Meine Liebe, Was Wirst Du Tun?

It was raining, the very beginnings of such. Drips yet to become rhythmic, yet to pour, landed on your mini-jacket, in your hair, on the palms of your hands cupping the lighter before your cigarette.

They snuffed your flame. Each and every time you went to restart it, they beat you to it. So, eventually, you just gave up.

A girl with blonde pigtails that you came with stood before you in line, just like all the others dressed similarly. She was sucking her done-up nail, chewing the plastic occasionally. She had looked back at you a few times, never to strike up conversation, but merely to smile, as if she was telling you silently that you're about to have the experience of your lifetime.

But, that's what every place in this part of the city promised: Cheap drinks. Drugs, if you're lucky. Sex, and enough of it to leave you exhausted and worn out for a few days.

'Course, the train ride here is a drag. The wait in line is a drag. The drugs are always cut with something else. The drinks are usually spiked. The people are fake, and more importantly, so are you.

The upside is that no one bothers to ask where you're from, what you're doing here, or what type of human being you are beneath the slutty clothes and your donned persona.

No one bothers with your name, just your body. No one bothers with you, just what you can offer.

And you don't bother with anyone else. And this type of relationship is just what you need. It lacks complications, attachment.

Standing in line, you were giddy, but anxious. You tapped your feet and picked your cuticles.

Someone had made a comment about this place to their friend once. They were leaning against the outside of your dorm building when you went out to smoke. They mentioned that it was usually hard to get into, but more recently, they started letting in college students around town. To: 'get more customers'.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the bar is Yakuza owned and ran.

The man had a tattoo on his arm; a snake running down his bicep that the jacket falling down didn't cover anymore. He had these red-dyed fringes that sat scruffy in his eyes. He used to go to your school, you think. And the blonde he was speaking to, with her pigtails, she had caught you listening in. Her lip gloss smile bore into you.

You had found yourself in the red light district, looking at all of the women trying to pick up foreigners, or men who they had deemed 'too-easy'. Looking at the couples running to the hotels, to the various bars.

Just before the rain, you had found yourself in the long line, watching some scrawny guy be let in from around back.

During the rain, you had found yourself wondering how you'd go about your life after this.

When the line thinned, and you were staring up at the neon-blue sign, and the bar's tagline beneath, you had wondered if you'd be able to go back to a life after this.

The girl that was in front of you, she attends your college, studying something like.. medicine, or marketing, or.. something, cosmetics maybe. She never really said. You never really pried. You two weren't close before tonight, you knew you two wouldn't be after.

But, she took your hand, convinced the bouncer to let you in on her charge. You had wondered why, but free drinks and free entertainment were never something you were going to decline.

The club itself was underground, just a short journey down a metal, creaking staircase in a spiral. The bass shook the floor the further you went, creating unsteady waves that vibrated through you. The smoke hit you next, fog dusting your feet, curling around your calves. The light, bright blue and blinding, was all you saw for what felt like minutes on end as it pulsed in a heartbeat pattern.

You maneuvered around the wall, the girl still clutching your wrist excitedly, coming face to face with the dozens upon dozens of wasted patrons. People that you'd consider your 'type'. People you'd consider 'friends'. They were all mostly scantily clad, grinding upon each other like serpents entangled in a mating dance. Whoever they were, you found yourself uninterested at the time being.

Though, you did come for sex. And if it wasn't with someone here, you had no qualms about the girl you had made a promise to back days prior.

| "Hey you!" The girl from last night clutches her book bag close to herself, waving to you excitedly. She's chasing after you, and for a second, you wonder how this woman can run in such thin heels. She stops on the pavement, gasping, eager to start talking. "So, so, so, I saw you last night. Y'know, when I was talking to my boyfriend."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to eavesdrop." You didn't. Really, you didn't.

"No, no, it's okay. Really. And well, I'm going there soon, I figured maybe you'd wanna catch the train and go with me? He's the DJ, so he's going without me."

"Going.. to?"

"To the Snake Pit! It's really fun, I've been there before a lot." You don't know her name. It's.. Alice, you think, but you don't bother to confirm.

She looks at you with pleading eyes. You've never seen her around that many people, not wanting to keep to herself, but unable to keep people around. And that, you think, clouds your judgement.

"Alright. I mean, I guess if I'm free, you know?" Because you sympathize, you do. |

If you were getting cold feet, the liquor the girl and you ordered would have brought you back to your senses. And if not, you would go home empty as you always have, having made a useless trek downtown, needing to apologize to her naive, pretty face.

