Chapter Text
Her love for the doll had grown gradually and clandestine until she lived and breathed for Brahms, the sweet and lonely spirit boy that adored her and made her PB&J sandwiches. As she watched the scene unfold before her, she felt that love melt away, leaving the dry dead husk of her heart.
“Kiss?” he whimpered, his fragile voice plucking at her heartstrings like the delicate fingers of a harpist.
She stared at the deranged man in contempt, bile rising in her throat at the childlike element of his artificial voice. She had trembled in fear when he first appeared through the walls, but the fear had begun to carve a path of destruction to the purest form of hatred she had ever felt.
Over the past month, she had longed so fiercely to gain Brahms' trust, to be able to hear her beloved porcelain doll speak and move in front of her. But not like this. She never wanted to hear this man, this manipulative sociopath , ever speak again.
“No kiss tonight Brahms. It’s your punishment, okay? I’m sorry”
She forced a smile, quickly turning away before the man could see her jaw clench in disgust, not just for him but for herself. She was sating a grown man’s perverted desires by talking to him as if he were a child, breathing life into his sick twisted fantasy, and her blood curdled at the thought of what he had been doing with the Greta-doll in the wall-
She froze when warm calloused fingers wrapped around her wrist, gentle yet firm.
“Kiss” he rasped, more a warning than a demand. His fingers tightened ever so slightly and a cold dread lanced her body.
As the man had stood before her previously, she knew how huge he truly was, towering over her even when he was hunched down to smell her hair. She remembered being eye-level at his shoulders, fearfully staring at the curly rivulets of dark hair spanning across the freakishly huge breadth of his chest. She had witnessed his brute strength mere minutes ago when he had thrown a 250lbs man across the room straight after breaking through drywall, wood, and glass.
If he were to lose his self-restraint to unbridled rage again, he’d leave her wrist a broken bloody mess.
“Okay” she breathed, recognising the threat for what it was.
The finality of the word caused him to drop his guard and sink into the bed almost instantaneously as if he believed Greta would never deceive him, like a child naively believing the empty promises of adults. His ash-grey eyes watched her with a rounded innocence as she approached him warily,
She leant close to him, and stifled a surprised yelp when he held her shoulders and pulled her closer, her chest thudding solidly into contact with his. She was close enough to read the emotion in his eyes, and right now they were wide in wonderment. With overwhelming gentleness, he leaned his face closer to hers, and her breath hitched with fear and confusion. If it weren’t for Cole’s blood flecked across his porcelain mask, Greta could almost forget his true nature when she looked into those deceivingly pure eyes.
She pecked his cheek and attempted to pull away. But alas, his true nature resurfaced.
He forced her head down until the searing cold mouth of the porcelain mask mashed painfully against her lips, and as she pulled away, he pushed forward to chase the kiss in a final act of touch-starved desperation. Greta gagged on the taste of blood, all salt and rusted iron that had now crusted over the mask. He made a sound, a whimper of thrill-seeking pleasure, completely impervious to her discomfort and pain.
That was the final straw.
The screwdriver found its way into his abdomen, and Greta found herself flying into the wall with tremendous force.
Limping out of bed, the man-beast wrapped a large hand around her throat, hoisting her into the air whilst silently trembling with rage. The crushing pain in her neck knocked the wind out of her, and she clawed at his hand until she could feel his skin peel off and his flesh gather under her fingernails. She slowed when she realised that had no effect on him, and teared up when she could feel her clarity fading as her brain suffered the painful repercussions of limited blood circulation.
Unable to speak, she pleaded to him with her eyes, and as her last breath escaped her, she felt his grip loosen, and saw a grief-stricken hesitation infuse his smoky eyes.
The moment of weakness was all she needed. With surprising agility, she reached for the screwdriver from his abdomen and stabbed him again, the squelching sound of metal into flesh nauseating her. He groaned and dropped, his large meaty frame crashed to the floorboards as he writhed in agony.
Greta scrambled to her feet, taking in deep wheezy breaths to calm herself. She sidestepped Brahms, and found herself crying desperately despite her grim victory. She took a final look at the man on the floor, and he looked back at her earnestly.
“Greta” he moaned, his voice raspy and guttural, reverberating through the walls as if they were an external element of his own body and soul.
She stayed, her fondness for the doll foolishly outweighing her survival instincts. She searched his eyes for any hint- any flicker of the young boy she had come to love so fiercely. She cursed herself for her optimistic stupidity, for allowing her love to enrapture her mind and look for someone who wouldn’t be there.
