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ataraxiaspainting · 11 months ago

Text

Sweet Hibiscus Tea.

Yan Shalnark x F Reader.

Synopsis: After a day of finally trying to face your social anxiety, you walk home alone. The roads are empty, quiet, and eerie. But you are almost home now, aren’t you? You are not going to cry anymore. Just when you think life is starting to turn around for you, it goes in the exact opposite direction.

Warnings: Yandere themes, violence, kidnapping, misogyny, not SFW implications, psychological horror elements, manipulation, panic attacks, Shalnark being an asshole, unhealthy relationships, and stalking.

Word Count: 5k.

Can be considered to be within the Hier Encore universe.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnham

Things She Said by Chris Garneau

Baby Bride Rag by Roar

Butch 4 Butch by Rio Romeo

Appetite of a People-Pleaser by Ghost and Pals

Valentine, Texas by Mitski

I’m Yer Dad by GRLwood

Cry Baby by Melanie Martinez

Freaks by Surf Curse

Neighbour by Mother Mother

“You stay soft, you get beaten; only natural to harden up.” — Mitski, Stay Soft

*~*~*~*

Regardless of how much time has passed, this convenience store always remains the same.

There is always the familiar, tired face of the clerk behind the cash register, her gaze never on you or any other customer who walks in and out of the doors, a simple, muted hello being the only proof that she noticed you.

The lights dim and blink without fail, fading from white to a shade of daffodil to dark flaxen before disappearing and resurfacing yet again as alabaster. No matter how black the night sky is, the less-than-bright illumination never changes.

Neither does the rest of the scenery.

Next to the payment area are two vending machines, with one not functioning. It is dead, with the glass broken by a punch that left a large gaping hole in the dead center. Once when you accidentally touched the front wall while bending down to get your can of lemonade from the working one, it left a sticky residue that had you rubbing your palm on your sweater for what felt like an eternity. It somewhat helped, you guessed, but it also stained your clothes. The vending machine to its right was always out of most sweet drinks, often leaving you with the choice of coffee, lemonade, green tea, or water.

You don’t buy any snacks aside from strawberry Pocky and, if you are lucky, a chocolate bar.

But you do buy meals here because it is cheap. Usually fish with miso or a salad, but there have been times when you can find a premade sandwich.

The total cost comes to between 500 to 1000 Jenny. There is always a poster that claims the cashier is the employee of the month, though you are certain that she is the only one who works there.

The only thing that ever changes is the calendar behind her. The past dates are crossed out in red ink that is in the form of thick, scraggly lines. They remind you of the drawings you used to make as a child when your father was too busy screaming outside your door and your mother was too powerless to do anything but cry and yelp as he hit her. One time you drew them fighting, and when one of your maids saw it, it inevitably found its way to his desk.

Needless to say, he was not happy by any means.

*~*~*~*

The calendar behind the worker reads the 17th of April, 1998. On this day in 1985, your first and only ever friend, the head gardener’s apprentice, went missing. When you eventually gathered up the courage after waiting for hours outside, you went to your father’s room to ask where she was.

“She has been removed from the premises for distracting you instead of doing her job.” The answer you got was to the point, because when has he ever been warm to you? “I made sure that she had learned her lesson before she died. She was in pain the whole time. It was a shame to put a bullet between her pretty eyes. But at least she had a bit more use to me beforehand.”

You cried and cried until you threw up.

That is when your mother, the usual bandage over her left cheek this time, came in and sat on your bed gently, sadly.

She patted the area next to her and slowly you stood up from the floor where you kneeled as you sobbed and went over. She asked you if you wanted a hug and you said no. She responded with a simple nod, respecting your answer. But then what she said next turned your tear-stricken face into a glare.

“She’s alive.” She muttered, along with thanks to God and a hold of the cross on her neck.

“...What?”

Your mother shushed you when she heard footsteps coming to the door. When the sound eventually leaves further into the hallway, she leans into your ear while pointing to your vanity. Your gaze leads you to the dusty cat statue made of garnet.

