THEME #66: GLIMMER | 2p!England x Reader
It begins with just a little bit of fluorescent red frosting smeared along the length of your front door.
It’s not a big deal—buttercream has never killed anyone. The worst it does is confuse you; after all, buttercream doesn’t just go around painting itself on the casing of the apartment complex doors. Perhaps someone tripped and suffered a few cupcake casualties? But the mystery isn’t your top priority, and the puzzle slips to the back of your subconscious not even five minutes after you discover it when your close friend and neighbor Kiku Honda arrives to walk with you to the morning classes you both share. He mentions the strange addition to your door, but you dismiss the matter with a quick scrubbing and a careless laugh afterward.
Nothing to worry about.
You buzz about the kitchenette as Kiku makes light conversation with you, and you manage smooth replies as you whip up a quick breakfast for the two of you to eat on your way to campus as well as a tasty lunch for later. No dessert, you don’t have anything sweet in the house at the moment. You’re filling up a water bottle when Kiku’s watch beeps at you (and you thank him for that since you don’t have any clocks—your old one broke and your appliances are just electronic, so they don’t chime), signifying it’s time to leave. You shut off the water neatly and grab your bag, call out a farewell to your ragdoll cat, Cinnamon, and golden retriever, Ace (probably still asleep, those lazy little cuties), then skip out the door with Kiku in tow, down the hall to the nearest elevator.
The house key falls from your pocket as you race down the corridor, but it doesn’t matter—in your haste, you’ve left the front door unlocked.
It’s snowing when the two of you leave the cozy lobby, and you instantly miss the warmth, although the fresh, clean smell of snow draws a happy sigh from you. Wind whistles through withered trees and ice crunches underfoot. Winter has arrived, and the year has reached the awkward point between Halloween and Thanksgiving, during which Christmas is advertised much too soon.
The streets are empty since no one in their right mind rises this early aside from college professors, and comfortable silence stretches between you and Kiku. There’s no need to talk; your friendship is built on the mutual respect for peace and quiet. You always savor the tranquility in the morning (your life is quite hectic otherwise, all thanks to several of your loud, extroverted friends), but today you can’t help but feel somewhat uneasy.
Why does the silence seem so eerie?
“Kiku?” you find yourself asking.
He hums in response, glancing at you from the corner of his brown eye.
“Is it…too quiet?” You tuck your hands deeply into the pockets of your fuzzy coat, shivering as a chilly breeze sweeps over you.
His brow furrows, and he replies softly, “I don’t believe so. It is never busy this early in the morning.”
You feel a bit silly as soon as Kiku answers, and you smile sheepishly. “You’re right. I must be more tired than I thought.”
Kiku returns your smile, inclining his head to you. “Understandable. This week’s assignment has been abnormally difficult.”
You’re easily diverted from your previous apprehension once you recall the grueling paper and you begin to converse with Kiku about the topic, the pit in your stomach slowly dissolving as your attention is switched from your snowy surroundings to homework. Campus is close by, and the conversation lasts you and Kiku all the way until you both approach the elaborate gate of HWA. The satisfying crunch of snow beneath your boots, paired with Kiku’s pleasant, lulling voice, serves to soothe your nerves, and you’re laughing again as Kiku follows you onto the property.
Three sets of footprints disappear through the gate.
You don’t remember packing a cupcake today, but your forgetfulness doesn’t really raise any red flags.
Lunch is noisy and the chatter of conversation around you demands your attention anyway. The self-proclaimed “leader” of your friend group, Alfred F. Jones, chose to eat outside in the snow, and as a result, half of the yelling around you is attributed to Lovino Vargas, whining about the cold, and Arthur Kirkland, snapping irritated retorts to Lovino’s complaints (which only serves to aggravate Lovino further). The remainder of the talking is done by the gossiping girls while the other boys either eat or mess around in the snow.
You’re not particularly interested in Elizabeta and Emma’s intense “shipping” discussion (especially when you hear your name tossed amidst the boys’), nor does the violent snowball fight a few feet from the picnic tables appeal, either (not when Ludwig is involved—he’s currently building a massive icy fort for him, Gilbert, Roderich, and Feliciano), and even Kiku and Alfred’s discussion over cultural differences doesn’t catch your attention (“But why do you need to take your shoes off?!”).
