This one was a lot like all the others. I was stuck in the dungeon, that tiny, square, cement room that was my prison for weeks. I knew every detail of it by now: each tiny crack in the walls, the frigid temperature of the unforgiving floor beneath me, the single dim light bulb that rested in the center of the ceiling, and, most importantly, the metal slab of a door that had no handle, keeping me trapped.
Like in every other nightmare, it felt as if I had never left. Like I'd been in this hellhole for ages, waiting to be rescued. But no one ever came for me.
This time, when he came in, I didn't look at him. I didn't have the will to. Everything in me was tired. Dead. Used to be that my heartbeat picked up speed whenever I heard noises by the door. My hands would get clammy and I would struggle to breathe. Now, it hardly affected me. It was inevitable. I knew I couldn't control it. I couldn't control anything. All I've done for the past, God knows how long, is sit against this cement wall on this uncomfortable cement floor and wait. And be beaten. Hit and kicked and...touched, over and over and over again. Then watch him leave and try to keep breathing until he returns.
The masked man paced the room. I tried not to feel every bruise on my body. I tried not to feel my shattered ankle scream every time I fidgeted. I tried not to anticipate the bruises that were to come. Briefly, I spotted the knife hooked in his belt. I prayed for a quick visit this time. I hoped it would be a chat, slice, and leave. He'd done that once before. Or twice, I can't quite remember.
I was almost right. I looked up just as he expertly whipped out the knife and, in one swift movement, stepped forward and slashed my arm. I stifled a scream. He chuckled and slashed the skin over my collarbone. I screamed through my teeth as the blood began to flow down my chest, soaking my shirt.
"Show me your pain!" he shouted, towering over me.
"Show me your face!" I yelled back, lifting my face to look at him again, showing no fear.
He froze momentarily. Then, he resumed twirling his knife in his fingers. He studied the swirling blade, then looked down at me. He stopped the knife, gripping it like he was going to stab me with it. My breath caught in my throat. He leaned down slowly, until his face was inches from mine and his foul breath floated across my face. I tried to turn away but his rough hand on my jaw held me there. As he breathed heavily on me, my lungs refused to operate. It's not real, I kept telling myself. It's not real. It's not real. And I pretended it wasn't real. Even though it felt more real than reality.
His eyes - those dark, evil, horrid eyes that haunted every moment of my existance - bored into mine. He peered into my soul and attempted to wither it away. I fought against him with every fiber of my being. My body was still, but my insides were on fire, twisting, turning and fighting.
Suddenly, a pain hit my thigh and spread through me. I assumed it was the knife; until I was sent into spasms. My entire body, inside and out, convulsed uncontrolably. It writhed and burned, throbbing with every movement. I was held up only by his hand on my jaw. All I could see, all I knew in that last moment, were his black, soulless eyes.
Then I was gasping for breath, my frail limbs all wrapped up together, taking up barely any space at all. I focused on my walls, the bed underneath me, my nightstand, my pillow, anything that would remind me that I am here, home. And I was thankful. Thankful that I am here, not there, and that it was just another nightmare. But as I sat, all tangled up in myself, fear reminded me of its presence in my heart. I was afraid to blink, because every time my eyes close, I see his.
The masked man paced the room. I tried not to feel every bruise on my body. I tried not to feel my shattered ankle scream every time I fidgeted. I tried not to anticipate the bruises that were to come. Briefly, I spotted the knife hooked in his belt. I prayed for a quick visit this time. I hoped it would be a chat, slice, and leave. He'd done that once before. Or twice, I can't quite remember.
I was almost right. I looked up just as he expertly whipped out the knife and, in one swift movement, stepped forward and slashed my arm. I stifled a scream. He chuckled and slashed the skin over my collarbone. I screamed through my teeth as the blood began to flow down my chest, soaking my shirt.
"Show me your pain!" he shouted, towering over me.
"Show me your face!" I yelled back, lifting my face to look at him again, showing no fear.
He froze momentarily. Then, he resumed twirling his knife in his fingers. He studied the swirling blade, then looked down at me. He stopped the knife, gripping it like he was going to stab me with it. My breath caught in my throat. He leaned down slowly, until his face was inches from mine and his foul breath floated across my face. I tried to turn away but his rough hand on my jaw held me there. As he breathed heavily on me, my lungs refused to operate. It's not real, I kept telling myself. It's not real. It's not real. And I pretended it wasn't real. Even though it felt more real than reality.
His eyes - those dark, evil, horrid eyes that haunted every moment of my existance - bored into mine. He peered into my soul and attempted to wither it away. I fought against him with every fiber of my being. My body was still, but my insides were on fire, twisting, turning and fighting.
Suddenly, a pain hit my thigh and spread through me. I assumed it was the knife; until I was sent into spasms. My entire body, inside and out, convulsed uncontrolably. It writhed and burned, throbbing with every movement. I was held up only by his hand on my jaw. All I could see, all I knew in that last moment, were his black, soulless eyes.
Then I was gasping for breath, my frail limbs all wrapped up together, taking up barely any space at all. I focused on my walls, the bed underneath me, my nightstand, my pillow, anything that would remind me that I am here, home. And I was thankful. Thankful that I am here, not there, and that it was just another nightmare. But as I sat, all tangled up in myself, fear reminded me of its presence in my heart. I was afraid to blink, because every time my eyes close, I see his.
What a nightmare! I like the lines about trying to convince yourself it isn't real but "it felt more real than reality." You are such an imaginative writer. I admire how you can take something simple like this image and run with it in such a fictional direction. I struggle with that.
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