It got shattered a little while ago when a maid cleaning your room accidentally made it fall to the floor. You felt bad for her as she was a new hire, so you never told anyone aside from your mother. You knew that if your father, the head of this household, ever found out he would punish her severely, even when he did not care for the statue at all. You got to choose, if you were lucky, which part gets whipped or cut off.

“Yes.”

Her short answer leaves you almost jumping up out of your seat. “...Huh?”

“At last week’s banquet, she caught the attention of your father’s wealthiest business partner.” She turns to the curtains covering the lone window in your room, her back now facing you. “She was tricked into boarding a car when the driver claimed you were inside waiting for her. To the partner in question, she is nothing but another pretty face to add to his collection.”

At the slight turn of the doorknob next door, you two go as still as wax people in a museum. “Why did he lie to me?”

“Why? Well, he certainly did not want you rebelling against his decision.”

“But I have never rebelled against him before.”

“I know.” Your mother lets out a sharp laugh, salty and sour. “I know you are always trying to be good, trying to stay under the radar. I know, I know because you are a lot like me. but now I am going to teach you a lesson about your father and the world at large. Remember that a man’s resentful attitude will always result in a woman’s agony, physical or otherwise, always. However, when things go right for a man, a woman is either praised like a dog or ignored until something goes wrong because it is never enough.”

You can’t breathe. “But why? Why, why, why? What did I do wrong? What could I have done right?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. There is nothing you can do or could have done. No matter what, your faults will always be found. That is how most men are raised, to find, and how most women are raised, to hide.”

“...”

“Men’s hearts are such cruel, small things. Oftentimes they can only fit themselves in them, but there have been times where even they cannot fit.” She is still holding onto the cross charm on her gold necklace, firmer than she has ever held you. “They are cold, are or are almost dead. There is no room for people like you and me. No room at all. All they see us as is something to own, something with no feelings whatsoever, and whose only purpose is to please no matter the cost. Such pigs, all of them.” She murmurs some prayers that you cannot hear. “I want you to be better. I want what is best for you, what I never have been able to accomplish; run and live.”

She opens the drawer beside your bed, and you don’t do anything to stop her. It is not like you can hide anything, from her or anyone else in this house. Whatever is buried eventually resurfaces. She pulls out your rarely used bible, a thick layer of dust on the leather cover. It smells and makes you cough. She doesn’t though.

“At least your father does not force you to read this day and night.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It is one of the few things I appreciate him not doing, I do not want you to grow up hating the church.”

“I know.”

“He has made you hate a lot of things already.”

She turns the pages, dust flying around the cold air.

“He made me hate a lot of things too. Blankets, steaks, cameras. The color white, the color black, the color red. The sounds of belts unbuckling, the sound of laughter, the sounds of doors opening and closing and locking.”

You don’t say anything, only looking at her hands. Only in the dark can you not see her scars, her blooming wrinkles, and the bruises that are always fresh.

You don’t say anything, because you have learned from a very young age that you are her only listening ear. You are the only one who keeps her head on her shoulders. You don’t say anything, because she is right. He has made you hate plenty of things. But, but, but. But you can’t hate him, and you can’t hate your mother.

You can’t hate her, because who knows what she would do when she finds out that no one cares about her pain in this hell?

“Mother.” You mutter, putting your head on her shoulder as you scan the text on the page that she selected. She does not stop you.

“Yes, [First]?”

“Do you hate me?” You ask, trying so very hard to not let her see the tears that threaten to come out of your eyes. “Because… because… if I wasn’t conceived, you wouldn’t be here hurting, would you?”

You could swear that you heard her heart skip a beat.

“...I would not be here, yes.”

She is honest, for once. You know at least some of this situation is all your fault.

“Do you hate me?”

“...”

“Mother, please answer me.”

You hear a sniffle as she starts mumbling the words written. “‘A gracious woman gets honor, and violent men get riches.’”

You choose not to press on the subject. You don’t want her to suffer anymore.

*~*~*~*

You buy an orange-flavored Ramune soda, a pack of pork ginger instant ramen, and strawberry Pocky.

The total would come to about 600 Jenny if your quick calculations are right. You could get something extra, like a topping for your ramen or some chips. But would it be wise? You have never been someone who finishes their plate after you had ran away, so what if you just waste your money?

