Continuing from Reader-chan's POV.

"Who am I?" I asked, and he looked nervous. I'm not surprised, but I am curious. Who was I, that the past me, was so important to them? Who was I when I knew them? What happened to me? Why was I with psychotic parents whom I thought I knew my whole life? Will there be war? The last question is not quite sure. And I don't think I'd like a war. A war of Creepypastas and humans.

But, most of all, what was I to Jeff?

I flinched, my head stinging from all the questions. I look at him, and my vision became blurry. I tried to stand up properly, my legs shaking like it was about to give up. I failed and fell down in his arms as he caught me. He seems so safe and so nice. But as he was shouting my name, all I could remember was the stinging pain in my head as I blacked out.

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BOOM!

Blood. Shouts. Tears falling from my face as my vision blurred. Why was I crying again? I saw blood on my hands. Did I kill someone? No, I don't think so. I looked around but all I heard were shouts. They weren't panicked shouts though, they were most likely to be battle cries. Why was that?

"Dear, we're protecting you from these monsters."

"You guys are the monsters..and you killed my bestfriend, now my boyfriend?!"

"Bestfriend? Pathetic. She even knew you'd be wedded––boyfriend? That guy? Can't you see he's a monster? Are you blind?!"

And then, and then...

I just heard him shouting for my name.

It sounded pained.

And I felt a sharp pain on my chest too.

I couldn't breathe.

I felt like dying. And then I felt arms around me. It wasn't him. It wasn't safe. I knew it. But I knew I wouldn't be able to stay strong anymore. I felt sorry for him––whoever my boyfriend was. But wasn't he my fiancé? What am I supposed to do?

I felt unsafe.

Yet I couldn't shout out.

I couldn't breathe.

But I breathed one last word, I knew it. What was it again? Was it pained? Was it cheery? I don't think so.

But maybe it was...desperate.

It was along in the lines of, "I love you." I knew he wouldn't have heard me, and that was okay. Or maybe it was not.

And I went limp.

I shot up from bed, gasping. I couldn't breathe, like in my nightmare. Or was it a dream? Whatever it was, I can't remember it anymore. But my chest still tightened at it––whatever it was. I looked down on my clothes––I was wearing new clothes, somehow. And then I looked at my left shoulder, caressing a spot mark of a knife that was once deep in my skin. I heard the door creak open slightly and I look towards the door, fixing my clothes and Jeff was revealed with a tray and a bowl of chicken soup on it, I'm guessing. I sniffed, sighing in content when the smell of the soup was definitely chicken. Suddenly, I spluttered words without thinking, "As I remember, you can't make soup dishes."

He stopped. "I told you that?"

I blushed and looked down. "I-I don't know."

He smiled, and sat on the bed at my side as he put the try on his lap. He lifted up the spoon, catching soup on it as he turned to me. I knew what he was thinking and shook my head furiously in denial. He didn't listen and said, "Open your mouth." I glared at him and pursed my lips. I didn't want to be treated like a baby! Nu uh! He glared back at me.

"You have a slight fever and I don't think you're strong enough to––"

I bit on the spoon and turned away, the spoon is in between my teeth. I rose an eyebrow at him as a challenge to continue what he was saying. He sighed. "Try getting this soup then." I stretched out my hands, finally happy that he'd give me the tray and he gently dropped it.

I felt my arms shaking as I carried it. I felt defeated. Why was I weak? I only have a slight fever.

He looked at me, as if waiting for me to verbally say that he was right. I groaned, the tray was heavy and why was I so weak? Finally, my pride going down, I sighed and nodded. "Okay, fine. I'm weak so you feed me."

He smiles and shakes his head in laughter.

And I don't think the fiction stories I've been reading about his is true. His laugh sounded like a maniac yet when he did, I felt butterflies in my stomach. He was too cheerful, and nice. Why wouldn't he just kill me like in those stories? My head is hurting again and I think I'm burning up but I ignored it for now, wanting something else.

Or like, half of the stories were true.

He's still a killer.

I think that's the only thing I might have a problem with. But the more I think of it, I looked comfortable around him. I looked the most comfortable around him. I didn't like blood, so that's maybe why I was disturbed.

But not really, at least I don't think so. It never occurred to me. I'm confused.

He gets the tray, and starts to feed me. I hear a forced laugh from him, and I wonder what's wrong. And what was so weird that he had to force a laugh from him? I surely didn't do anything that would make him do that.

"You got a slight fever from thinking too much, huh?"

Ooooor...maybe...I did. Well, shit.

And I remembered, yes, I did. The air was tense around us as he continued to feed me. I wasn't satisfied with me blacking out in a middle of a conversation. I still have many questions to ask. When he was finally done feeding me, I stopped him, looking down on my lap. He turned back to me, and I got nervous. It sounded wrong to ask now.

But I wanted answers now. I was impatient and curious. I was interested.

I rushed out my words, getting too nervous all of a sudden. "Who am I? Why was I important to you guys? What happened to me? Who was I to you?" I closed my eyes, feeling the atmosphere lighten when I got thr weight off my shoulders already. When he wasn't answering, I opened my eyes and looked at him.

He seemed a little shocked, as if knowing I was going to ask these questions to him. He sat back down next to me, sighing heavily each passing minute. I waited but I didn't want to let him go, as I gripped on his jacket tighter. He seemed to notice that I was becoming impatient.

"You're _________ ___________. You were our friend, and you were kidnapped from us by those pychos––lunatics! But I can't judge them now, can I? I mean, I'm psychotic and a lunatic, surely. They must've like the insaneness." He laughed maniacally and it was weird––because I had butterflies in my stomach the whole time he was laughing and I got red too. He noticed this and frowned. "Are you okay? You look red––"

"You didn't answer one question, though." I said, looking down with a scowl.

He rose an eyebrow. I scowled and gripped on his jacket once more. I didn't want to say it again but I think I'm being force to do so. I needed to know. I'm desperate. He touched my hand, and I gasped lightly, biting his lips when I looked at him. He seemed nervous as I was. He was awaiting for my question and I wanted to slip it out again.

So I did.

"Who was I to you? Were we close friends?"

He leaned in and I tried to leaned back so we weren't too close for my liking. I was nervous, but he wasn't. When I was trapped against the wall, I gasped, biting my lip in panic. What was he doing? Is he crazy? Well, yeah, but still! He leaned in my ear and I sucked air, trying to stay calm in the moment. His fingers touched mine and it's so tender, like I'm fragile. I felt the mark spot on my left shoulder sting with pain as he whispered the words I didn't expect:

"We were more than that."