You had found him inside, that scrawny man from before, sitting at the bar just to the back of the dance floor. He was alone, cupping a clear drink that was untouched. His black bangs glowed with the blue light, his black button-up turned the color of the ocean. His locks hid half his face, and when you sat down a seat away, he had barely brushed it away to look at you.

It was merely a second. It was the way a wild animal would tilt its head as you walk past. Curious. Sizing you up.

You had glanced back similarly, getting a good look at him and how he stood out. No skin was showing; all his buttons were done up, and his pants covered his legs. It seemed as if he really had no intention to do the same as everyone else.

The blonde had sat between you two, quick to order you the drinks you wanted. She was eager for conversation, asking the boy where his brother was, if he had missed the train. He never responded in more than anything but hums, or shakes of his head. Still, she talked his ear off, ignoring you for the most part. And once she had her popped open Chu-Hai, she parted ways with a kiss on his cheek that left lipstick behind.

You had watched the way his face scrunched. The way his hand roughly wiped it away in disgust.

And he had watched you wrap your lips around your cocktail straw, when you tongued the cherry before splitting it with your teeth. Intently, did he watch. When you sucked the drink down, when you had ordered another, when you played with the cherry stem and locked eyes with him during.

For some reason, it didn't creep you out. Not as much as it should've.

Though his face lacked emotion, and though it lacked a blush, you knew in his own way that he was interested. That's the vibe he had given off when he scooted into the seat beside you, breaking the barrier of personal space, but keeping to himself regardless.

"Little early to be drinking so heavily, no?" He had traced his finger across the counter, thin and fragile, black painted nail tapping. He had talked loud enough for you to hear him over the music, but, it didn't feel as if he wanted the conversation to go anywhere important.

"Oh! Sorry, I wasn't expecting you to-"

"Speak? Forgive me. I've already become acquainted with her, I had no need."

"Haha.. Anyway. No, it's only one drink, right? Or.. two, I guess. Besides, it's like 12am, is it really that early?"

He had turned his wrist and peered down at his watch.

"I suppose it's not. Unless, you're planning on doing what everyone else is doing. Then it is." You had glanced over your shoulder to the crowd of dancers, to the girl with her pigtails jumping up and down in front of the stage, spilling her drink over her arm.

Your outfit screamed trashy, screamed 'touch me, take it all off, please somebody, anybody'.

Yet, you made no effort.

You had thought about it. About taking someone who danced alones hand, about dragging them into a secluded part of the club and letting your desires run free.

Yet, you made no effort. Instead, you had shook your head, and sucked the drink until half the glass was left full.

"I have nobody to dance with." He nodded, but never offered himself as a suitor.

You had never asked.

"I figured. I knew Alice wasn't with you. I'm unsure of why she dragged you here."

"No, no. I came here by myself, we just crossed paths." But, it was a lie. You both had taken the train. Both had strolled down the streets. Both had gotten into the line together.

It's just that.. something nagged you about his wording. Something told you that he wasn't talking about the club in particular. Something told you that maybe he was jealous over this Alice, weary of you, so you lied. "I just needed to get out. Do something fun, y'know?"

"Mhm. Well, I'll leave you to it. Whatever 'it' may be." He stood up and grabbed the bag that sat on the floor. He left his drink for you, and pushed it next to your glass. "Don't go overboard. Alcohol is becoming one of the leading causes of death."

Something..

You had grabbed his shirt sleeve, meaning to be playful but coming across as forceful, and desperate.

"Hey- Wait, where are you going? God, am I really that drunk that I'm scaring you off?" His eyes narrowed, he stiffened under your touch and you flinched back, apologizing with a solemn expression. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I just-"

"You aren't scaring me off. I'm a med student, I have classes tomorrow morning and it's a long drive home."

"Oh. Sorry. I'm going to college too, y'know. Exams tomorrow.. heh.." His eyebrow raised, not in a curious way, but in the way your professor would. Again, with the judgement. You sunk back into your seat. "Yeah, I know. Irresponsible." He had cocked his head, and to your surprise, he sat back down, sliding his arm onto the counter.

"What are you studying?"

"It's.. kind of embarrassing."

"More embarrassing than ditching class for the club?"

"Do you have to rub it in?" He chuckled, a short breath that came only from your pitiable expression.

"I'm only teasing."

"Yeah, but didn't anyone ever tell you not to kick someone when they're down.. Mr..?"

"Sano."

Something..