Instead, you find your eyes drawn to the spotless acres of snow just beyond the concrete slab your picnic table and its fellows perch on, sparkling faintly in the dull grey sunlight managing to filter through the dense, boiling clouds.
Snow always, without fail, provides a unique silence, blanketing the ears and muting the surroundings—a truly puzzling phenomenon you can hardly find words to describe. The quiet is unearthly, somewhat ethereal, but something to be treasured nonetheless because everyday life is exhausting and deafening and tranquility is essential to prevent stress buildup and the inevitable breakdown.
But there is a sound this time, a sound in sharp, stark contrast to the chaos that is your friends.
Like the distinct click of a knife against cutting board, but hollowed and round, maybe woody? The wicked blade of an axe burying itself in a tree, perhaps. Quiet, slight, cautious. Nearly perfectly paced, two seconds apart, continuous. The mysterious sound emits from within the line of trees several meters away—the forest lining the very edge of campus, wherein trails twist and turn and lead far from the mark of society.
Funnily enough, with your head leaning on your hand, your thumb pressed against your neck
you find the sound is consistent with both your heartbeat and the timing of your breaths.
No one else seems to notice it aside from yourself
b ut it co ntinu e s
ju s t fo r y ou .
Quirking a brow, you lean to your right and nudge the arm of Ivan Braginski, quietly eating flaky pirozhki beside you. He gives you his focus almost immediately, lilac eyes flickering to you to show attentiveness. You murmur to him, “Ivan…do you hear that?”
He swallows and furrows his brow. “Hear what, sunflower? There is nothing.”
You frown. “Nothing? But there was—” You cut yourself off. The hand you raised to gesture to the forest falls to your side, and you tilt your head in confusion. There is no longer any clanging emitting from the line of trees beyond the picnic area. “How strange… I could have sworn there was something coming from the woods.”
Ivan smiles and gently pats your shoulder. “It has been long day. Exhaustion plays tricks on the eyes, yes?” His steady, calm voice puts you at ease. “It is nearly over. Do not worry.”
“I suppose that’s true…” You run a finger over the thin ruffled white wrapper of the tiny cake in your hands and nod to yourself. “Thank you, Ivan,” you say, flashing your friend a small grin before turning back to your meal. You take a bite from the pastry in your hand, savouring its sweetness, but can’t distract yourself from the urge to glance back at the woods one more time.
There’s nothing to see except dense ivy and tall oak, and campus is quiet aside from your group’s soft chatter.
You lick deep red frosting from your fingers and shrug.
Your apartment is nearly silent when you step inside, closing the door behind you—
But the tap is dripping.
You groan in annoyance and march into the kitchenette, quickly twisting the handle of the stainless steel sink to shut off the trickle. You try not to wince when you imagine the amount of water wasted, and how much it’ll cost you. But rather than dwell on your dread, you open the fridge and shove aside a plate of cupcakes to grab a can of lemonade, then pad over to the living room and throw yourself down on the couch, discarding your bag and kicking off your shoes on the other side of the room. You flip on the flat screen to the first channel happening to pop up (Food Network, some show about baking) and close your eyes, breathing out steadily as you tiredly collapse against the plush cushions on your sofa. While you rest, you idly wonder where your pets have gone. Ace usually greets you excitedly at the door and Cinnamon typically winds about your ankles once you seat yourself on the couch.
They must be asleep again.
Time passes, and you’re dozing, curled up like a cat against the arm of the couch, out like a light. Hours fly by and the sunlight disappears, falling away into dusk, and then the velvet black of night. Outside, the snow picks up until it’s roaring as loud as a blizzard, the wind howling terrifyingly like the screams of murder victims.
But you hear nothing, lost amidst dreams of the red smeared on your door and the cupcake you didn’t pack and the water you didn’t leave running and the ticking of clocks you don’t own and the apartment you left unlocked.
It sounds from behind the front door.
