Asylum (Yanderes X Reader)

Fern (1)

My name is Anton Errel.

Though I like the name Fern better.

I was born prematurely, small from birth.

My parents fed me well, I remember that at least.

But dead people can't care for their children.

"Stay seated, son." A cop of considerable size forced a three year old Fern to stay within an open cup car.

The grip was bruising on the small anxious boy, as he squirmed and panicked.

A climbing, leeching flame threw its violent light over the people who'd tried their best to block Fern's view. They didn't wish for the clueless boy to witness the raging inferno that continued to cling onto every surface it touched.

Every last grain of wood, shard of metal, and blade of grass surrounding Fern's old home was consumed.

Including Fern's parents.

To a child, their parents are like gods. With no knowledge of their parents flaws, all they know is care they receive, regardless of its nature.

Of course, Fern's heart was broken.

In the aftermath, it was a long discussion.

Who Fern's new guardian was going to be.

The first suggestion was his eldest cousin, Owen.

Owen, however, was just too young.

I hardly remember my parents.

What did they even look like?

I know they were kind.

So I never understood why my new father was so odd.

In a ditch effort, they sent Fern to Owen's father. Owen lived with his mother, to Fern's disappointment.

Fern wanted connection, all children do, so his little heart was truly determined to be close with his Uncle, Owen's father.

The same couldn't be said for the Uncle.

Fern was dropped off by CPS, but his Uncle didn't bother greeting him.

"Hello, 'M Ant'n..." Fern babbled, unable to speak on account of his slow development. His old parent's never corrected it, a mistake that's carry Fern's speech for a long time.

Though his greeting wasn't welcome, his Uncle scoffed and rolled his eyes, "Yeah? Congratulations."

Fern wasn't aware at the time, to young to know, but his Uncle didn't have custody of Owen for a reason.

He was a drunk. Not always the violent type, but his delusion were fueled by alcohol.

He couldn't stand Fern.

"I drew a pic're..." Fern approached cautiously, a crinkled paper in his hands.

The house was dirty, but Fern didn't mind have to walk over bottles and the like. It made his feet feel safe.

When his feet were exposed, Fern irrationally feared something would hit his feet. A product of his Uncle carelessly throwing things at his feet, a cruel joke.

Bottled we're nice though. They'd cushion anything thrown. Fern keeps them littered intermittently within his room, just in case.

His Uncle snagged the picture, barely looking at it.

"Was' this?" He asked, pointed at a depiction of two people standing together. It definitely wasn't him, he knew.

Fern brightened a bit, mistaking the Uncles inquiry for interest, "Is' me! 'N a pretty girl!" He grinned.