In The Dark

[A/N: I have not forgotten about this, I swear. Life is happening, though, and that requires a bit more of my attention. Still, here's a little something, just to tide things over. Enjoy.]

Daisuke.

Someone’s whispering.

Daisuke, c’mon.

I don’t recognize the voice, but somehow, it’s familiar. The name, too. Who are they calling? Another victim? Another rapist? I can feel my brow furrow in confusion, but the answer still eludes me.

We’re gonna be late!

I’m moving—walking, really. I don’t know where I’m going, but I don’t really care, either. Everything is quiet, calm. A light breeze blows from nearby, grabbing my attention. We’re outside, somewhere warm and far away.

Pick it up, idiot!

This voice—this girl, I realize—is starting to get on my nerves. Who is she talking to? Does she… Does she know me?

Wait.

Daisuke. Is that… Is that supposed to be me?

…

“Wake up, Princess.”

Wake up? My mind draws a blank. Wasn’t I just… Oh. Right. I guess blind people dream, too. Who knew?

“I know you can hear me.” Something putrid fills my nostrils—a mixture between rotten eggs and spoiled milk. I guess dickhead doesn’t know what a toothbrush is. Lucky me.

I don’t feel like answering—don’t know what to say—so I don’t. Instead, I lie still, waiting for him to lose interest. A distinct gurgling sound crushes my plans. Fuck. I’m starving.

The asshole laughs like it’s the best joke he’s heard all day.

“What’s so fucking funny?” I can’t help myself. I know I shouldn’t bite back, but he’s pissing me off. Nothing about this entire goddamn situation is funny. He pauses for a second—probably to catch his breath. The silence is just as goddamn annoying.

“Nothing,” he manages, after a bit. I can still hear the amusement in his voice. I wouldn’t be surprise if he were smiling, too, like some Cheshire cat. “Just remembered it’s been awhile since you’ve had a proper meal. Can’t let you waste away, now can I?”

“You can,” I shoot back, hoping he hears the venom I feel. I rather starve to death than eat anything fixed by this lunatic. It’d probably be poisoned anyway. “You have,” I correct, the pains in my stomach growing stronger. They didn’t feel so bad when his dick was shoved down my throat, or when he was busy molesting me. I guess my mind had other things to worry about.

The bed dips, and before I know it, his hand is on my cheek. The rough, dry skin does little to reassure me of my place in his world. If anything, my stomach turns more.

“Why do you fight me?” His voice is dropping. A weight of sadness—fucking sadness—replaces the amusement of before. This time, I’m the one laughing.

“Fight you?” The words sound just as ridiculous coming from my own mouth. “You fucking kidnapped me, butchered me, and molested me!” I practically scream the words as loud as I can manage. I want the whole goddamn world to know what this son of a bitch has put me through. I’m shaking as I list his offenses. My fists are balled, and honestly, I’m contemplating punching his face in. If I did, if I tried to run, what would happen? How far could I get? It’s a dangerous idea, but I’m in a pretty fucking dangerous situation.

Nothing happens.

It’s worse than when he talks.

His hand falls slowly from my cheek, and instantly, I know I’ve disappointed him. I try not to take too much pride in that knowledge.

“You haven’t learned anything.” Bitterness and anger hang on his every word. I know this tone. I’ve pissed him off.

Instinctively, I back away, burying myself into the pillows that try to stop me. As much pleasure as I take in ruining his little fantasy, I know it comes at a price.

The bed moves, and for a second, I think I’m safe.

Wrong.

“I do EVERYTHING for you!” His voice fills the room, my ears. His screams, his shouts—they make my own look like nothing. “Fucking bathe you, clothe you, put a goddamn roof over your head!” I wait, expectantly, for his hands to find my body. A fist to my face or a punch to the gut wouldn’t be all that surprising right now. Instead, he continues.

“I even made you fucking breakfast!” Does that mean it’s morning? The thought slips in. In a world without light, without time, I’m desperate for the slightest hint at normalcy.

It’s a mistake.