It echoes from the foyer.
It creeps in from the kitchen.
It’s beside your ear.
It’s inside your head.
It’s in the hallway.
It’s in your bedroom.
It’s beneath your bed.
A door slams.
It awakens you.
When you blearily blink open your eyes, you’re startled to see the time displayed on your phone as 8:14pm.
With a yawn, you sit up and stretch, cracking your back in the process. “I didn’t realize I was so tired,” you mumble to yourself, clambering gracelessly to your feet. “Guess Ivan was right, heh.”
You make your way back to the small pantry, intending to make something small for a late supper, but you stop short in astonishment, nearly slipping and falling on the hardwood floors in your fuzzy socks.
There’s…a plate of cupcakes on the stove?
You approach the desserts curiously, still a little shocked. “How did…?” You reach out and prod one of them, flinching back when you discover they’re still warm to the touch. “Who…?” The consistency is oddly springy, like sponge, but not as dense. The cake is red, the wrapping is red, the plate is red. Everything is red. Even the frosting is a deep crimson, and you realize with a slight start the icing bores an uncanny resemblance to the buttercream on the cupcake you consumed during lunch earlier today. “What the hell…?” You move to drag a finger through the scarlet frosting—
A door slams.
Your heart fucking s t o p s .
“Fuck!” you practically spit, staggering backward until your back smacks into the handle of the oven door.
Your breath quickens, your chest heaving from the scare, and you press your palm to your racing heart, suddenly nauseous. Your wide eyes bore into the doorway several meters away, the one serving as the entrance to the corridor in which your bedroom is located, from which the sound came. Terror slinks up your spine, curling around your neck with cold, stiff fingers, sending goosebumps up and down your arms and legs. You can feel the hair on your neck rise, the primal instinct to flee rearing up with a vengeance. It clogs your throat, choking you, restricting the airflow to your brain. A chill descends over the room, and you can’t decide whether the temperature drop is due to your imagination or not.
Abruptly, you notice the increasing volume of your haggard pants, and you forcibly calm your breathing, paranoia settling about your nerves. What if someone is listening for you, searching out your whereabouts in the apartment?! Something’s here, something’s definitely here, lurking in the shadows in the dark, down the hallway in your bedroom, crawling beneath your bed to reach out and latch its withered bloody rotten phalanges around your ankles and drag you into to deepest fucking pits of Hell—
“Get a grip, damn it!” you hiss furiously to yourself, thoughts racing a mile a minute.
Someone’s here, I didn’t touch any door, what the fuck is moving around in my house?! Pets don’t make so much noise! Opinions, options, what do I do?! Call the police? And— but wait, no no, it was just a door slamming, they’ll think you’re crazy. 9-1-1 isn’t gonna do any good in this weather anyway. I just left a window open or something, right?! I could call Kiku, call Alfred, call Arthur or Lovino or Matthew, Ivan, Antonio, Elizabeta, Yao— but nothing’s happened, nothing’s wrong, just a door a stupid door…there’s no reason to freak out over something so small, just a little breeze slamming the door shut, nothing but the weather, it’s snowing like crazy anyway, must be the wind—
Quickly, you claw at the drawers to the right of the oven to hoist yourself to your feet, shaking violently with fear. For a moment, you stand, frozen, trembling and gazing at the corridor suddenly way too close for comfort. But your brain shrieks at you to find something safe, something to keep you protected, something deadly because goddammit, even if you’re overreacting even if your mind is playing tricks on you there is an undeniable sixth sense you can’t ignore warning you you are in danger. You practically hurl yourself at the utensil drawer and dig through the silverware to hurriedly snatch up the largest kitchen knife you can find, fingers contracting into a white fist around the wooden handle. The blade is wickedly sharp, almost horrifyingly so, and you wince at the razor edge of what you now suppose is your weapon.
You whip around to face the doorway.
There’s a light tapping, a quiet click, the sound of chopping vegetables. Blade dropping through soft, squishy plant matter, thudding into smooth cutting board, or maybe not plants but meat, thick, supple meat, the flesh of animals, of people. Slow, methodical, one-two-three, in time with your breaths, your heartbeat, your source of life.
