Archive of Our Own ^beta

I hate this place.

I don’t even know where I am but I fucking hate it. I hate how cold and dense the air is. Borderline unbreathable. How the brothers seem to fill every crack in these concrete walls, the dingy lights overhead shining on the blood spatters which are flicked all over the place, varying ages from when they were first spent.

I was tied to a chair for the majority of time, stuck in the middle of the room which was both far too big and far too small. The sheer anxiety I feel as agoraphobia and claustrophobia clash, dragging and pulling at me in both directions, is something I don’t think I will ever recover from.

Sometimes I swear I can see the shadows moving, surrounding and circling around me like a predatory voyeur.

My state of hysteria was no doubt a byproduct of those fucking leeches using me like a blood transfusion machine. My vision sways and I still try fighting back, I can feel the muscle spasms despite the paralysis steeling me, fusing my body to the rickety old wood I spend hours on. Day in and day out. I’m trapped on that chair; forcefully fed, drained into fainting and crying in the same position, stagnant.

Having been in here for days has ruined me, or maybe it’s been weeks? I can’t remember. Time has blurred and I’m sure I haven’t even been conscious for a large chunk of it. The Boucharde’s don’t keep a clock in here — I’m partially grateful for it, I would’ve lost my mind a lot quicker if I heard that sickening tick, tick, tick.

The perpetual static of empty air was my only escape. I used to hate it, but then I was showed the alternative. The Boucharde’s voices.

I swear I can hear my ears ringing when their footsteps come barreling in, the smiles permeating through their differing octaves. The panic that rises in me gets so overbearing that I start thrashing around in my chair, I try undoing the bruising grip on my wrists as quickly I can but I usually end up tipping myself over, and suddenly — I’m a laughing stock — helplessly squirming on the floor in the most pathetic form of anguish I can unconsciously muster as they point and laugh at me.

It seems the only time when they’re content in each other’s presence is when I’m being humiliated, other than that, I can tell my life has become a bone of contention between the brothers. One wants me dead, one wants me half-pined at all times and the other…I don’t know what he wants with me.

And I, quite frankly, want to keep it at that.

Creeeeeak.

I’m snapped back into the present.

That was the door. My door.

Creak,

creak,

creak.

There’s two voices that follow every step. They’re arguing — indiscernibly, as I can’t seem to hear what was being said — but I recognize their voices.

My eyes instinctively snap to the only place they can enter from and I can see blood speckled shoes hitting the floor. I feel the familiar burn of the ropes against my skin as I start my habitual ritual of attempted escape — adrenaline nulls out the pain, even as my wrists pop from my frantic movements.

A shaggy, long haired Boucharde finally passes the threshold. His tattered and bloodied suit was his main identifier as Hezekiah; the one who wants me dead. I’m panicking more and my breathing pattern has started hiccuping, it only gets worse seeing him glaring at the second — much more vibrant — person who descends into the room.

Alexis strolls down the steps and into the ratty lighting with crossed arms, stalking onto the grounds of my captivity. He gives an unimpressed look to his brother, clearly unfazed by his baring of silver fanged teeth — Hezekiah’s canines catch the light in a way that’s almost blinding.

“Why have you brought me down here, brother dearest?” Agitation clings onto Alexis’s words, a sarcastic twang tagged onto the ending endearment. Hezekiah grabs onto the taller’s floral shirt, bunching up the pink fabric and threatening to pierce it with his silver, stiletto-tipped nails.

“To prove a fucking point.” The older spits between gritted teeth. He drags Alexis over to me and my vision blurs, they look like mere blobs of color splotching my eyesight with the tears brimming at my eyes.

I don’t realize it but I begin to beg under my breath. My shoulders almost popping out their sockets when I attempt to throw my arms out, trying to loosen my restraints with haphazard force. Tears spill and the brothers are mere meters away from me — taking their equally upset gazes off each other.

And onto me.

I want to scream but can’t bring the noise past the bubble that’s lodged in my throat, so I just cower; trying to burrow into myself, like it’d save me from their prying eyes.

They both smile at me — fucking beaming — and my beat-up shoes are pushing against the floor. A teeth-aching shriek of wood against concrete bounces off the walls as I manage to push the chair back a bit; I’m too caught up in their fast approach to celebrate. I do it again and shuffle back a little more. Seeing how it’s working; I push harder.

But I do it too fast.

My center of gravity tips and my stomach almost hurls at the afterimage of the room. I’m falling backwards. A breeze has me shutting my eyes and preparing for the searing pain of my body crushing itself, but it’s doesn’t happen.

Instead my body jerks back up and I finally manage a noise — it’s garbled, a mix between a gasp and a cuss. My feet haven’t touched the floor yet and I feel at an angle, I open my eyes in confusion; trailing them up the figure looming over me. Starting at the forearm which disappears behind me, then to the blood-soaked shirt, the silver details of eyes embedded into fabric and the flannel clad chest.

Hezekiah is holding onto the back of the chair, the chain which holds his blazer together dangles in front of my face — dangerously close to hitting my eyes with the gentle swing of it. He’s leering down at me with a pretentious smirk, blood marring his mouth with cherry reds.