There was something about him that bugged you. More than his emotionless face and his monotone voice. More than the way his fingers slid over your drink. More than the fact that he had sat back down to continue a conversation despite being in such a hurry.

You couldn't put your finger on it.

So you two talked. About how he's been studying to become a doctor. About how you're falling behind in class because it's become so lonely at home and you haven't had a chance to meet anyone other than bartenders around town.

And you two talked. About what your days would look like tomorrow, and how your nights were supposed to be instead of how they ended up.

He was there to make sure that his brother didn't get himself in trouble. And you were there to meet company. But you never told him what that entailed, and he didn't need to pry.

And you two talked, when you had leaned over and clutched your head, and told him how bad the lights and the music were making you feel.

And you two talked, as he escorted your wobbling body up the metal stairs, and you leaned into his clean smelling shoulder. Your words were slurring. You were unsure of what you were saying, or what he was commanding you to do.

'hotel', 'stay the night' 'I'll pay'.

You had felt the weight of the seatbelt, the cool leather seat, the breeze from the cracked window. You had felt the car move, and move, and move. But no hotel came.

You recall the passenger seat, the hands clutching the steering wheel, the way the sky turned brighter and brighter, until it peeked with orange. You recall the arms, thin, but strong enough to hold your weight, as they wrapped around your legs and carried you into a house.

Colors blurred together, noises did too. The TV and the snoring became one with the heavy footsteps and the sputtering, barely there raindrops that landed on the roof.

He had said.. something along the lines of..

"June 3rd 2016, 11am. Patient has been unconscious for seven hours, little to no response to outside stimuli. Breathing and heart rate are steady, if not on the slower side. Will continue to monitor over the course of the next hour."

"12:41pm. Patient's eyelids have twitched when shone with a light. Noting as the beginnings of consciousness."

"1:18pm. Patient has made noises and has moved in their sleep. Intently monitoring so that I can have a better understanding of what to do when the time eventually comes."

"1:25pm-"

"Good morning."

It's bright, cold and unlike the sun, artificial. Your eyes open slowly, absent of any crust that should be there. Everything is a blur, instead of shapes there are colors. You try to identify.

White. Black. Blue. Peach. Silver.

Beeping. Not a color, but an incessant sound. Slow, stuttered, speeding up.

"I'm going to make an assumption and say that you're probably wondering where you are right now." Colors take shape, a blob in front of your sore eyes moves. Wheels skirt against tile, springs squeak as the blob shifts downwards. "Do you remember anything from last night?"

The voice, it's the only clear thing. About right now, and the day he speaks of.

Monotonous. Speaking in long sentences. Clear and digestible.

He was..

"You and I had a chat at the bar. I had told you I was studying to become a doctor. You had told me you knew that you were going to fail your exams today, so you went to the club instead. Remember that?"

You close your eyes, attempting to recall. The only thing besides his voice that comes clear is the blue lights, the vibrations of the music, and the acid taste of alcohol.

"You were quite drunk then, on your third drink. I don't think you meant to tell me that, but I want to remind you of everything, not just bits and pieces." The beeping, it's rhythmic, faster now. Your heart is in your throat. That beeping, it's-

"You were laughing over the fact that I was, quote: 'rubbing it in'. I took the opportunity to administer a sleeping agent into your drink."

Everything comes into focus. For one fleeting second, you see him. The sliver eye, the black bangs that crescent over the other, the scar running beneath the glasses that sit neatly upon his nose, his lips a line that's unmoving.

Then it's gone. A mess of colors upon colors into shapes of colors.

Your body flies upwards, adrenaline gifted to you by him and his words. But.. your attempt at escape is wobbly, and he's able to overpower you easily. His hands are on yours, over your wrists, pinning them to what you now recognize as a hospital bed. The thin sheet that feels like paper, the cold faux leather, the hardness akin to rock.

"So, you don't remember after all." The shape of his mouth moves, his hand is off of yours and reaching for something beside you that sat on the tray. "That's alright, I'm glad to have been useful as a refresher." It pricks you, right where his other hand finds your arm, and his thumb finds your inner elbow. Bright burning, deep pressure, before cool. Your hands twitch, then your body, then your lips.

You part them to speak. Nothing comes out.

He doesn't need to hold you down any longer, your fight gives out on its own. A rush of calm overtakes you, and your hands fall to your sides.

