CherryWaves

CherryWaves

Prologue

Ghostface! Danny Johnson x f!reader

Danny just had to save you. He just had to save your poor sad life. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. What was it you wrote in your diary? Your shiny white masked knight in a black shroud? Well how cute. Maybe it was time he kept a pet around. Just to play or course. 18+ : eventual smut, themes of suicide (reader attempts), selfharm, sexual content, murder, themes of violence

ao3 one masterlist

There's something in the air. Maybe it's that time of year. When you feel yourself fall away like thread splitting at the seams. When you’re clutching at the fabric of your knit sweater. Pulling it closer to your skin. Jeans become looser around your waist, you watch them fall around your hips as you push down the urge to throw up. It's normal. It's a regular occurrence you swear! When winter comes round it's like you're dying from the inside. Wilting quickly. Blackened petals folding in on themself. Ready to crumble into a pile of ash. You're just another brown leaf on the sidewalk. Stepped on, splashed over. Melting into a mushy pile like the others. Until spring comes, when you find yourself blossoming all over again.

And maybe you haven't been too careful recently, watchful, cautious. You're in and out of work. The days feel slower and quicker and it's hard to remember what time it is and when you last washed the bra you're wearing. So it's not like you're keeping an eye on things. 

You rub your eyes. Eyeliner smudging underneath, you feel the grit of your mascara rub against your eyelids. You huff smoke. Cigarette hanging out of your mouth as you tuck your hair behind your ears. There’s a slight chill in the air which is slightly unusual for Florida, but you tuck your thin sweater around your chest anyway, numb fingers taking the cigarette out your mouth as you blow a billow of smoke into the air. 

You throw the cigarette on the floor and crush it under your foot, watching the embers escape into the concrete slabs. You check your watch. It's only ten past five, Thursday evening. Someone bumps shoulders with you as you pass by a crowd after work rush. You've only just escaped from a job yourself. You pat down your jeans, wallet gone. You look back quickly and watch someone scurry across the crowd of people, ducking between workers and customers. He was out of sight just as you noticed him. You sigh. Looking up at the pharmacy ahead. You bite your lip. 

You pull yourself into a nook between shops and lean down on the cold gravel. Hands digging into your pockets, you pull out 4 dollars, a lighter and a receipt for milk. You bite the insides of your cheeks. Hands scraping up the wall as you bring yourself back up on your feet. 

The door to the pharmacy swings open, it smells like an air-conditioning unit and pepto bismol, your shoes scrape across the floor as you wander around the aisles, eyes flicking through hair products, condoms, prenatal vitamins, and finally razors. A pack of twelve single blades is a buck. You wonder if you should just tuck them under your sleeve and buy a burger from over the road instead. You wonder if you should buy them at all. But you find your feet shuffling over to the counter anyway, before you can even think for yourself.

Are you really doing this? 

Yes. 

You made up your mind a long time ago. 

You slide the pack across the counter along with a two dollar bill , the pharmacist looks up at you with a smile, it stretches across his face like a mask. Skin shiny and plastic. Against the hard fluorescent lights, You smile back quickly and watch him type up the price on the cash machine, buttons clicking. He looks at you. Eyes tracing over the curves of your cheeks, you watch his lips purse, eyes flicking towards the packet you slammed down on the counter mere moments ago, the bill curling up at the sides, you wonder if it still has coke around the edges. He sighs. “Do you have any I.D?” 

You blink, biting your lip in annoyance. Of course you fucking dont. Your wallet just got stolen. You want to scream. You pat down your pockets, digging into the back ones and then shrug, baring your teeth on one side. “Oh sorry, I think I left it at home.”

He stares back in annoyance. “I'm old enough to buy them though, I promise.” you laugh, pushing the cash closer towards him. 

“You have to be over 18 to buy, I'm sorry if you don't have any I.D I can't let you buy any.” 

“I've bought them here before and you didn't ask for I.D?” 

Plan B it is.

He shrugs, pushing your cash back at you. You blink slowly, hand grabbing onto the dollar bill and pushing yourself away from the counter. He watches you pass through the aisle, and you slip your hand out quickly to grab something before running out the door, your feet thumping against the sidewalk quickly, you dash into an alleyway and pull the object into your line of sight. It's a child's lip balm shaped like some cartoon character, it's dead-stock of some kind because you had the same one when you were about five, tiny cracked lips covered in glitter. Toothy grin.

You throw it on the floor and take out your carton of cigarettes, there's one. Broken, shoved in sideways at the bottom, you fish it out quickly and rip off the end, fishing your lighter out, you bring the cancer to your lips, breathing in as you flick the clippers edge, sparks fly quickly. You bring your thumb down repeatedly but no flame appears. 

You fight the urge to bash your head against the wall. 

