the phone down on the table. Tears stab at her eyes, threatening to pour out in front of Timothee. The man reaches for her hand, consoling her.

"They haven't found anything. No bodies, no trace of who took them. Any tire tracks were blown away by the wind all ready. " She releases a shaky sigh, head falling onto the table.

"They'll find her, I know they will." Timothee says, rubbing his thumb on her palm.

Laura grumbles, pulling her hand away from his.

"It's getting late. Why don't you head home, Tim?"

He pauses, before nodding. After a few seconds, he's out the door.

Almost as soon as the door clicks shut, her head falls into her hands, heavy sobs reverberating in her chest.

She sobs until her face gets tingly with lack of oxygen, a migraine peeking at her temple. Her eyes start to run dry, to the point where she has to splash her face in the kitchen sink.

She sent Timothee away to be alone. And to be honest, there's a part of her that resents him. Unfairly, she knows. But If he hadn't taken her out to eat, she wouldve stayed at the festival with y/n.

She resents herself even more. If she stayed, there was a chance the two of them would've gotten out of there before disaster struck.

The day is Wednesday. Three days after the festival. That Monday morning, she read in the newspaper about the disaster. Immediately, she felt an icy dread spread in her chest.

She called Y/n a hundred times. Eventually, an official list of missing persons was released, and y/n was on it. Laura was out of a job now, but that wasn't even a thought on her mind.

She twists a black feather around in her hand, one found from the scene. It was something she sneakily picked off the ground when an officer wasn't working. She had been brought in for questioning, and didn't want to leave without something to pocket.

The feather doesn't shine or gleam. It's just a feather. There's no sparkle or worth in currency, and yet, Laura holds it to her chest as if it's the most valuable thing in the world. And to her, it is.

She sniffles, holding back another batch of tears. It's then she makes a promise to a silent room. She'll find Y/n herself, no matter how long it takes.

Praying that Laura does not run into her capturers. She instead hopes Laura scurries out of the county like a coward, never turning her back.

But deep inside, she knows that won't happen. Laura never wanted to leave Poth. Not when y/n scurried away to college, and certainly not when she's been kidnapped.

And, with 100% surity, y/n knew that if Laura found the house, she would run in recklessly, get captured, and killed.

Already, another batch of bodies have been brought into the basement. Three adults. A woman, and two men. The woman and one of the men hang now from the hooks, drying out. Their corpses fill the room with the sweetly sickening stench of blood. The other man lays on the table.

Heavy footsteps bring y/n out of her daze. Thick fingers grab her chin softly, lifting it up so her eyes meet their owner. It's Thomas. She sighs with relief.

He carries a plate of veggies. Carrots, tomato, and cabbage. Carefully, he unties her hands. They are no longer tied to the pipe. He deemed it unnecessary. When he had grabbed her ankle on Saturday night, he broke it. The skin was purple and bruised, but put in a makeshift splint. She couldn't walk, meaning she couldn't escape.

Y/n grabs the plate, digging into the food with shaky hands. She only got one meal a day. She doubted it was Thomas choosing to do it purposely, but rather, him having to sneak the plates down stairs the only moments available.

Hoyt was not fond of her, and he would probably get angry if he knew that Thomas was "feeding the bitch."

The sticky tomato juice stains her chin red. Thomas watches silently. His face is always hard to read with the mask on, but y/n can usually tell what he's feeling through his eyes. There's a bit of eagerness in them.

After snarfing down her food, Thomas pushes away the plate and grabs her gloved hands. Y/n freezes, trying not to flinch.

She doesn't want to fear Thomas. She pities the big man, convinced by his deranged uncle that this is the right way of doing things. Or, rather, his only way. The way of a "big, beautiful monster ".

She doesn't want to fear him, yet, deep down she is terrified by what she's seen him do to the bodies down here in the basement. She trusts, though, that he won't kill her. Not until she finishes that mask, like she promised.

She's been pushing it's producing for three days, but she can sense Thomas's impatience, and knows it's time to start making it.

Thomas let's go of one of her gloves and takes out a kit. She takes it and opens it. Inside is all the materials she asked for. Except for one thing.

"Where's the cloth?" She asks.

Thomas shakes his head, pointing to the body on the table. Y/n's eyes widen, realization setting upon her.

"Thomas, I can't do that."

A deep growl erupts from his chest. It's animalistic, and makes her hands start to shake.

He swoops her up over his shoulder in one scoop. She yelps, grabbing a fistful of his shirt for support.

He sets her down on the stool next to the table. Next to the dead man. She stares at him, tears starting to prick at her eyes.

"Thomas. . ."

He shakes his head violently, grabbing her wrist and pulling it towards the dead man's face.

"Thomas, you don't need to do this."

He ignores her, putting her gloved hand on the dead man's jaw line.

"Listen to me Tommy! You don't need this man's face! You're fine just the way you are!"

He freezes at the childish phrase. Y/n cringes at it as well.

"I don't think your ugly. I don't think that covering yourself up with another man's face will change anything."

He tilts his head at her, greasy curls falling into his face.

"You don't need to hide your face."

She can't see his eyes, so there's no warning. His hand tightens around her wrist. Y/n yelps in pain. He shakes her gloved hand in her face, accusing.

Hot tears prick her eyes. From the pain of her wrist, and her guilt. She prys her wrist from his hand and drops her head into her gloves.

"I know, Tommy. I hide mine, too. I'm no different from you." She says through gritted teeth. She's frustrated at her own stupidity.

"Hiding them makes no difference. The ugliness is still there underneath. I wear my gloves because it's more comfortable that way. I'm ashamed of my hands, and I don't want others seeing them."