So, you decide not to get anything else.

You walk to the cash register.

You hear an explosion from the back of the building. Small sparks of white and orange. The lights go off before you can place your chosen items down, and you can hear the employee cursing under her breath. The breaker. What happened?

“Damn it, I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” She grumbles, putting her thumb and pointer finger on the bridge of her nose, rubbing. “No raises whatsoever. Only one here. Without me, this place wouldn’t be working, ungrateful pricks.”

Fighting the way your heart rate shoots up, you decide that talking to her would be best. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone aside from your boss, right?

Maybe your anxieties would quell, and you can eventually graduate to talking to your co-workers, that would be a dream come true for you.

You haven’t had a friend, a real friend, ever since Rose was taken from you all those years ago. You still cry whenever you think about her. You miss her. Is she dead, is she alive?

You still blame yourself. If only you hadn’t talked to her, maybe she would still be with you. What kind of adult would she have been? A kind one, a responsible one? You would still be friends at least, wouldn’t you? Or would she grow to hate you, if she didn’t already?

You keep telling yourself that she wouldn’t and didn’t, but that is not what your mind tells you.

Is she dead?

You could picture a rotting corpse six feet under. An unmarked grave. Glassy, dead, amber eyes looking upward to anyone who looks down, helpless, pleading. You always liked them, always complimenting them much to Rose’s shy chuckles. She was so pretty, that much was true. You could only imagine how beautiful she would have been as an adult.

Her looks were a personal gift from God, the heavens, and the angels.

But if she didn’t have them, would she not have been treated like she was in the estate?

“Erm, excuse me,” You mutter, taking a few steps forward. “If you want I can go check it out.”

It is what Rose would do. She always liked helping others. You just wish that people would have appreciated it more and seen past her appearance. It was a double-edged sword. It helped her become the head gardener’s apprentice but also caught the attention of both your father and his business partners. You felt bad for her, and still do.

The employee turns around, her confusion prominent despite the dark.

“Erm,” You mutter, looking down at your hands and entangling your fingers in one another. You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks in embarrassment. “Is that okay?”

It takes a few moments to respond. Her surprise was unexpected, as you never spoke to her outside of asking her if she had change or telling her you hoped that she had a good night. Rose would be better at this kind of thing. You once had a dream that at a fast food joint, an adult her would order for you and correct the staff when they put pickles on your burger. It’s what could have been, funny moments like that. She had always been the one to take charge, you following her like a lost puppy.

You miss her so much.

So much.

The worker slowly nods. “...Okay.”

“...It’s in the back, right? The breaker.”

This is so awkward. Rose would be better. You wish she was here. Or your mother. Anyone.

“...Uh. Um… I like your eyeliner.” As soon as you say that, you curse at yourself, not wanting to sound like a creep. The woman’s confusion becomes even more prominent.

“...Thanks, and yeah, it’s in the back.”

“...Okay.” Jesus Christ. You turn away from her, the heat on your cheeks hot enough to be mistaken for a fever. This is not what Rose would have done.

“...You can leave your stuff here.” She says, and you quickly spin your heel and put your items on the counter. “It’s not like they are going to grow legs and run off, so relax.”

“...” You both chuckle, and you feel slightly better. “...Thanks. I’ll go now.”

“...” You start walking. “Wrong way.”

You stop.

It takes you a few seconds for you to move back to first base and go off in the opposite direction. As soon as you open the creaky steel door, strong rain and cold wind greet you, along with a loud clap of thunder and lightning.

Perhaps you could go back and get your umbrella from the stand by the door. But that would be even more awkward.

“Stupid. Stupid.”

“If we are lucky, the wind simply detached it or something. Not the best at this sort of thing, though.”

“I don’t think breakers detach.” You could picture her shrugging and scoffing at your murmur. “Sorry. Sorry. Just… sorry. I’m the best at this sort of thing either.”

You close the door behind you and start looking amongst the pitter-patter of the raindrops and gusts that nearly make you fall over.

Stupid. Why do you make everything so weird? Rose would have been so much more charismatic. It was one of her strongest traits after all.