You walk twenty minutes down the road, climb a flight of stairs and then settle between the indentation in your cheap sofa, your apartment is inherently hot, even as the sun sets behind the curtains you feel yourself melt into the cracked leather. Skin sticking to shiny fabric. The place wasn't exactly clean, but it wasn't like you were living in squalor the whole time, clothes piled into corners of the room, a couple of empty glasses here and there. A moulding cup of coffee on the windowsill, unopened bills piled next to the door. It was a list of things you weren't going to have to deal with in the next coming days or ever.

When you blink yourself awake it's eleven pm. You smile into your palm. Bare feet pattering against linoleum tile to the cupboard in your bathroom, you pull out the full bottle of sleeping pills. Closing the door and watching your face appear in the mirror, dark circles and gaunt cheeks. You trace your brow bone with your finger, watching the nail scrape against skin, it trails down to your cheeks. Then your lips and then you smother your face in your hands. 

They won't find you till Monday, maybe Tuesday if they don’t realise you’re missing, maybe never, maybe you'll rot into the floorboards till it gives out on the weight of your swollen body and you'll collapse into the floor underneath you, you're a lawsuit waiting to happen. You wonder if the coroner will think you're pretty. Will they judge you for the underwear you're wearing, or will it be sliced off without a thought?  They'll mark it as a suicide the minute they see the scars across your thighs 

Will your Mum even attend the funeral? 

Will he?

You groan against your palms, smile disappearing into nothing. You can't keep doing this to yourself, edging yourself at the thought of death. You shake yourself out of it quickly. Pulling the door open and grabbing the first bottle of liquor you can see. You sit down on the floor near the tv. Running your fingers over the edge of the pill bottle, fingernail knocking against every divot of the cap, you bite your lip as you pull it off. Pouring a couple into your hand, five perfect pills lying neatly in your palm. You tear the bottle cap of the whiskey, shoving the pills into your mouth without care and drowning them. 

You swallow, feeling them go down your throat, nearly scratching the sides. Switching on the tv to some horror movie, you fall into the crevice of the couch.

And now you wait. 

It feels like hours have passed quickly and you're floating, and suddenly the floor is crashing up at you. You're slumped over the toilet bowl as someone's hand digs deeply into your mouth, you gag, fingers leaving a trail of spit as you puke into the toilet bowl, the taste of acid and leather on your tongue. Your eyes are half closed as your cheek rests against the ceramic seat. It feels hard to breathe, you suck in air all jagged. You're breathing all wrong. Something or someone pats your back softly, and then you're throwing up all over again, watching the white pills come up quickly. There's about four in the toilet, only a sliver of them dissolved. Snot runs down your face. It's only been a few minutes since you took them and apparently since some guy has come into your home.

Your hands grip on the floor as the black smudges approach your face again, mouth yanked open as he shoves his fingers down your throat, you feel the bile rise up. And you're chucking up all over again, it’s just pure stomach acid, but the last pill comes up and you feel yourself slump into a pile on the cold plastic floor, tears wetting the hair you're leaning against. The shower curtain billowing against your legs. Your hands feel weak and you can barely grip a fist. You cough against yourself, drooling out your mouth. You run your hands over your face as you curl into a ball. You're hot to the touch, sweating through your shirt. Back sticking to the fabric.

Whoever is in your apartment has ruined your plans. 

You blink as a cool glass of water is pressed to your lips, it tastes so sweet in comparison to the sick, and you gulp down the liquid as someone hushes at you softly. Leather wipes away your tears, you're pulled into a chest and rocked back and forth until you stop hyperventilating, it feels like you’re a child all over again, feeling so small. Half awake in the arms of comfort. You wonder if he’ll bring you to bed, tuck you in and read you a story.

It pulls off your clothes in quick recession, your limp body placed carefully in the bath, he holds your body to the wall as your scrubbed clean of spit and puke. Gentle hands running down your body. You're still so out of it. Eyes half closed the whole time, they feel so raw. The light penetrating through the window feels like they are ripping them out of your head.  

Then your body gets pulled out of the tub, into your bedroom where you’re fully clothed all over again. He chosen the nice pj’s, the ones your mum got you for christmas, fished out from the sale rack of some expensive department store. They're still so soft on your skin, even when you use the cheap detergent. Strands of hair are wiped away from your face as you lie in bed. Your arms and legs are useless, they flop against the mattress as a sheet is pulled over your body. 

You gaze up at the guardian angel. A pale face gapes back at you. Black eyes, a skeletal nose, You gasp. Wetting your lips with your tongue. Your heart beat raises for the first time that night. Your lip quivers into a smile. “Who?-”

“Shh, It's okay. Wrong place and Wrong time. Okay?” his hand grasps around your chin pulling your head into a gradual nod. You blink up at him. Lips parting. He smoothes a hand over the black sheet. He stands up, quiet on his feet as he approaches the door, you meet his gaze as he turns round. 

“Try killing yourself again and I'll gut you” his hand grasps the door, he pauses. “Got it?” 

You find yourself nodding quickly,“Yeah, I got it”.

“Good” He flicks the light off. The room pools into darkness, and he steps into the light of the hallway, whatever is on the tv switches off and the door slams shut after.