She lifts her head up, but doesn't look directly at him.

"If this is what you really want, then I'll do it for you. From one ugly person to another."

Thomas peers down at her through his dark curls. Slowly, his hands snake out and dig into her hair, lifting her head up higher so she'll look at him.

Her lower lip trembles, anticipating an angry strike or something. But instead, he lowers himself and brings her into a hug.

His big arms snake around her body, holding her tightly. His grasp reminds her of a bear, as she starts to sweat from his warmth.

He smells like death, as he pulls away with a nod. Y/n sits there, staring at him in surprise. The hug was unexpected, but certainly better than pain. She nods in return, turning to the dead man before her.

"Guess I'll get to work."

With shaky hands, she marks the edges of the man's face with marker. Thomas watches from behind her.

It's just like any other mask. You're home, at your desk, making the mask out of normal, cotton cloth.

But when the scissors slice through, it's not a soft, clean cut through velvet. It's a mushy, wet, clumsy slice through the skin of a dead man.

Her hands are shaking too badly. Thomas must've noticed, because his big hands grasp over hers, guiding them.

Together, they cut around the face, cutting though the previously marked line.

Y/n whispers a thank you, setting down the scissors and peeling the face off of the man's skull. She tries not to look, but catches sight of the red, mushy muscle beneath. In the areas with thinner skin, the white bone is exposed. She chokes down vomit, unable to continue.

Thomas reaches around with a grunt, peeling it off the rest of the way. He hands it to her, and she grabs it reluctantly.

"Tommy!"

You jump at the voice. It's Hoyt. He watches the two of you from the stairs.

"Get your ass up here."

Thomas grumbles in complaint, a low sound reverberating in his chest. He doesn't stay, though. He gets up and follows his Uncle up the stairs, looking back at Y/n before closing the door behind him.

A chill runs up her spine. She's been left alone with the bodies plenty of times, but never so close to one. She can perfectly see the dead body in front of her, lit up by the lamp above her head. With a painful whimper, she avoids looking at the the man's red face (What was left of it) and starts stitching the edges of the face over so its not stringy and bleeding at the edges.

The needle is stained red when pulled through the skin. By the end of the stitching process, her gloves are crusted red as well.

Her eyes start to droop. Already, she's almost done with the mask. She doesn't want to finish it yet. Finishing it is a ticket hole punched for Death's express. She knows Tommy will be frustrated, but she puts the tools away.

Struggling, She rolls the body off of the table. Unable to climb her way off the stool and over to her place at the pipe, she decides to sleep in the stool.

She dusts away some red chunks, before resting her head on her gloved hands, dozing away.

His mother stands at the kitchen table, cutting up some celery.

"Chop this meat, will ya' Thomas?" She asks.

He grabs a cleaver and starts cutting up the bits of flesh and meat on the table.

Hoyt stands at the other edge of the table, eyeing Thomas.

"Why's that bitch still alive down there?"

Thomas doesn't acknowledge him, chopping away.

"You're bein' too nice. She's taken too long to make that damn mask. Have some spine, hit her around a little."

"Charlie. . ." Luda warns.

"What? I'm just saying! Thomas has barely spent time down there since she's been here. You scared of her or somethin', Tommy?"

Chop. Chop.

"Too afraid to make a move? It's about time you become a real man and run her through. Chainsaw or not!"

Chop. Chop. Chop.

Hoyt starts mimicking chainsaw noises, pretending to swing one around in the air.

"God damn it, shut up in there!" Monty shouts from the dining room.

Hoyt cackles, slapping the table. Thomas drops the cleaver, the meat pulverized in front of him.

"Tommy, i wanted it chopped, not mashed!" Luda says, gathering the messy chunks and throwing them in a boiling pot.

He huffs in reply, leaving.

That night after dinner, he sits in his room. If it were any other day, he would be down in the basement. But he saw how y/n looked at him in fear constantly and preferred not to be around her.

He wanted to very much. He wanted to hold her hands and guide them around the flesh of the man's face. He wanted her to trace his own face, pulling him in to measure his face again.

He wanted to see the parting of her lips as she muttered measurements under her breath. He wanted her to whisper words of praise in his ear as he helped her peel the face off his skin.

He craved her attention and touch. His body begged to be in the same room as her , and to hug her close again.

Hugging her earlier made his face red and his heart beat fast. It was a spontaneous decision. He tried to avoid quick movements and body contact, fearing he would be too rough or loose control of his emotions and scare her worse.

But Thomas didn't like seeing Y/n cry. When he was younger and he'd come home upset because the kids at school bullied him and called him mean names, his mother would be the only one to console him. She would hug him and tell him it was going go be alright.

He couldn't tell Y/n that verbally, but he could let it be known through the hug.

It was much better than any advice his Uncle Hoyt could give him. Any thoughts about what his Uncle had said at the kitchen table made his blood boil. He felt something strongly for y/n, but he wasn't going to force it out of her.

Thomas lays down in bed, staring at his ceiling. The bed dips under his weight, the cushion of his pillow pushing into his cheek softly. He can't help but think of Y/n's soft skin as he hugged her in the basement. As he drifts into slumber, he imagines the soft pillows are her, pulling him in and cuddling against him.

His dreams are full of pleasure that he'll feel guilty about later. He dreams of Y/n's hands tangled in his hair, her body pressed into his, skin to skin contact. Heavy breathing and kisses trailing down each other's skin.

Legs tangled together among the sheets, Y/n's soft moans as her chest rises and falls.

The dream doesn't last long. He's awoken rudely by a loud noise.

He sits up in bed, looking around frantically. Then there's the sound again.

A scream.