Stupid.

It’s hard to see. Trying not to trip over stones and cracked cement, you grip onto the wall and walk forward. Soon, you feel something.

“Ew, ew, ew!” You cry out, quickly moving your hand away from the slimy slug. “Ew!”

“You okay?”

“Uh, nothing. Just a bug. Yeah, just a bug.”

You hear a chuckle. Stupid.

“Sorry!” You exclaim, almost bowing your head. “Sorry! Really!”

Making sure you don’t touch the slug again, you keep moving.

Eventually, you find the breaker. But it wasn’t what you were expecting by any means. The damage almost looks like it was done on purpose, the way it was open and covered in soot. Did something get to it?

The breaker that exploded was a mass of melted metal that had been blown apart from the intense amount of heat and pressure. It was now barely recognizable as a single unit–parts of it scattered across the cement path and others having been fused and becoming something else entirely. The metal had been melted and blown upwards in the sheer force of the explosion, coating parts of the wall, wet grass, and roof with small, solidified droplets of metal. The ground around the remains of the breaker is burnt and scarred with traces of the immense fire that had consumed it.

It seems the rain put it out.

“No hope for this, huh?”

“Hey,” The employee calls out. “How bad is it? If there is nothing you can do, come back inside.”

So, you do.

The way she turns at you is robotic almost. A smile is on her face that was not there before. She nods when she sees you. Something tells you to not approach.

“It exploded into molten metal.”

“Oh well.”

Under the stormy skies, her gaze turns pale. Her eyes, seemingly captivating, lack any hint of vitality, while her lips curve in a disarming and saccharine manner. A shiver runs down your spine as you meet her gaze, every fiber of your being urging you to flee. Deep within your primal instincts, an innate awareness stirs, recognizing the smile as a charade, a mask of humanity that ventures into the realm of unease: akin to an artificial being adorned with synthetic flesh or a wax figure encased in glass. Those lifeless, white eyes, coupled with a forked tongue and an unsettlingly beautiful countenance, leave you with an undeniable sense of mistrust.

“You’re not mad? Really? Um…”

Something is off. What happened? She looks more like an imposter than anything else. But if she is, where did the real cashier go?

“Don’t worry.” She says, her voice oddly chipper and no longer confused by your awkwardness. “It’s fine. I’m quitting anyway, so it’ll be my boss’ problem.”

You turn your head. “Really?”

She nods. Something is off.

“Like really?”

You blink multiple times and you don’t think she does. She just stands there. Slowly, she nods. Something tells you to run yet again.

“Um… um… okay. Okay. I’ll just pay and leave. How much does it come up to?”

She shakes her head.

“Um. I have to pay. It’s thievery if I don’t.” You get closer. “It’s the law.”

“It’s fine.”

“I can’t just not pay.” You say, taking out your wallet from your sweater pocket. “That’s stealing. It’s wrong.”

Every action she takes is measured and precise, and she seems to move like a machine rather than a person. It’s as if she’s been programmed to act and talk in a certain way, and she doesn’t seem to have the ability to break out of that. She simply stares at you, not speaking.

Run.

You undo the metallic button, hearing the shuffling of paper Jenny within your wallet. “Um. Let me pay. Please.”

She simply shakes her head again.

“It’s fine.” The employee says, the smile still plastered on her face. There is quite more than a hint of blankness and detachment in her expression. She speaks in a mechanical and emotionless manner, her words delivered as though repeated from a script of carefully chosen sentences. Her movements are quick and precise, putting your chosen items in a plastic bag. There is no life or energy in her actions, instead, she moves like a mindless machine, performing her tasks before her without showing any personality of her own. Is it better to just accept it?

What should you do? What shouldn’t you do? Is she joking? Should you leave?

What would Rose do?

One of her hands grasps onto the plastic handles and she holds it out before you. There is no authenticity or warmth. Her eyes are blank. What happened? Should you ask? Should you just take the bag without saying anything further?

“Okay,” You murmur, obeying her silent command. “I hope you don’t get into any trouble though.”

*~*~*~*

Boss (9th May 1996 17:45)

Did you find anything?

