「 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 」

If this were you a year ago, your heart would be thumping mindlessly out of your chest, swarming your head with questions and filling your chest with butterflies, and that warm fuzzy feeling you get.

But alas, that WAS a year ago. You would do whatever means necessary to escape Vox. You didn't care what had to happen for you to escape him. If he had to hit you in the head with a shovel to get over you--so be it! You were on the verge of snapping.

As you finally reach the familiar view of the said sycamore tree, you confidently strut up the slight hill to cross and smooth out your jacket, straightening your posture. This is it.

In merely several minutes, this nightmare will be over... You think to yourself.

You look out to the sycamore tree, seeing Vox to have decorated the setting with candles, roses, and paper lanterns to set an intimate mood.
You grimace.

As you approach Vox, you glare at him through hooded eyes, your lips curled into a disgusted scoff as you bury your hands in the depths of your pockets. You clear your throat, hoping if you did so your words would sound final and confident.

"Vox," you say, rather formally, but it ought to set the mood.

Vox nods at the sound of his name, his lips parting to respond.

"I have something to tell you," the both of you say in unison.

He chuckles. "You go first."

You shake your head. "I think it's best if I go last..." you inform him, folding your arms.

Vox fiddles with his bowtie, looking very excited as he clears his throat. He'd practiced for this. He's ready. "(Y/N)..." he takes your hand.

You pull it back into your pocket.

"Well--alright...we can go without the hand for now," he mumbles to himself. "(Y/N) (L/N), will let me make you the happiest woman alive, and marry me?" he asks, holding a diamond ring up to your nose.

You take a moment to look at this scene before you. Vox wasn't on one knee, as the tradition goes. He probably thinks he's too good to be kneeling before anyone, even the woman he supposedly loved.

You want to scoff just looking at him. He wears a smug grin, not a trace of worry or hesitation in his face, while one hand is in his fucking pocket, and the other lazily holds out a ring to you. The scene appears way to normal to be a proposal. Why, it's insulting!

You laugh. "Aha! Fuck no!" you say, wearing a false smile. "I would rather have someone repeatedly shoot me in the head with a shotgun than marry the likes of you."

Okay, that was a bit harsh--but you honestly couldn't give two fucks at this point. Oh, his heart is broken now? Too. Fucking. Ba-

Your thoughts are suddenly cut off when you feel a sudden pain in your head, stumbling to the ground.

Vox was almost certain you'd say yes, but he knew there was that stubborn, cocky side of you that could easily turn him down. He came armed with a weapon.

Almost as if the entire scene was rehearsed, at the sound of you hitting the grass, rain droplets start pouring down over the scene. The candles Vox set up were being drowned out, turning them into little pulps of mush. The paper lanterns he so delicately placed were melting, turning the once beautiful and romantic setting into a marshy nightmare.

Vox doesn't bother cleaning up, and swings your frame over his shoulder, tossing you in the backseat of his car.

The engine started and he started driving far away from here, some place you'd never be found...

⊹⊹⊹

The only thing that you could remember when you woke up—was pain.

Pins and needles were showered up to your knees, as if in a kiddie pool of blades.

You feel a stir—a shaken feel in the pit of your stomach.

Gagging, you cough up the familiar, metallic taste of pennies.

Oh god...is it vomit?

You heave a small amount of blood, looking down in horror to see the glossy red liquid dribbling down your chin and onto your shirt.

Except—it's not your shirt.

It's a light blue button-down shirt, shooting a wave of nostalgia through your head as you inhale its' scent.

The shirt reeks of expensive cologne, fresh laundry, and peppermint.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to recall where you know that from, but the answer slips away to the back of your mind. But at this rate, you wouldn't even be able to remember your name.

What is your name?

Bringing your attention back to your surroundings, you see yourself in a large, dimly lit bedroom. One that seems strangely familiar.

Looking down upon yourself, you see a large bed beneath you. You try to sit up but are tugged down by the tight straps that bind you to the surface, cutting into your wrists like edges of sandpaper.

A bead of sweat trickles down your forehead as you continue to pull against the straps.

No use.

You lay back down in defeat and start to sob, looking up at the fan as it hums a monotonous tune, drying the tears from your cheek.

Then, through the soft wave of silence that washes over what would've been a peaceful setting—you hear a low, seductive voice speak;

"(Y/N)..." the voice chuckles melodically.

You gasp out in realization.

Your name is (Y/N) (L/N), and you are being held as a captive here.

⊹⊹⊹

A/N: I put the prologue in?? I guess we're back where we started...

~angie 🥂

(Word count - 967 words)