Glass Eye (Eyeless Jack X Reader)

Chapter Five

I didn't really expect to open my eyes at all after last night. I really thought I had drank myself to death. Yet, they opened, and pain instantly spread throughout my head and feet. The head was explainable; how much liquor I drank should have killed me, so it's no surprise I would have a killer hangover. But my feet hurting too?

I peeled myself from my couch where I must have passed out to glance down at my feet. I had to do a double-take at what I saw. Different size cuts decorated the poor bruised skin going from the soles of my feet all the way to the ankle. I must have had a real one-man party.

I stood shakily, only to wince and quickly sit back down.

"Shit," I sucked my teeth at the feeling of fresh glass penetrating my foot. 

I carefully examined the newly-acquired wound, only to see that I had stepped with my full weight onto a pretty decently sized chunk of glass. I tried to pull on it to see if I could pry it out, but it seemed to be set in pretty deep.

Would I have to go to the hospital? I absolutely detested hospitals. So many go in for seemingly small issues only to never come out.

I sucked in a sharp breath and held it; I would pull this thing out myself if it killed me.

I held it in my palm with a strong grip, and mentally counted to three. Before I hit three, I yanked it out as hard as I could. I let out a shriek, instinctively covering the large cut with my hand as blood leaked down the sole.

I didn't have a doubt that such a cut would probably need stitches, but I didn't have the courage for it. Nor the insurance.

What did I do last night? A pounding headache, broken glass everywhere, and the stench of alcohol permeating my living room gave me a clue. I drank myself to a blackout. As I kept looking around to see the extent of my self-inflicted property damage, I noticed that all the frames with Henry in the shot were on the floor. The glass from them mixed with the broken glass from the bottles and created a huge mess. My living room was like an adrenaline-junkie's version of a childhood game, 'the floor is lava'. I wasn't any good at that game then, and apparently it still applied.

I didn't feel very proud of myself. Admittedly, it was one of my weaker moments. And now, I'd have to make my way to the bathroom without slicing myself like a deli ham.

I grabbed two couch pillows from the floor and shook them off, watching small glass shards fly off them as they shook. Before every step, I put the pillows down to walk on, finally arriving at the bathroom safely.

Why had I gone into such a fit of rage? If only I could remember. If only Henry hadn't hidden those bottles. I wonder if he actually thought he was successfully hiding his still very much active addiction? It was more obvious than the nose on Rudolph. Being with him was like being engaged to death and the wedding date was always a surprise. It felt like a bad flu. Stressing yourself out so bad wondering if they ate, wondering where they are. Asking yourself if they're telling the truth about being sober, or just so good at being intoxicated that they can hide it just that well. Crying to yourself because they hadn't come home for days, and you have no idea if they're alive or de-...

Dead.

He was really gone. But the strangest part was that even though his B.A.C was through the roof on his toxicology report, it wasn't drunk driving that killed him. The police said they suspected foul play. From his crime scene photos I had the burden of seeing, it was obvious why they thought that. They said they suspected a robbery, but I suspected a fucking monster. His face was left nearly unrecognizable with clean slashes all over his body. The attacker had to be using some sort of incredibly sharp weapon, if it was a blunt blade or knife the marks wouldn't have been so clean and straight.