She watched him gaze at her, and the powerful longing in his sad grey eyes stunned her into silence. Her breath caught in her throat when she realised what was happening.
She was being memorised , as if he believed this would be the last time he would see her and wanted to remember the shape of her eyes, the softness of her face and the arch of her lips. His eyes were pleading, submerged in a pool of tears that trailed down under his now cracked mask. He grasped at his wounds with two large hands as thick matted blood oozed from between his fingers and pooled around him. His dark curls fell around his porcelain face and just for a sliver of a moment, he looked like a boy, the sweet boy that she loved.
Using every ounce of strength she had left, she fought the part of her that wanted to stay. Intent on ending the cycle of abuse that was prevalent in her life, she pulled back her arms that were reaching to aid Brahms. He had hurt her, and after Cole, she was tired of forgiving. Gritting her teeth in anguish and forcing her arms into fists at her side, she ran off to find Malcolm.
Her footsteps were determined, echoing loudly through the hallway, drowning out Brahms soft cries for help.
~*~
She had scoured the dark inner workings of the walls to find Malcolm in the most unexpected place; Brahms’ bed.
Not the doll’s bed no, but a pathetic stingy mattress residing within the walls, belonging to the true Brahms.
“Malcolm” Greta breathed in relief. “How did you get here from the cellar?”
He slurred unintelligible words in response, holding a rag to keep pressure on the bloody gash on his head.
“Come on Malcolm” she encouraged sweetly, rerouting her focus to the kind man in front of her in need of help, while tearing her thoughts away from the masked-man upstairs that was bleeding out alone.
Brahms .
Her chest twinged painfully.
“I’m going to get you to a hospital okay?” she croaked, her throat tight as she looped one of Malcolm's arms around her shoulders.
It was an arduous walk towards Malcolm’s car. Though Greta’s frame had strength, it was lithe and she stumbled through the floors of the house while holding up a drunken Malcolm. What was once a glorious mansion now lay in ruins, shards of mirrored glass littered the floors and shone ominously in the tentative moonlight, and the one -soon to be two- carcasses laid waste to the polished mahogany floorboards. As she exited through the large double doors, she could feel the accusatory glares of the Heelshire family portrait burning hot at her neck, as if she’d failed them all.
~*~
The nearest hospital was too far, much too far and she sped down the country road in Malcolm's car.
Malcolm gained some form of consciousness during the drive.
“Greta?” he mumbled, rolling his eyes to focus.
“Hey, my knight in shining armour” she murmured fondly, guilt ebbing away at her chest at the suffering he had endured. He truly hadn’t deserved any of this.
He smiled dopily, blushing. The concussive effects of his head wound hadn’t worn off yet.
“Where’s Brahms?” he exclaimed suddenly, checking the backseat as if he expected Brahms to be with them.
Greta clenched her jaw. “He won’t be able to hurt us anymore” she stated coldly, her eyes glued onto the road.
Malcolm gasped loudly, almost causing Greta to veer off the road at the suddenness of it. “Gregrah no!” he exclaimed, his face twisted in confusion as he struggled to form words. “Brahms didn’t mean it- he threw a temper tantrum is all.”
Greta stayed silent, responding only by slamming her foot on the accelerator, revving the car to its maximum speed. Malcolm was spewing absolute rubbish, stemming from hallucinations perhaps- his head injuries must be worse than she feared, and he required medical help immediately.
That did not sound like the Brahms she’d seen; the beast of a man that had thrust a piece of sharp porcelain through Cole's jugular, beat Malcolm over the head with an iron rod while threatening to kill him, and strangling Greta midair with one arm.
The words ‘temper tantrum’ were a slight understatement.
“Malcolm,” she spoke clearly, as if speaking to a trauma victim. “You’ve been hurt okay? You don’t know what you’re talking about, you need some rest-“
Malcolm shook his head exaggeratedly. “No, no. When you ran away, he carried me to his bed, and tried to tend to my wounds. I don’t think he’s a bad person-”
Malcolm reeled from the volatile look on Greta’s face.
“He killed Cole” she spat out. “He lied to me for months, he hurt you, then hurt me, and nearly killed us both.”
“Oh, right” Malcolm breathed in disbelief, seemingly recovering from his concussion. He held his head in his hands. “Maybe I do need a doctor.”
“We’ll be there soon.” Greta reassured, relieved that Malcolm was finally coming to his senses.