“And where do you think you’re going, half-pint?” He leans in so close that I flinch. A heavy weight is suddenly draped over me; every fiber in my body tenses and stretches as taut as a string, forcing me to still under his fanning breath. A cold drafts over me, causing a shiver that runs so deep I can feel the very bones in my body.

This seems to amuse Hezekiah, if his broadening smile is any consolation. He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, leaning back and snapping my chair to the floor — I recoil forwards at the push, plastering my shoes to the concrete and trying to ground myself from the scare. I don’t look up at him but I see him moving to my side, Alexis’s voice perks up as he moves.

“Such a brute.” The taller Boucharde speaks in a low drawl, his shoes land in front of me — I can see his arms unfolding to rest on his hips, startling the chains hanging from his belt loops, “Didn’t anyone teach you how to treat a guest?”

Hezekiah scoffs from behind me, his hands grab onto the chair again and I feel the tears pulsing out in streams, “That’s what I brought you down here for.”

The older shoves my chair back where it was originally; under the harsh, blue-casting pin-light above. A weak shriek falls from me at the force — panic rises again as I fall forward, barreling into the pink Boucharde.

My body jerks again as Alexis catches the chair with ease. I’m inches away from his exposed and scarred chest; his cologne floods my senses and I’m suddenly nauseous. Hezekiah speaks up past the static scrambling my thoughts, he’s walking to us, “That isn’t a guest, it’s our meal.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Alexis sets me back down, ignoring me as he shoots the long-haired Boucharde a look from over me. Seemingly more insulted at the jab of his awareness than the abuse I’m enduring. I grumble, my head bobbing under the weak hold of my neck, I’m thoroughly disoriented.

“You sure as hell don’t act like it.” Hezekiah rounds up behind me. I can feel him — fear still buzzing under my daze — and I want to shuffle away but I can’t even move, my joints locking up as paralysis tentatively straps me the chair.

I’m so out of it that I don’t even recognize my head being tilted up, till I feel the point of Alexis’s nail against my throat. I make a noise of shock but it’s drowned out by the taller examining my face.

“It’s called having fun, Hezekiah — something I don’t expect a stuck-up like you to understand.” He’s surprisingly gentle with me; taking little effort to move my face. My fleeting consciousness making me pliant under the sharp points of his pink painted claws, that dig into my skin enough to keep a steady level of unease in the pit of my stomach.

I feel muddled under an aching, empty feeling in my chest. A reminder, I suppose, that I’m powerless and exhausted.

“Besides — look at them! They’re just too cute to be thrown around like some Raggedy Ann doll.” Alexis cradles my chin, thumb pressing the streams of tears into the skin of my cheeks. My vision is bleary but I can still make out his alluring grin and magenta eyes, “They’re more of a porcelain one; pretty and fragile. ”

Something sharp delicately trials up the back of my neck. The touch is featherlight and almost accidental, but the brush of stiletto nails against my scalp has my body tingling — my eyes flutter back with the familiar sensation. I find I’m drawing a blank; my trembling becoming a smidge tolerable. The soft crawl-like touch, that expands at the back of my head, was almost comforting.

If not for a giant clump of my hair gathering into the palm of a hand. I realize a little too late what’s going on.

“You’re not supposed to play with your food, Alexis.”

My scalp burns as every individual hair follicle is almost torn from it. My head snaps back and a groan is ripped from my gritted teeth. My eyes squeeze shut under the pain. Hezekiah’s voice so eerily close to my left ear that it cascades more shivers down the entirety of my left side; leaving a tingling, numbing sensation in its wake. I try to wiggle away but I’m kept still like a dog on a leash.

“This is dinner, not a fucking dress-up game — I mean, just look at it.” The older Boucharde shifts my head around with his aggressive hold, trying to show off to his obtuse brother. He tugs my hair back a little and I weakly open one of my eyes, my cheeks damp as more tears fell down. I see a blurry image of Alexis, who’s pouting a little; looking at me before redirecting his attention back to Hezekiah.

“It’s all gaunt and pathetic.” The long-haired Boucharde leans over me, adding emphasis on each insult by tightening his grip. I shut my eyes again, pinning my brows and rolling my lips inward as a distraction, “It’s practically begging us to drain it.”

The opposing brother gives a noncommittal hum, making my captor snarl; his hand in my hair becoming unbearable.

“I don’t see it, personally.” Alexis responds unbothered. I peel my eyes open and see him cross his arms again, he gives me an up and down before raising a perfectly manicured hand and waving it at me, “Can this be over now? I have stuff I needa do.”

Hezekiah scoffs and lets go of my hair with a shove; I bite my bottom lip when something in my neck pops and a dull pain strikes at the nerves.

“You’re fucking impossible.” He mumbles to his younger brother, moving away from the back of my chair to walk near him. Alexis shrugs and saunters off, not sparing me another glance — Hezekiah makes a disgruntled noise; most akin to a growl, before following after him.

The duo continue their exhausted argument as they walk back up the stairs. I’m so lost in what just happened that I count the steps they take, somewhere around thirteen per brother. The door slams shut and I’m left alone, again.

My head hangs as their belittlement echoes off the concrete; ringing in my ears so loudly I’m scared they might begin to bleed — and I know that’ll only have them running back.

I let out a muffled cry, stabbing my palms with my nails just because I could.

I hate this place, so fucking much.