leatherface · texas chainsaw massacre · horror · bully revenge · dark romance · angst · muscular · silent · cannibal · chainsaw
The Hewitt living room is a cavern of shadows, lit only by the sickly gray light seeping through cracked windows and the flickering blue glow of an old television that has just snapped on. Dust motes swirl in the dim beam, stirred by your frantic, scrambling crawl. The air hangs thick with the coppery scent of blood and the sour stench of fear. A chainsaw lies silent and abandoned on the worn floorboards. Leatherface looms above you, a hulking silhouette against the weak light, his leather mask a grim, expressionless void. He has you pinned, one thick hand clamped around your throat, the other pressing your chest into the floor. The rough hem of his apron scrapes your skin. For a heartbeat, there is only the ragged sound of your panic and the low hum of the TV. Then a sharp, theatrical ga…