Something wet covers my body. I didn’t notice him get back on the bed. Didn’t notice that he was hovering close enough to pour whatever chilling liquid this is all over me. I try to wipe my face and eyes clean with my hands—old habits die hard—and something else is already raining down on me. Not liquid this time, but something else…something solid? Tiny? I don’t know what the fuck is going on, and that’s enough to scare me.

“Eat up,” his voice flows into my ear. My mind stirs, looking for an answer. “I got your favorite. Oats and chocolate.”

Oh.

So that was breakfast.

I make the connection just in time to feel his hand slam down on my throat. Squeezing. Grinding—stealing every breath. The pillows don’t mind the new pressure. They sink further back, giving in. I’m going to die, suffocate, really, in a bed of cereal and milk.

That’s different, I think, my hands reaching for his anyway. It’s an instinct. Another useless gesture.

New words fill the air—I can’t hear, can’t make out what’s said. Too busy gasping, withering beneath him.

As quickly as it started, it’s over.

The hand leaves and I’m left sucking in air. It hurts. Burns, really. My lungs beg for a break, some time to readjust to this new game of air, no air, air. I roll over, holding my throat along the way, making more of a mess than before.

“On your stomach.”

The words echo around me, but don’t register. I can tell they mean something, but this whole breathing thing is still confusing me.

Impatient hands push me flat. He’s done waiting

“If you wanna be a bitch, then I’ll make you one.” I shiver—both from the cold and his words. I try to roll over, try to squirm away. Something cold and sharp nips the skin of my back. Knife, my mind decides, with terrifying familiarity. “Move and I’m painting this bed red.” His words are deep, husky. There’s no hint of amusement—just anger. Cold, hard anger.

“I—I…” I try to figure out what I can say. What I can do. How do I make things better? Can I make them better?

A sharp pain says no.

It stings, but it’s bearable. Nothing deep—just a warning nick. How thoughtful.

“New rule,” he barks. “Shut the hell up unless you’re begging me for more.” More? Another fucking joke from the man above. Literally. With every passing second, I can feel him hovering over me, getting closer and close to my naked skin. I want to throw up.

The pain sharpens, grows. I bite my lip before I scream.

“Got it?”

Afraid to speak, I nod. The pain radiates—sharp at the cut, getting duller as it goes. He’s testing me, I think. He knows this hurts, but that it’s nothing compared to what he could do. Would do? I really don’t know anymore.

“Good.”

These short, curt little words bother me more than they should. Like my silence is condoning this shit. In his eyes, it probably is. But I like my body. I like my skin. I don’t need any more impromptu surgeries.  

The knife disappears. The pain stays. I guess he figures I got the message.

Something rubs against the crack of my ass, and honestly, I’m not surprised. Scared shitless? Yes. Surprised? No. Fewer and fewer things are striking me as odd.

“Beg for me,” he’s lower now—right next to my ear. My stomach rolls.

I’m silent. I can’t do this. Punch me, slice me, rape me—just don’t ask me to play into it.

A hand wraps around my throat. Its grip is loose, but threatening. Fingertips dig ever-so-slightly into my skin. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make their presence known.

“Well?” He’s waiting.

“I… I can’t,” I whimper into the sheets. Broken, scared. I’m not entirely sure, but I think I’m crying again. My cheeks are already damp, but the burning, tingling sensation seems to have started. The nice little present on my back doesn’t help.

The hand closes slowly. With each passing second I can feel it restricting a little further, pressing a little harder. He’s going to kill me, but he’ll take his good ol’ time doing it.

My heart is pounding.

“Please,” I manage, hoping it’ll count as begging. It is, isn’t it?

The hand pauses, keeping an uncomfortable grip where fingers are about a second or two away from cutting off my air.

“Please? Please what?” The amusement’s returning, but my hopes are sinking. What kind of sick bastard makes someone beg to be raped?

“P—Please,” I pause, terrified of what it means if I say what he wants, what it means if I don’t. Strangled and raped, or just raped? Is one really much better? “Fuck me.” I whisper, so softly, I think only the sheets can hear. I whisper, not only because I’m afraid of him, but because I’m afraid of what I’m becoming—of what he’ll make me. Or really, is it what he’s made?