"It was a long drive, You slept through most of it." Adjusting his gloves, he reaches above you for the IV line left tangled around your bed frame. "However, I need you now, all in working order. So if you don't mind, relaxing would be your best bet." Your vein is thin, throbbing from the jab of whatever he injected you with. Helplessly, you watch as the IV slides into the same spot. The insertion is easier, but his grip is tight, growing tighter when he wraps bandages around to keep the line in place.

"Better?" He places your hand on your thigh, and you watch him sit back down. "Can you speak?"

Can you? You haven't tried. Unable to think of words. Only now, as your arm tingles and itches, is your vision coming to. You wet your lips, and allow your frantic questions to spill past them.

"What is this? Where am I? What am I doing here?"

He looks at you as if you make no sense. As if your questions turning into pleas turning into help me god let me go aren't coherent.

"Hm. Alright, seems I shouldn't be giving you heavy medication right off the bat." It stops, your pleading. The words in your head, gone, as if shut off by a switch.

Could they be? Is that how that works?

"Nod your head if you hear me." You do, try to, and he nods back. "Good, you understand. Now, I've placed you on a fluid IV, saline, to combat any oncoming hangover, and dehydration from last night."

The walls are white, the floor tile (blue, white), his coat is white (clean), his hair is brushed through (black). The tools are clean (silver), your clothes are disheveled (red and black and pink and silver and dirty and-).

Clinic. Hospital room. It's a hospital room, but it's not. It smells like one. But the sink on the side looks shabby, and the cabinets are too new to be sitting in a room for years on end.

He looks young. The Doctor. Looks too young to be one.

Med Student. He said at the bar. He was studying to become a doctor, then to use that experience to later on become a neurosurgeon. Something like that. This must be his workspace, his 'class', the real Doctor will come in and then-

"We'll have to postpone the questioning until you're stable enough to speak. However, I did some research into your history using your drivers license." He slides a clipboard into his lap, crossing his legs over. With a lick of his fingers, he flips the page. "You're not from here, but you've been attending college for over a few months. You've been pretty good with your studies until late. I wonder why?"

"It's lonely here. I don't think I'm going to be able to continue if it's this lonely. Can't you understand?"

"You're doing part time work at the gas station down your block. Seems you've been making it on time, stand up employee. Though, the issue arises from your spending habits."

"It's a few drinks. Two drinks, that's all."

"I'm going to need to run a few tests for that. A simple blood sample, I should be able to get it back to you shortly, then you and I can work our way to the procedures."

"Procedure?"

His finger stops tracing the scribbled words he wrote, his eye peeks up to your twisted face.

"I forgot to mention, forgive me, there's been a lot on my mind with you today." Clearing his throat, he sits up straight, flattening his palms upon the clipboard. "Yes, procedures. More so one in particular, so I should say 'tests', instead."

"Testing? What needs to be tested? What are you talking about?"

Despite the panic that should be present, your breathing remains as calm as your heartbeat, lifting up your chest slow, then bringing it back down, your shoulders rising and falling with it.

"You're not going to survive. At least, I'm unsure of that at the current moment. However, I'm working on getting that to absolute certainty; I think you're a specimen worth the effort, with you knowing Alice and all."

"What fucking tests? What fucking procedure?"

"I'm going to give you a few minutes to collect yourself, and let the IV do its job. I have a few things to collect, it won't take me long."

There's something peculiar about this place.

There is no background noise. No voices of other nurses, no voices of patients, no frantic yelling, no soft talking, no TV, no footsteps other than his own that sound like they're going up and not straight.

You rest your head against the bed and think.

There's something peculiar about this place. The cabinets. The cabinets. Something draws you to the cabinets.

Cleaner or medical supplies or drugs or restraints or tools or..

Something.. about the cabinets.

"How are you doing?"

"Sano." You remember his name. It's all that's on your mind, on your tongue. It's all you can say.

"Hm, alright. Interesting. Seems that the IV has brought you to a somewhat coherent state, that's good."

He hovers at your right side, taking your hand in his own. Even through the latex, you can tell his flesh underneath is cold, colder than it should be. You flinch backwards, at the temperature and the pressure, but he doesn't relent.

"I need this sample, just before any work is done. Relax."

But, your body is relaxed on its own. Numb. That's what you feel. And that's what you feel when the thin needle punctures your skin, and the blood fills the space within the syringe. Numb. As he places a little bandage around the area. Numb. As he puts your arm back into place.

It's mundane. It's boring. It's as if you walked into a clinic on your own volition for a check up. Standard procedure.

He doesn't ask you any more questions. He reads your medical history off of the papers he printed out, and you don't question him (because you can't. because your lips down move to form words that create sentences).

