Dark Stuff

Reads: 322  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A woman is trapped with a sadist.

Submitted: December 02, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 02, 2016

A A A

A A A


The pain flashed again like fire, and the woman screamed. Her throat was raw and her voice hoarse, but still she screamed. As the agony faded she found herself again, and remembered that screaming only brought him pleasure. This man was beyond any understanding of guilt or remorse, and his pleasure was only derived sadistically, through the pain of others.

His face appeared before her bleary eyes, filling her conscious as thoroughly as her vision. His own eyes were glittering with absolute enthrallment, drinking in her torment as if she were a cool refreshment instead of a bloody, sobbing animal in throes of nightmarish panic and tribulation. He grinned his sick grin, and she could smell the grimy sweat, as well as see its sheen on his forehead, dripping down his lean face.

He spoke, and his voice injected her heart with daggers of twisted animosity.

“What’s the matter, my dear? Have you had enough?”

She couldn’t speak, could only look at the dark man with begging, hopeless eyes.

“You have a point, this is getting rather dull.” He raised a crooked finger to his thin lips in a pondering gesture. “What say you we mix it up a bit?”

A groan escaped her sore throat, and the stabbing that came with it was soon forgotten, for she was screaming again. He had grabbed a board full of nails and hefted it down with all his might upon her bruised calf. The nails were not sharp, their tips had been rounded. Still, the board came down with such a force that the nails punctured her flesh. The rupture caused a thick, tearing sound that made her dizzy in spite of the sharp, clear pain that filled her thoughts. The nails shone in the jagged sunshine that escaped through the thin cracks of the hovel they were in. He pulled the board back, mayhap to strike again, and she saw her own blood dripping from those nails in red, coppery streams. On one of the nails she saw her shredded skin, soaked and swaying in the gentle breeze of the hovel-cracks. She opened her mouth to scream once more and--

 

 

Jeanne Elliot was a young, vibrant woman with a heavily political past that she displayed proudly to all who would listen. She was a vegetarian, a feminist, and a talker. Bearing no mind towards the discomfort of others, she learned to derive her joy from their annoyance. She knew she was not well-liked, and couldn’t care less. As her own person, Jeanne felt that she was allowed to speak her opinions openly, without fear of the repercussions of what she said, because she felt no shame in what was spoken.

All in all, this woman was proud of who she was, and did not trouble herself with the approval of others. She considered herself to be the innovation of all womankind, and would often fancy the pride she would feel once she had successfully eradicated the patriarchy, allowing the freedom of women to continue their lives without the fear of hate, sexism, rape, victim-shaming, misogyny, and all the problems that men created for her world. She was no misandrist, though. Jeanne had plenty of male friends.

It was, in fact, a male friend of hers that placed her in her situation. The idiot had convinced her that one party wouldn’t kill her, that she could take a moment of her life to enjoy drinking and talking with friends. She had gone with him, and across the floor saw a rarity that quite enticed her. The man across the room was wearing a maroon sweatshirt, and he was arguing the corollary of so many years of--

 

...

 

A quick, flat smack interrupted the jumble of her memories. Her eyelids flew open, and she was once more faced with her tormentor. His smile was gone, replaced with the petulant pout of a child left to play his favourite game by himself. He kept that pout while she came to, and it only deepened when horror filled her eyes as she recalled the inflictions her body had withstood.

Her calf was on fire. She looked at a fresh bandage and realized the fire must have been from some sort of antibiotic meant to keep her from getting infected. Even in the heavy embrace of her misery she felt a small smile flit across her features. How thoughtful of him, to prevent his victim’s dying of infection.

Another slap, and the expression she beheld was now one of furious incredulity.His eyes had lost their gleam, replaced by a flat loathing in which she saw the haggard, befallen raggedness that defined her.

“If you have a joke,” came a humorless voice from the same smiling lips, “you may as well share it. I long to hear what you find so, goddamn, funny.”

She cringed from his words as though he had grabbed that nailed board again. That monotonous drone was far more dangerous than any grin or giggle able to lighten his mad eyes. Apprehensively she watched him, in agonized fear and hope of the man finally snapping and ending her suffering for good. Oh, how she wished she could embrace the emptiness, to become part of the void instead of this scattered haze sliced through by jolts of fear and pain...

His eyes. They were still watching, and she imagined that loathing darkening his mania, until his grey irises resembled blackened obsidian so ragged and so brittle that a single tap could cause it to shatter, leaving the one holding it cut and bleeding.

“Wh-What do you want from me?” she croaked, and her pride berated her for such snivelling vocalization.

“I want to know what a feminazi such as yourself could find so funny. Why your humorless cunt lips could form even a shadow of a smile after all your years of pious upbringing and self-righteous cries of belittlement. Why is it, after all you’ve done to take the joy from everyone around you, that you have the audacity to smile?!

His following words faded to inaudibility as the tortured creature wrapped her mind around that single, barbaric word. Cunt. The root of all evil. The “nigger” of women. Cunt was a word reserved for misogynistic men with foul mouths and small dicks. It was never to be used amongst women, or about women, unless the user wished to display their view of women as less than that of a human being. Cunt degraded a woman, made her a creature below that of all mankind.

That she was already being treated as a lesser being only tickled at the back of her mind as the pitiful mess of her thoughts began their slow ascent into belated redemption.

She smiled, her lips curled in a crescent blade. The voice she found was venomous, apt to kill a man once it slipped into his system. “I guess I found my audacity in the area you were so kind to heal for me.”

He looked shocked only for a moment, but it was long enough to feed her ego and enlarge her blade.


© Copyright 2019 VyrgoMD. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments