Chapter Text
Upon hearing the thunderous footsteps on the front porch, you frantically checked your watch.
No, it couldn’t have already been an hour!
You cursed yourself for not setting a timer as you tried to steady the breaths that threatened to escalate into fully hyperventilation. Trying to hide any evidence of your trespassing, you frantically wiped the journal clean of any fingerprints with your sleeve, and dropped back to the floor again, trying to hastily fasten it back to the nightstand. It was probably uneven, the edges of the tape curling off the nightstand's surface but you didn’t care, more concerned about making it out of this dungeon alive, before you were trapped by its keeper.
The thundering footsteps ceased for a moment as you heard the front door locks clicking open. You sprinted out of Simon’s room, closing his door oh, so carefully, wincing at the soft clicking of the latch, before continuing to your bedroom. Running for your life. Panic rapidly rose in your chest as you shut and locked the door as quickly as possible, caution to the wind about making any sound. It wasn't a matter of time before he found out - it was a matter of time before he found you . You looked around the room, vision now blurred from the tears that threatened to spill down your cheeks, searching for something, anything , to use as protection, anything that could stand a chance against the trained killer that had breached your front door. Your eyes landed on the extremely heavy dresser a few feet away, and you briefly debated whether to use it to barricade your door as the heavy footsteps made their way up the stairs, each step increased in volume and speed. Realizing you were out of time to attempt to drag it in front of the entrance, instead throwing your body against the door as an additional weight with all of your strength, and waited with bated breath, your eyes closed and lips moving in a silent prayer - A prayer to a god that couldn't surely exist when monsters like this roamed the world and pillaged your home.
You waited to hear the click as he opened the door, for the resulting confrontation as he realized you crossed his threshold, for unknowingly accepting him for what he was, and signing your freedom over to him.
Silence continued, your chest anxiously heaving with every strained breath. Sweat dripped from your entire body onto the carpet, making your hair cling to your drenched forehead, and your brain was screaming at you to run - but where? You were hopelessly trapped and everything in you was crying out - you wanted to throw up, to scream, to hide. To do anything to get as far away from the psychopath that enslaved you to his sadistic fantasies, reducing you to nothing but a possession, existing only for his pleasure. But you were completely imprisoned, all you can do is stand in your room—the one secure place left, though barely safe at all—and listen.
And wait.
To your horror, instead of hearing the tell-tale click of his door opening, giving you a chance to make a break for it and continue to run at an attempt to finally escape from this hell, you hear him head down the hall.
Towards you.
Footsteps. Slow, careful, deliberate. A predator stalking its cornered prey.
Then—
A few heavy knocks at your door.
"Hey," his voice calls, uncharacteristically light. Breezy, conversational as if nothing was the matter. "Are you home?”
You freeze.
Does he know? He must. He left the diary and the door unlocked just for you. Your car was still in the driveway, your charger on the counter, shoes at the door. You were still clearly home, so was he was trying to lure you out, using some kind of sick tactic learned from the military? Your mind races, trying to decipher this… scheme. Is this his game now? Trying to break you down, getting you to trust him again, pretending that he didn't know what you had just done, just so he can see how your face contorted in fear? To see the blood seep away from your face, how your hands tremble and your lip quivers? Does he seek as much pleasure in your terror as he does from violating you, stripping you bare and exposed?
"Figured we could eat together tonight," he adds, his tone so normal… so domestic, that it curdles your stomach and you have to swallow back the lurch of bile that burned up your throat, stinging your nostrils and making you gag. "You’ve been quiet lately. I miss our talks.”
You maintain your position at the door, heart pounding in your throat, refusing to move a muscle. You can’t decide what would be worse—that he doesn’t know what you saw, continuing to live in a paranoia that never ceases… or that he does. And face the sub sequential consequences. His shadow looms under your door, intruding, threatening to breach yet another door. Even his shadow violated your privacy and any remaining shred of safety, creeping towards you slowly. But he's not pacing. Not tapping his foot or shifting his weight. No visible or audible signs of anger or bated anticipation. Just... waiting. Somehow this terrifies you even more than any explosive fit of rage.
“Maybe you’re not feeling well, staying home from work today, and took a little nap” he says softly. “But you should know I knocked. I always knock.”
Silence. Your heartbeat thunders in your chest, pounding so hard that you think it may explode, though perhaps such a death at this time would be a blessing.
More silence.
Just when you think you may be safe, that he finally gave up on trying to get you to leave your room, that maybe he hadn’t realized you had read his journal and learned his secrets and sick fantasies, you begin to step gingerly away from the door to grab your phone, keys, anything you can carry. Then the doorknob jiggles. Your head whipped back to the door, clapping your hand over your mouth to muffle your shriek as you crumbled to your knees, thanking yourself for remembering to lock it, hoping that this would be enough to deter him from engaging further.
“Locked?” he says, his eerie smile audible even through the dense wood. He tsked. “You never lock it when you're home.”
Your stomach knots, your hand still clasped over your own mouth, salty tears cascading over your trembling fingers. He’s testing you now. Waiting for you to slip-up and make some kind of noise to indicate your presence, to finally admit your surrender. You just needed to be patient. Just let him talk to himself, and he will go away eventually. Eventually he will need to sleep, there is at least some part of him that’s still human. Right?
A slow scrape. Metal on wood. Keys.
Your breath catches again, your fingers digging even tighter into your own skin, your nails digging crescent moons on your cheek
.
He shouldn’t have a key to your room. Hell, you didn’t even have a key to your room.
You slowly back toward the window beside your bed, still not daring to make a sound, your body locked between panic and calculation. Calculating how horribly you would be injured if you jumped out - if you broke your leg, could the coursing adrenaline still get you to safety? No, he's even faster than you normally, let alone when you’re injured. In fact, he may even escalate, dragging you back into the house to “nurse” you back to health, insisting that you never leave without him again. You glance around your room, looking for anything sturdy to protect yourself with. The lamp? Too heavy, at the worst, you might be able to drop it on his feet, no doubt clad with his usual steel-toed boots. The ceramic mug on your desk? Pathetic. And with your luck, the jagged shards would slice your own skin instead. Your eyes land on your phone again. Signal bars—one. Maybe two if you stand by the window.
Crouching on your bed, ready to jump out of the open window on a moment’s notice, you start to unlock your phone, before you’re interrupted.
"Hey," he says again. “You okay? I heard you moving around. You didn’t respond.”
Pause.
"You are in there, right?"
He knows. Of course he knows. You wouldn't put it past to him to have gone as far as to install a fucking camera in here.
You hear the metallic clink again—he’s trying the key.
Your blood turns cold, time seeming to stop completely.
If you tried to lunge for the door and he got it open before you reached it, you would be jumping directly into his arms. Even if you managed to slam your body weight against it, you had no doubt that he could easily overpower you. Countering him with brute strength wasn’t an option, but you had one advantage - wit. You don’t have time to run. No time to squeeze through the window, even if you were willing to break a bone just to get away. Just one, impossible decision. Survival.
Praying quietly under your breath again, you dropped on the bed, sliding under the covers and planting your head on the pillow, trying to steady your breathing as you faced the wall. Sweat continued to bead on your forehead, your eyes dilated and wild from the deadly amounts of adrenaline coursing through you.
The key turns.
Close your eyes.
Be still. Quiet. Put on the performance of your life - because it depended on it.
The door creaks open.
His boots sinking into the carpet as he walked towards you, like a hunter slowly approaching his target, a wolf circling a sheep. A pause. He steps back briefly, and you hear the door click softly behind before he turns back towards you.
He's in the room.
Your body feels like it’s made of rubber bands—stretched so tightly that the slightest bit of slack will make you snap. You can only hope he doesn’t see the sweat caked on your skin, the goosebumps covering your body, how tightly your jaw is clenched, how you trembled in fear.
He’s silent. Watching you - though with adoration or malice, you couldn’t yet tell.
Then—the mattress shifts, dipping with his massive size, the springs wailing like a banshee as he sunk down.
You nearly gasp, but hold it in your throat, squeezing your eyes shut even harder, pleading with them not to betray you by releasing the tears that burned hot in your corneas. It took everything you had not to break into a sob, just be strong for a few moments. No matter what he does.
He was still frightenedly silent, his fingers gently grazing your leg that was snug under the thin blanket, the feeling of his nails against your nearly bare flesh sent shivers down your spine. He continued to trace your leg idly for a few moments, as if this was something he did often, something that brought him comfort. Then a whisper, so quiet you can barely hear, so soft that it seemed impossible coming from the masked sadist:
“You looked through it, didn’t you?”
You don’t move, swallowing, trying to weigh your options. Respond, and hope that he gives you mercy, or keep pretending?
“I didn’t want you to find it like that,” he murmurs. “I was going to show you. When you were ready to know the truth. But you’re so smart, so crafty. I knew it was just a matter of time that you went looking for answers.” He sighs, as if you had betrayed his secret, like he was disappointed about a failed romantic gesture carefully crafted just for you.
Patting your leg gently, he leaned forward, now just inches away from your face. His left elbow came to rest right behind you as he leaned his body weight on his side, hovering over you, cradling your body with his. You felt his intense gaze as he studied you intently, before his other hand gently brushed your hair behind your ear, letting his fingers gently cup your cheek. You fight every instinct screaming move, run, scream, fight, focusing on remaining as still as possible, the only movement is your attempts at breathing softly. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
“I know you’re scared, my love,” he continues softly, his tone disgustingly warm, and tender—like he’s telling you an innocent secret. Something romantic, not absolutely terrifying. “But it’s okay. I’m here. I’ve always been here. Always will be, no matter how long you need.” Pressing his lips to your cheek before settling back at the foot of the bed, he continued his soliloquy.
“You know, almost every night, I would sit right here. Talk to you, maybe even kiss you.” He paused. “One night, I did something… I’m not proud of.” He cleared his throat, quiet again for a moment before quickly continuing.
“I didn’t hurt you. Or desecrate you, like those… animals. Just took something for myself, a moment of weakness. But every other night, I would just talk. And think to myself that I just needed to be patient. Soon enough, you’ll accept.”
Accept?
The mattress shifted again as he stood, finally walking back to the door, turning the knob before one last final comment. “I’ll let you rest, my love,” he says. “I’m not a monster like the rest of them. But you know that. You’ve seen how I’ve protected you, how much I love you. You know that I would kill anyone, anyone, for you. I’ll see you in the morning. ”
At the sound of the door clicking shut, you let out a haggard exhale, your hand clutching your chest as your heart felt as if it would burst open at that moment. You don’t dare to move, not yet, not until the darkness has finally settled.
When you finally dare to open your eyes, the room is empty. Pitch-black, and completely void of noise.
But you’ve never felt more watched.
—--
Somehow, you managed to sleep. It was almost comforting, knowing that no matter what, you couldn’t fight your fate. There was no barricade, no lock, no gate that could ever keep Simon from you. Perhaps it was better to continue this facade, until you were able to properly escape. But now it's morning, and the kitchen smells familiarly like the aromatic coffee you had grown accustomed to. You called sick into work today, the idea of trying to do paperwork or answer emails was unfathomable, and you took your time getting ready, mentally preparing yourself for what could possibly be awaiting you downstairs.
You took a deep breath before slowly opening you door, half-expecting the brutish beast to be waiting outside. Though he was not, you were surprised to see that his bedroom door across the hall was open. You could even hear glimpses of soft music playing downstairs in between the noises of the man tinkering around the kitchen. It was too domestic, too calm. Somehow, it was even more unsettling than his sociopathic behaviour.
It was now or never.
Cautiously making your way downstairs, you surveyed the scene before fully reaching the last step. Simon was at the stove, flipping eggs, no doubt preparing your breakfast fresh for you. His calmness was eerie, as if last night never happened. As you padded into the kitchen, he turned to you with uncharacteristically soft eyes.
“Good morning - you must have been tired. You’ve been asleep since yesterday evening.” He said in an odd tone, like even he knew what he was saying was blatantly untrue. “Your coffee is ready, breakfast will be soon too, there’s sliced fruit on the table if you can’t wait five more minutes.”
You didn’t know what exactly you were expecting this morning, but this overt affection made it impossible for you to gauge how to react. Keeping up a charade seemed to keep you safe, definitely kept you alive, so you offered a forced, bright smile in return.
“Thank you,” you said carefully. “That’s… very kind of you.” As if speaking to a temperamental child.
Pleased at your geniality, he gave you a nod before turning back to his task. You eyed the coffee, mentally praying that he hadn’t laced it with anything before seating yourself at the table. The pulsing anxiety in your stomach ruined your appetite, but you couldn’t risk offending the unstable men, so you forced yourself to eat a few pieces of fruit. Your favourite kind… though you couldn’t remember ever telling him this. After a few agonizing minutes, he brought your prepared plate to you, setting it down gently in front of you.
“You know,” he began, not eating himself, simply watching you. “I.. realize it will take some time for you to adjust to this new change in our relationship.”
Change?
“If you’re not ready to wear the ring I had picked out, I understand. I can be patient… for a little longer.” He put emphasis on the last half of his words, indicating that you were quickly running out of time. You feel the breath catch in your lungs - he expected you to wear a ring? Like an engagement ring?
“There should be no more secrets between us.” He sighed. “I told you about my… discretion. It is only fair that we discuss yours.” Mine? “I know you read my journal. That’s okay, I’m not ashamed. I want you to know that I am devoted to you. ”
You stare at him. Even though his expression is soft, you weren’t convinced by his charade. He was studying you, watching your every movement carefully. Waiting for you to curl your lip in disgust, to flinch at his words. You don’t know what game he’s playing—but you know the rules aren’t yours.
“So,” he says gently. “If you’re not ready to talk about... what’s next... I understand. After all, how good of a husband would I be if I wasn’t patient with my wife.”
Your throat dries up. He thinks this is real. Worse—he thinks you agreed. That somehow, entering his room and reading his journal was accepting a silent proposal. You manage to speak despite your incredibly dry mouth. “I appreciate that.”
His eyes crinkled again, and you watched in shock as he pulled down his mask, gently pressing your hand to his lips, holding it tight in his grasp as you numbly finished your breakfast. He barely left your side the entire morning, insisting on holding you tightly when you sat on the couch, sitting perched on your bed as you brushed your hair in the mirror, even requesting to pick out your clothes, selecting a simple white sundress to your discomfort, fighting back your tears as you smiled in return. You were more than trapped - you were enslaved in his wicked game, like a living marionette, forced to perform for the rest of your days.
—---
You refused to enter his room immediately after, scared at what new commitment you may be unknowingly attaching yourself to, but you needed to know what was on his mind, any kind of advantage to prepare yourself for what was next. If you can just keep playing his game a bit longer, then the next time he’s deployed on a mission, you can finally make your escape.
But then it had officially been two weeks since the fateful evening. You hadn’t even bothered to lock the door anymore - there was no point at trying to delay the inevitable. And every night he dutifully visited, speaking to your silent form, tucking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your cheeks. Never intruding further, just hovering on the shaky boundaries established. But you know that his patience was running thin. His eyes didn’t crinkle when you let him kiss your palm - it was no longer enough to satisfy his craving.
That afternoon, you shyly asked Simon if he would mind going to the store for you to pick up a few things for a special dinner. Clearly intrigued at the connotation, he agreed without hesitation, promising to be back in half an hour. But instead of his gentle cheek or hand pecks, this time, he dipped his mask down to kiss you on the lips, confusing your senses. Your brain told you to be horrified, disgusted at the way he demanded to push you further into his charade - but you couldn’t help that tiny part of your heart that burned ever so lightly at his familiar embrace, like an ember that refused to blow out amidst the darkness.
This is just what he wants. You chided yourself. He wants you to surrender to him. Two weeks ago you would’ve been wrought with tears at this intrusion, but you were oddly calm. Despite the growing inner conflict, as soon as his car left from the driveway, you sprinted upstairs, this time, setting a ten minute timer. You didn’t want to have any room for being discovered.
His journal is still there, still taped discreetly under his nightstand as always.
You flip to the most recent pages, anxiety already creeping over you.
My sweet girl finally accepted, clearly she understands now how much I have dedicated to her. It overwhelmed her, and she wasn’t ready to accept at first. She even pretended to be asleep, locking the door on me for the first time in months. I will be patient, as always.
She accepted her breakfast this morning, which was a relief. I was concerned she would try to shut me out again. I don’t know why I doubted her, I am ashamed at how quickly I forgot her kindness - the very thing that made me fall in love with her. I am grateful that there are no further tests, yet I would not hesitate to prove to her again, to remove another sacrilegious waste of flesh in order to show her again how much she means to me.
I still visit her every night. She’s so peaceful and beautiful when she sleeps. Perhaps subconsciously her acceptance of our transition will grow as I speak to her every night. I wonder if she dreams of me. I have yet to ask, but I can’t help but wonder if she has ever pleasured herself to the thought of me. I would never admit such a profane statement, but as she has finally accepted my proposal, perhaps it is okay. She hasn't locked her door again, she's beginning to trust me fully now.
It seems she has finally settled into our routine. This makes me very happy, and will no doubt make our transition into marriage very easy. I’ll cook for her every morning if it means she smiles at me. There isn’t anything that I wouldn’t do for her. I haven’t broached the subject of children yet - she won’t even wear the ring, but soon. Perhaps I will be lucky, and her pregnancy will result without us needing to even have a discussion. I can't wait to cherish our child.
You slam the book shut, bile rising in your throat.
He's not delusional.
He’s strategic. Carefully desensitizing you to his insane behaviour so that every set boundary slowly dissolves until you’re permanently in his arms.
And you’re running out of time.