You start to approach the hallway leading to your bedroom, quivering in utter terror. Something’s here, something malevolent, something demonic and repulsive and evil and dangerous— But you’re still coming closer, still approaching, because you need to find out what it is slice it to bits just get it out because you’re not dying today no way in hell—
You enter the corridor with the knife raised, creeping toward your bedroom silently, hardly breathing. You pad along the wooden floor, sliding over the floorboards in your fuzzy socks and avoiding the squeaky ones with caution, weaving around until your fingertips reach the sticky casing of your bedroom door. You press your cheek to the gummy wall and listen, holding your breath as you search for any signs of life…but there’s nothing. No creaking, no thud of hot flesh on wood floor, no groan of a mattress, no breathing, nothing.
You close your eyes and inhale as deeply as you possibly can, clutching the massive kitchen knife in your shaking hands.
And you lunge around the doorframe and burst into your bedroom, brandishing the knife out in front of you.
The door slams into the wall and rebounds violently, and you stumble farther into the room to dodge it, still holding up your weapon. And there’s ticking, louder than ever, and you’re gonna scream because something’s here to get you but you’re gonna do something you’re about to shriek bloody murder—
The window’s open, and the rings of your curtains are clicking against each other.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
A breathless, slightly-crazed laugh of relief escapes you, and it nearly turns into a hysterical sob.
“J-Just a win— a w-window,” you mumble in a daze, staggering up to the ledge and resting your palms against it, the knife pinned between your hand and the sill. Snow blows in large puffs through the gaping window, peppering your face with ice crystals and cooling your feverish skin, hot from your racing pulse. “Nothing…it was nothing…” you breathe, exhaling all of your worries out in a single gasp.
You pull away from the window to slam the lower half shut. You twist the latch to secure it, shaking your head, discarding the blade on the sill for the time being. “Why’d I leave this open?” you ask yourself softly, turning to walk back to the door to flip on the light. “After all, I knew it was gonna snow…”
When you flip the switch, your light flickers on after a split second of delay.
You think nothing of it, striding over to your bed to flop down on its memory foam mattress and stare up at the ceiling for a minute of peace, still tired from your impromptu nap. In the process, you drag one of your feet over the bedpost absentmindedly, but your toes encounter a divot. Frowning, you sit up, your brow furrowing. You crawl over to the bedpost and inspect it, only to discover deep gouges in the chestnut-colored wood, splinters protruding in jagged angles all over. It’s a wonder you haven’t stabbed yourself on one.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, staring at the slashes. “What the hell…?” you mumble.
For a moment, you puzzle over the mystery, but you can’t find it in you to care about it any longer and collapse backward, sprawled out with your arms splayed on either side of you and your legs still dangling over the edge of your mattress. It’s nothing major, after all—the gashes must be from Feliciano’s clumsy little cat, the one you cared for when the Vargas Brothers took their annual trip to Rome one month ago, because your own precious kitty would never do anything of the sort.
You feel the buzz of your phone in your back pocket. With a sigh, you blow a quick puff of air to shoo a wisp of hair from your eyes, then stretch and groan, sitting up once more. You’re about to reach for the phone, but—
Something licks your foot, broad and hot and wet, where your fuzzy sock ends right at your ankle. You jerk away with a gasp, then let out a shaky laugh bordering on another sob. “F-Fuck, Ace! You scared the shit out of me!” you manage, reaching down beneath your bed to pet your golden retriever with one hand. You encounter his shaggy fur and heave a long sigh, combing your fingers through what you envision to be your dog’s shimmering coat. You drag your hand down to rub behind his ears but they’re not where they should be. Your heart gives a weird little jump, stuttering over itself in your chest, your fingers wandering down the locks of hair to maybe pet his wet nose. “Ace, what—”
Skin, not fur. Earlobes. Eyebrows. Eyes, nose, cheeks jaw mouth tongue teeth distinctly fucking human features
You inhale so sharply you nearly choke on your own spit, and in this very instant—
You realize you’ve been right all along.