Boss (9th May 1996 17:45)

Feitan found her heels nearby along with some blood, so she couldn’t have gotten very far.

You (9th May 1996 17:45)

Nothing yet

Boss (9th May 1996 17:47)

Try checking the stores nearby.

Boss (9th May 1996 17:47)

From the blood trail, she is most likely injured from running and trying to fix herself up in some sort of shelter.

Boss (9th May 1996 17:48)

She may have also discarded the rest of her clothes, not just the heels, and is currently wearing something else.

You (9th May 1996 18:15)

I found a dress and jewelry at the bottom of a lake

You (9th May 1996 18:18)

(image sent)

Boss (9th May 1996 18:20)

That’s it.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:20)

Disappointing. I’ll send over Pakunoda to ask people nearby.

You (9th May 1996 18:20)

You (9th May 1996 18:21)

Don’t cry, I’m sure we’ll find her soon :)

Boss (9th May 1996 18:22)

I wasn’t crying.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:22)

I just thought she came around already.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:23)

This will set our heists back weeks.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:24)

She has planned this out for more than a year, it seems.

*~*~*~*

Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. You can’t hear anything else. The sounds sting your ears like an aggravated hornet.

The darkness around you is solid, more so than the cracked, aged concrete path beneath your shoes. There is a tiny light in the distance; a streetlamp.

Silence.

“...”

“Have a good day!”

“...Thank you.”

Let there be light.

“Um…” You can’t see anything. The sounds… stopped. “...Time to go home.”

But the pain stays.

It feels like a drill.

It hurts.

“...” You feel deaf and blind. No, maybe something even worse. “...”

You turn around, to the dark convenience store, and you see the cashier still staring at you. “Have a good day!”

“...”

“[First]?”

…How does she know your name? Did you say it to her in the past?

When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

“[First], dear.” She starts waving as you look at her. “[First]. [First]. [First]. [First]. [First]!”

There is nothing but emptiness. Is your name all she can say? What happened to her? It is like she has regressed. Like a storm cloud in summer, you do not wish for this pain. Now you feel deaf and blind and mute now.

You almost wish that you were dead. All there is is pain. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm.

Interruption. The sounds returned. Is this good? Is this bad? Does it matter at all?

You walk. You don’t speak. Only walk. You can’t breathe. You can only move. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun.

Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm.

A hand clamps over your mouth.

You drop the plastic bag from shock, and then you finally hear something other than those sounds; glass shattering.

“Sh…” A voice, calm, along with the smell of oranges. “It’s okay.”

“...!”

“Don’t scream.”

The touch of lips, a man’s lips, on your ear, thin and hard.

“Breathe. Just breathe for me, okay?”

But you can’t. The wind goes down your throat. It is suffocating. You can’t breathe. You smell oranges and something rotting, blood.

It stinks. It fucking stinks.

Christ. Get away. That stink. That fucking stink. Your body rejects it by continuing to not breathe.

“Sh… Breathe. Just breathe, for me, for you, for us.”

“...St… Sto-”

“Sh…” The voice is sweet, not at all sour, like candy. “Calm down. Nothing bad is going to happen. Just breathe. You’re going to pass out.” The lips and the scent of his breath are like salted leather in a butcher’s shop, stinky and rotting. “Calm down. Don’t worry.”

“...Sto… Si-”

“Breathe. Sh… It’s okay. Breathe.”

“...Ge… Sti…”

“Sh… Breathe. Breathe, [First]. Breathe. [First]. Breathe. Breathe. It’s okay. Don’t worry about all this. Breathe.”

When you finally do, you gasp, desperate. “...Huff… Huff… Huff…”

Get off of me, I can smell you.

“There we go!”

Your vision clears up a bit. “...Huff… Huff… Huff…”

“Just keep breathing.”

“...Huff…”

You can smell him. You can practically taste him, with his mouth so close to you.

“Whew! That was a close one!” The man exclaimed, wrapping his other arm around your waist.

Pain. Get off of me. I can smell you, I can hear you, I can taste you. Get off of me. Please.

The pain still stays, in your chest and your ears, and your head. Oranges. Blood.

