, the catharsis of being able to destroy without consequences, without repercussion, so freeing.
Another swing.
Whizz!
You let go of the baseball bat with a cry of pain, stooping to grab at your calf. You readjusted your grip and saw blood welling up your palm, dripping down your pyjama pants. A large chunk of plastic had flown off and sliced your leg.
"Oh damn." the man came up behind you, tilting his head at your injury as you hiccupped, pressing as hard as you could against the wound.
"Looks like you're done." he said casually, and you looked up to him with eyes full of tears. He squinted.
"Oh. Uh, good job?"
He had assumed your look was for validation, and not the fact that you were in pain.
You glared at him as best as you could and then hissed as another wave of pain washed over you, bottom lip jutting out.
The man hummed and then scoffed, though you hardly noticed, preoccupied with not blubbering in pain.
You heard fabric rustling, and then he was squatting beside you, placing a hand on your knee.
"Okay. Move your hands."
"No." You whined, and in any other situation would have cringed with embarrassment. Instead you simply yelped as the man tugged your leg from your grasp, hand around your ankle.
You began to flail about, fearing for your life, before deflating as you saw what he was doing.
In his other hand was a roll of gauze, and as tears streaked down your face he pulled your pyjama pant up to your knee and unravelled the bandage, winding it around your leg. It still hurt like a bitch, but you grit your teeth and bore through it as he bandaged your wound.
It came on quickly. In a moment, just as his hands left your leg, the blackness came and took you.
-
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
You curled into yourself, reaching down to try to quell the horrible burning in your calf. What the hell?
You hissed as your fingers brushed the... what the hell kind of fabric was that.
You maneuvered out of your sheets and blanched as you saw the leg of your pyjama pants coated with dry blood, gauze peeking out of a gash in the fabric. It was very, very red and hurt a lot.
You limped to the bathroom, relying heavily on the wall to support your weight. You grabbed the first aid kit from the closet before sitting on the ground.
You pulled your pant leg up. The gauze was very well done, wrapped tightly and crossed in places; the end tucked neatly at the bottom. But still, it needed to come off. You grabbed the end and began unravelling it. At about halfway it began tugging at your injury, the congealed blood creating a sort of glue between your skin and the gauze. It finally completely separated itself from your leg, and you bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt.
The wound was at least an inch deep, three inches long. It was still oozing blood, the agitation of unwrapping the dressing renewing the weeping of the wound. It was horizontal, and cut through a good amount of skin and muscle. Your stomach threatened to heave as you saw a sliver of white. That.... That was your tibia. Oh fuck.
You clapped a hand over your mouth and shut your eyes tight. You would not throw up. You would not throw up.
This definitely needed stitches. Lots of stitches. But how could you get them? There was no way you could go to a doctor. Not like this. Too many questions, too much pressure. How did you get this anyway? You had no answer. The sleepwalking couldn't be this bad, there was no way you could just sleep through a huge wound like this.
You went for the large gauze bandage and medical tape in the kit. Pressing the bandage to your wound, you quickly strapped it down with medical tape. Then, as quietly as you could manage, you went to get your phone.
Each step was agony, and when you returned to the bathroom tears were dripping down your face, aggravating your used tear ducts. You had been crying before this.
You looked up how to sterilize a needle, and then how to do stitches.
A quick minute later, and you stripped your pants off, stuffing some of the fabric in your mouth. The needle was threaded.
This needed to be solved as fast as possible. Alone.
You sanitized your wound, grunting into the pyjama pants. It stung like hell, and the flesh started getting redder around the slit.
You clamped down on the fabric and held your breath.
The needle pierced your flesh and your hands whipped away, flesh screaming. You screamed too; the sound muffled by the fabric. You swallowed your pain and went in again, suffering through a stitch before pausing, chest heaving.
Again.
Again.
Again.
There was a point where your mother knocked on the door, making you jump. Sweat was beaded on your neck and upper lip, streaming down your forehead, dampening your armpits. Blood, fresh and clotted, dribbled down your calf and pooled at your foot.
"Honey, you doing okay in there? I have to pee."
You spit the gag out.
"Yeah! Out in a minute!" you called out; voice thin but steady. You heard her shuffle at the door, but leave.
You stuffed the gag back in your mouth.
Again.
Again.
Again.
It got faster as you went, and soon the wound was closed with crooked stitches. It still oozed, dripping a clear, slightly orange substance. You hoped that it wasn't infected.
You grabbed an older, raggedy towel and cleaned your leg before applying fresh gauze. The pain was less now, though the wound was tender. You wiped the blood off the floor with the towel, packed the first aid kit up, and then put it away, folding the towel into a tiny square. Chucking on your pyjama pants you threw some Advil in your mouth and drank from the tap. Tucking the towel in your armpit, you left and shakily made your way back to your room. When you got there, you collapsed onto your bed. Stuffing the towel under your bed, you resolved to throw it into a random garbage can in the city later.
The day was spent trying to not cry as the pain ebbed and flowed. You simply grit your teeth and slept when you could. Your mom was annoying, but she left you alone eventually.
This was your burden to bear.