With a bloodcurdling scream, you lunge for the knife on the window sill with shaking fingers heart leaping into your throat and just as your nails brush the hilt of the blade, s t i c k y f i n g e r s latch onto your ankle and yank you backward and you crash to the floor thrashing and shrieking and sobbing hysterically,
“GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!”
And you’re being dragged backward, strong, slick fingers and arms slipping up your shins and thighs, digging into your flesh and pulling you beneath your bed, wet and warm and so fucking s l i m y
The whispers begin.
“Look in the mirror, darling, what do you see? Monsters, perhaps? Rotting cheeks, peeling flesh from your face? Up to heaven, went away— Time makes no accommodations for its masters, sweet one. Cain allows rage to run its course, Saul bleeds us dry for his own pleasure, Judas turns away and surrenders our skins to gold, hnnnnn— So many circles of Hell. They promise us dreams, sweet. Gentle dreams, dreams as soft as your skin, as welcoming as your lips, the very lips I’ve tasted so many times while you sleep—”
High, cold, clear, sweet as a bell—
sending chills down your spine and drawing another scream from your throat
and you’re lashing out with your foot and kicking as hard as you can as you writhe like a feral, crazed animal, still shrieking, and your bare foot comes into contact with a distinctly human face, wet and hot and the mouth open in a terrible grin, teeth bared, catching on your toes and biting down ferociously and you fucking screech in agony— and you tear yourself free with one more surge of adrenaline and you crawl away, scrambling to your feet and snatching the knife from the window sill before whirling around to dash through the bedroom door, skin crawling and foot bleeding and fingers grasping into the pocket of your pants for your cell phone—
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s someone here someone in my apartment someone broke in and was hiding under my bed and they fucking bit me you have to help me please please p l e a s e there’s a psychopath chasing me I can hear them P L E A S E—!”
You’re spewing words mindlessly into the receiver of the phone as you skid around the corner as quickly as you can without falling. All the while, you finally see the walls are dripping with blood and gore and you can’t understand where it all came from, what this killer could have possibly used to paint your apartment in entrails?! But it explains why it was so sticky, so gummy, so gross. And you’re slipping on the rug at the end of the hall and crashing your skull against the wall, but you’re up and running before you can register the pain because you can’t fucking breathe someone’s after you a goddamn murderer a fucking psycho—
“Ma’am, can you tell me where you are?” the person asks urgently.
You’re about to spit out the address, chest heaving as you practically hurl yourself toward your front door with a terrible cry, surging forward to wildly seize the knob but your blood is pounding in your ears and you can’t hear anything anymore—
The fucking knob won’t turn.
Your cell phone slips from your fingers and smacks against the ground, and the operator is rambling away on the opposite end of the line, but you’re not listening. Your focus is on the unyielding door. You’re twisting the knob frantically, slamming your heels into the hardwood floor to heave at the handle with all of your strength, disbelief twisting your stomach into knots as your phone emits alarmed demands from your would-be-savior, if you would only tell them where you are—
Someone calling, high and clear and cold like the singing before, but distinguishably masculine despite this.
More clicking, but harsher, grating on the ears— like a butcher’s knife dragging along a wall, ripping apart paint and plaster and drywall beneath, clacking against pipes and beams, accompanying gibberish, meaningless chatter, the ramblings of a madman sending chills down your spine:
“Up to heaven, went away! Isn’t that what they say? Faith— faith will save you? Golden standards, that’s all they are, searching for something to blame when horror strikes. Easiest to look to the sky and shout at the divine, wave your fists about, haha ha HA! Like tearing nails from cuticles, pulling teeth from gums, getting people to understand takes so much time! Time we don’t have, darling. We could be so beautiful, you know, if you would only s t OP R U N n I N G .