Get off of me.

Please–

A pain in the back of your neck and you go limp.

Darkness. Then pain again. You can’t move. You can only breathe. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm.

*~*~*~*

SAINTSHORE SPACE THEATRE

UNDER THE DIRECTION OF RANDOLF URASLEF, GRETEL JAMES, AND QUINCEY J. ORATICE

PAUL DONSHEL CELESTE BAKER ANNE CROAKS

AND

THE GREAT COMET THEATRE COMPANY

SWAN LAKE

ADAPTED BY MUSIC WRITTEN BY PYOTR ILLYICH TCHAIKOVSKY

INSPIRED BY THE CHOREOGRAPHY OF JULIUS REISINGER

WITH THE WONDERFUL CAST OF

(IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE)

Odette, the White Swan………………………………………………………….JEAN YVETTE

Odile, the Black Swan……………………………………………………………...JUNO LILOU

Prince Siegfried……………………………………………………………(the name is illegible.)

The rest of the list’s names cannot be read just like Prince Siegfried.

“She is simply beautiful. Just so beautiful. Simply wonderful, perfect.”

As the spotlights ignite, their scorching beams engulf you, causing you to shield your eyes with futile resistance. The sheer force of the light overwhelms your feeble defense. An ethereal audience erupts with exuberant cheers, applause, and whistles, resonating from vacant seats. Champagne flutes collide, men erupt with hearty laughter from their very core, and women unleash piercing screams akin to banshees.

The temperature rises and the noise intensifies, repeatedly, enveloping you in a symphony of overwhelming sensations.

Onlookers casually share their thoughts.

“Get off the stage, we want to see the play, not some stagehand!”

“Boo!”

“Fuck off!”

You run off crying.

“Where is that Odile girl?”

You run into a dressing room. One used by a woman wearing a black dress. She is so pretty. Her long strawberry blonde hair falls off her bare shoulders, clearly just done with a flat iron. There is a burning smell in the air. Smoke. When her gold eyes meet yours, she marches towards you and slams the door shut.

You can almost hear sobbing coming from the other side. Cries.

“So lonely…” The woman mutters. “When will it ever be enough?”

The voice sounds familiar. Her eyes. Her hair.

Nostalgia. Memories you would much rather forget. The basement. The imaginary ripping of clothes and tears and men’s laughter.

“I can’t do this much longer…”

Someone else knocks on her door. You want to scream.

“Come out, dearest.”

The devil. Tall with curved horns and a forked tongue. You want to warn her.

You want to save her. “I’m not going to harm you, I am going to make you happy.”

You are so focused on whether the woman opens the door or not that you do not notice what happens next until it is too late. A clawed hand on your mouth. A tongue licking your ear. Tasting your sweat. Your tears. Laughter. The rest of the world disappears, and the only one there aside from you is the one behind you.

Sh… Sh… Sh… Sh… Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm.

Get off of me. Please.

“Breathe. It makes things more fun for me.” The voice echoed like you two are in a cave.

You gasp for air, and the smell of blood and oranges fills your nostrils.

“...Huff…”

“That’s better.”

You turn around. There is a body of a man.

But the scaled, furred, horrifying face of a demon.

“Good.” He says, smiling his sharp teeth. “Deep breaths, in and out, come on.”

You do what he says. He praises you again, you think. But you can’t hear it. Either that or you simply do not pay attention to it. What happened to the woman?

“...”

“We should go.”

The woman. The devil, this other… thing.

“...Rose…”

The demon laughs.

“Wake up.”

*~*~*~*

The first things you hear come from a happy man’s voice. “My boss’ girlfriend ran away more than a year ago you see, and he’s been heartbroken ever since. I want to prevent that kind of loss from happening to me. Real pretty one, too! He didn’t expect it, but I don’t blame her. After all, she’s been held captive for more than a year, she had to try to escape eventually.”

…The first thing you feel is lace on your neck. A collar.

It does not tickle or hurt. It itches.

A cold hand plays with it, and it almost chokes you. At your discomfort, the man laughs.

“You are so cute.”

Something metal is on the collar, and it blinks a small red light.

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