Your heart thunders in your chest a mile a minute, and fucking fuck, you can’t breathe anymore because there is a psychopath bearing down on you, dragging what sounds like a meat cleaver along your wall, carving holes and gaping gashes he’s gonna slash into you as soon as he catches up to you—
Darling, my s w e e t, didn’t anyone ever tell you? SLAUGHTER IS JUST ANOTHER METHOD OF ACHIEVING FRUITLESS DREAMS. Men seek pleasures, men seek thrills, men seek vengeance— we seek all the wrong things! K i l l i n g to prevail in a rotting world! Sin comes to us in the form of our deepest desires, the ones we hold so close, our treasures, our pursuits, our faiths! Sin comes to us in God, sweet. Haven’t you ever learned that?”
You can feel your blood pressure skyrocketing, and your fists become bloodied as you beat relentlessly on your door, sobbing in terror, shaking your head frantically. He’s growing closer, taking his sweet time, stalking you like prey, pacing after you with slow, deliberate steps of
“Up to heaven, went away, my secret to keep - my darling little secret. Hum, hum, you know, my sweet, they lurk in here tonight? As we dance beneath the withering sky, they play their tongues over sharp teeth and savor the thought of our demise, and they skip and chant and tick and purse tight crimson lips, and shake brittle heads, and find only disappointment. They think me mad, you know, my sweet, and they imply they've found my cure, and yet madness has no miracle, so why do they delude themselves into thinking they've discovered insanity's negation when it's really nothing at all? They think I want to find a way out— An escape from all this beautiful noise— but white silence is truly the greatest of all, the freest of all the sounds! And you know, my sweet, there's a chance I wasn't mad, but rather— perhaps I was right all along? Perhaps I did not fall? Perhaps it was you, my sweet, my darling,
w h o i s t h e m a d o n e a f t e r a l l ? ”
w h o i s t h e m a d o n e a f t e r a l l ? ”
You clutch the knife with as much strength as you can, and in the dark you can see a pair of impossibly bright eyes, blue and pink and glowing with manic pleasure, stalking toward you with a sadistic eagerness. Something’s in one bleeding hand, scabbed and skinned and dripping with gore, dragged along by a thin, bloody tail, claws scraping against the wood of your floor, carving jagged lines and scratches. Tufts of matted white fur stained crimson, glassy blue irises, intestines and bones and chunks of meat spilling out from all sides, rancid and rotted and sickeningly sweet, stench of decay and slaughter and death, fucking
Your cat gazes up at you through blank, milky eyes, flayed and red and dead.
You fucking scream, you tear your vocal cords to shreds, pressing your back against the locked exit in frenzied horror, slamming your spine into the wood to get as far away as remotely fucking possible, clawing at the door with gurgled pleas and cries, you want to get out you want to get out you want out out out oh fucking God p l e a s e you want to g e t o u t—
This thing pursuing you is not human.
Meat cleaver in hand, wicked and sharp.
Splattered with blood.
Nothing but terrible blue eyes bored into a pit of black for a face, swirling in pink malevolence.
You have to get up. You have to run. You need to fucking flee.
You will yourself to scramble to your feet, stumbling away as muffled cries pour from your lips. You don’t know where the go, there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, you’re going to die here, going to die at the twisted, gnarled hands of some psychopath— but there’s a window, a window in your living room, beside the couch and the television right above the cat tree for Cinnamon, your dead little kitten. You throw yourself toward the window, whipping past your hunter before he— it— emerges from the corridor, hurtling the couch with a scream, crashing into the sill and throwing the glass open with split fingers, bleeding and scraped.
The street is four stories below.
You can’t breathe. You don’t want to die.
But is there a choice?
Behind you, your hunter is wailing, lips pulled back in a gleeful smile, singing and humming and approaching slowly, teeth bared in a terrible grin, thirsty for blood your blood some blood some form of satiation, those cupcakes aren’t near enough to satisfy a burning hunger for you, for your skin, for your beating heart, animals only go so far.
You squeeze your eyes shut and hurl yourself from the window.
“…not sure what happened, sir, the investigation is still under way—”
“—analyzed contents of her stomach, no sign of poison, but we did discover something unusual…”
“—concluded abnormal amounts of glucose and some form of animal products, raw and ingested hours before the death—”
“…not attempted suicide, but rather a form of escape? Authorities have determined…”
“—the suspect has not been apprehended, but we understand he is the cause…”
“…no sign of him, but we are still searching diligently—”
“We think she may be comatose, sir. I’m sorry. We have the information filed, the medical records and analysis completed, and police reports updated, albeit unsolved, if you would like to read over them. This is one of the strangest cases we’ve ever seen. Here.”
Complete Accident Analysis Medical Record
Himaruya Hospital, HWA [American Branch] Campus Location
425 S. Spirit Blvd., Washington D.C., 67443-2437
Patient Name: Your Full Name.
Assigned Doctor and Nursing Assistant: M.D. Leonardo Matusiak, N.A. Rosaline Chamberlain.
Identity Number: 0713120508.
Date of Birth: Your Date of Birth.
Address: Apt. 413, 92 E. Lydian Ave., Washington D.C.
Blood Type: Your Blood Type.
Room Assignment: Emergency Rm. 08, Urgent Care Unit
Date of Incident: Friday, December 1st, 2017.
Injury Analysis: Blunt force trauma. Excessive gastrointestinal hemorrhaging, brain herniation. Bruising and compound fracture to ribs, pelvis. Dislocation of the left femur. Violent ablation of the left foot. Multiple lacerations of the epidermis and dermis.
Evaluation: According to police investigations, injury was accidental with no intentions of suicide. Patient fled aggressive pursuer in apartment. Jumped from four stories to escape, unconscious upon impact with concrete. Discovered unknown amount of time later by neighbor returning home from errands, immediately tended to upon emergency vehicle arrival. Patient missing left foot when discovered, further inspection determined appendage was gnawed off. Transported to Himaruya Hospital, comatose after multiple surgeries tending to compound fractures, excessive bleeding, and cleaning of ablation and infected epidermis and dermis lacerations. Brain PET scan and MRI revealed moderate trauma to frontal lobe and fracture in skull, patient deemed concussed. Examination of the gastrointestinal tract revealed irregular contents: raw animal products (heart, liver, and tongue) of felis and canis genus, and abnormal glucose concentration. Patient has not awakened since hospital admittance.
Hetalia World Academy [American Branch]
Police Investigative Division
INFORMATION REPORT (ONGOING)
100 E. Spirit Blvd., Washington D.C., 56332-1326
PHONE: (202)667-5011 | FAX: (202)667-5051 | HWAPD@HWA.EDU
Location of Occurrence/Address: Apt. 413, 92 E. Lydian Ave., Washington D.C. (On Campus)
Date/Time Reported: 12/01/17 20:27 to (ongoing)
Case No., Status: 329118258 | Active
Code Section: Information | Information | Attempted Murder, Officer Shooting | Loss/Recovery 0
Additional Categories: [x] Weapons Involved, [/] Domestic Violence (suspected)
Copies to: [x] Investigations, [x] Residence Life, [x] University Hospital, [x] Administrative Review, [x] Fire Incident Review
Investigator: DT Alton Griffith, W, WA, Detective
Synopsis: Hetalia World Academy, American Branch, Attempted Student Murder and Officer Shooting
Narrative: On 12-01-17 at approximately 2105 hours, police arrived at Foster Apartments, 92 E. Lydian Ave., Washington D.C., after receiving two consecutive emergency calls made by both the victim [20:27] and a bystander [20:49]. The victim was in hysterics and the information provided was unintelligible aside from the situation (hostile intruder). Emergency dispatch office traced call to above address, Apt. 413, and sent emergency response vehicles to the crime scene at 2039 hours. Ten minutes later, a second call was made by a bystander upon discovery of the victim’s body outside one of the university’s apartment complexes [Foster Apartments], sprawled on the concrete. Emergency vehicles arrived at 2056 hours. Victim was determined unconscious and transported to Himaruya Hospital in critical condition. Police immediately inspected Apt. 413 for signs of struggle and/or life. Further investigation proved aggressor [white male] was still present at scene within victim’s bedroom, armed [meat cleaver] and dangerous. Police evacuated building, then proceeded to engage intruder. Upon confrontation, suspect refused surrender and revealed firearm. Ofc. Michael Blackwood and Sgt. William Noch attempted to disarm intruder, but Sgt. Noch was shot dead before suspect could be apprehended. Suspect then fled through bedroom window and jumped, but no sign of a body below when pursued. Further investigation of Apt. 413 revealed interior walls painted with entrails and the message “putty tat” written in blood in repetition, the partial flayed carcasses of ragdoll cat [living room] and golden retriever [beneath victim’s bed], the kitchen filled with pastries of abnormal color [vibrant red, blue, pink] and suspicious odor (lab analysis later proved pastries to be contaminated with animal and human products), and golden package within the refrigerator. Open opening, police discovered homemade timed explosive and immediately abandoned the premise. Apt. 413 and surrounding apartments exploded moments later and caught fire. Police directed residents to HWA Administrative Hall, then alerted HWA Department to active 10-96 and 10-50F and requested public announcement concerning the former. Fire department tended to fire and extinguished it before entire complex burnt to ground. Further investigations are ongoing. Victim will be questioned upon regaining consciousness.
Reporting Officer: Ofc. Michael Blackwood.
Reviewed By: Chief Cathy L. Lanier.
Approval Date: 12/04/2017
Print Date and Time: 12/04/2017, 15:12
“My goodness, how terribly gruesome.”
“I told you - it’s one of the strangest cases we’ve ever seen. The poor girl will probably be comatose for the remainder of her life, and this entire investigation will never find its solution. I’m sorry to see it unfold this way. That psychopath, the one who went after her…God, he must’ve been a twisted genius to escape the department. I’ve never heard of such a clean execution. I just can’t believe it.” Doctor Matusiak heaves a heavy sigh and extends his hand for the files. Upon receiving them, he shakes his head and casts Emergency Room 08 a long, sad look. “Damn shame. I knew her as a little girl, one of the kindest kiddos I’d ever met back in pediatrics. Can’t believe she had to go like this. She didn’t deserve it.”
Matusiak sighs again and turns toward the door. “I have another patient to tend to, sir, so please pardon my abruptness. I trust you can see yourself out?” When he is given a clear nod, Matusiak inclines his head. “Well then, I’ll be on my way. Be sure to leave the door shut when you leave.” He exits the room without another word, papers tucked under his arm, obviously lost in thought.
Blue eyes watch the doctor go, disinterested. When the door swings shut behind him, the visitor turns back to face the gurney, where you sleep so peacefully. You’re covered in bruises with bandaged limbs and a missing foot hidden by the cool white sheets. Your steady, slow heartbeat sounds from some monitor off to the side.
“I never knew you to be so insistent on prolonging the inevitable, dearest,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I have the patience to wait for you to awaken. You’ve forced my hand, clever girl.” He brushes thick, strawberry blond locks behind his ears. “I suppose I’m going to have to wake you up myself, when the time comes. But this is a neat place, secure and safe. Easy enough to keep you here, locked up until I need you, my sweet. Unexpectedly convenient.”
He eyes the clock across from your bed. “I’m running out of time, hn. I suppose I can return a little later…” He giggles suddenly. “H-Hah…kyah-ha-ha-ha-HA! Staffing will have no trouble allowing your dear friend Arthur to visit from time to time, yes? What a good relationship the two of you have, caring for each other in such troubling times. Pity he won’t actually be seeing you.”
He turns his back to your bed suddenly, staggering over to the exit. When he reaches the door and sets his hand on the handle, he glances back over his shoulder, eyes roaming your supple flesh. So soft, so sweet, so tender. If he clenches his fists hard enough, he can almost feel the wooden handle of his meat cleaver, envision slicing your body apart into nothing but ribbons, slathering his face in your blood and using your bones as simple forks—
But that’s for another time.
Oliver Kirkland tilts his head to the side with a soft little hum.
“Up to heaven, went away.”
Then he leaves your hospital room, eyes glimmering with pink as he dreams of the day he uses your ribs as knives and your blood in his soups. God, he can’t fucking wait another minute to taste you, ravage you, drink you in like the treasure you are— your left foot was almost too delicious.
Good thing he has some of it tucked away at home.