He jots down his thoughts, and necessary information about you. Your lack of preexisting conditions, your lack of nutrients and your liver's status. The only thing he doesn't have is the history relating to your mental health care. The anti-depressants you were prescribed, the ones you forget to take because they interact with your drinking habits. The-

("5pm. Patient is awake and coherent, able to move around and speak. Will begin testing shortly.")

"I need you to sit up for me."

And you do, without complaint, but with apprehension.

"Take off your clothes."

"What?"

"I said: take off your clothes." You glance to him, searching for a gown, or something to cover up afterwards, but come up short. "I need to examine you physically. For any breaks or scratches or marks. For any pain."

"I'm fine. I'm not in any pain, I-"

"If I have to do it, then I might as well restrain you to the bed and do everything else, too." It's a threat, venom spit harshly. There's this nauseous feeling in your gut that tells you that that will happen regardless of if he does this or not.

So, you listen and obey, in the hopes that it won't (but you know it will).

Your fingers shake at your pants, and fumble with the belt, the zipper, the fishnets. They collect around your shoes, forcing you to bend and remove those, too. Your underwear is left, but so is your shirt. He offers to cut the sleeves, so that he needn't remove the IV. Hesitantly, you nod, closely watching the way the scissors wreck the fabric until its shredded in plies on the floor.

He doesn't let you keep your underwear on. Your protests get you nowhere. The thing you feared would happen happens anyway.

He remains blank-faced, even as he's fussing with your arms and getting them into straps. Even when he's wrangling your legs and doing the same once your underwear are off. These actions, they don't take much effort. He doesn't overexert his strength. It's almost as if he could snap your femur in half if he did try. So he doesn't.

You're panting, gasping, trembling, once he is done. He swipes his bangs to the side, and exchanges his gloves for new ones.

"Relax," (You can't) You do, gritting your teeth and clenching your fists. "I'm not going to hurt you, not yet."

His hands are on your shoulders, feeling the bones through your skin, pushing into the joints. The tips of his fingers crawl along your collarbone to your throat, pushing where your lymph nodes would be, feeling the rabbit-beat of your heart. His movement is calculated, but unlike anything you've experienced from a physical before. It's as if he's studying you.

As a specimen, not a patient.

Down to your chest, his palm lies flat upon your heart, pushing. His other, trails down to your nipple until it hardens with a simple brush. It's cold. He snaps his eye down to it, but otherwise pays no attention to anything other than your breathing, and your face.

"You look embarrassed." Down over your sides, over your ribs, to your stomach. "There's no need to be. I'm not going to force myself upon you." Down your hips, prodding into the skin, the nerves, between your thighs, your- "I'm simply noting your sensitivity." He cusps the flesh, watching your knees and the way they attempt to bend to keep him out.

You can't look at him anymore. You hide your face in your shoulder and freeze up. There's no point in trying to fight, so it's all you can do.

And even if you manage to fight, to break free, where are you even going to go?

"Hm." Slowly, his fingers slip over your genitals to your ass. But, he doesn't grope, just feel. And he pulls away immediately once he is finished. "Alright. Besides erogenous zones, I'm noticing sensitivity in your arms and legs specifically."

The cuts-

"To be expected."

The scars-

("6pm. I have gotten a basic understanding of the patient's sensations. Beginning deeper testing.")

What was numb is now sharp. Prickling. A sliver in skin. A-

"Wait-"

( "Any sleep and/or anxiety numbing agent I have administered has worn off entirely, as I expected. Subject's reaction is slightly erratic" )

The blade is so tiny, barely the size of your fingernail. And yet, it leaves a massacre on your arm when it splits the top layers of your skin. Blood leaks down onto the sheet, sticking to your skin as a shocked cry escapes past your lips.

He stops, just to observe your quick reaction, before moving the tool down beneath your elbow. He cuts closer to the inner part of your arm, waiting to see the difference in your reaction. This time, you try to pull your arm away. This time, you're shaking your head and yelling at him.

Downward, just above your wrist and the restraint holding it to the bed. Frantically, you're pulling pulling pulling-

("Subject's arms seem to be a spot of weakness. I have done my best to avoid where scar tissue has grown. However, the nerves there are still more sensitive and prone to flareups than the rest of the area.")

It's three little cuts. One on your shoulder, on your forearm, and on your wrist. Just three. They all ache similarly. A bright, hot pain that you've felt before.

But it's different. So different. A scalpel cuts deeper than a knife. He applies no pressure, and yet-

"Breathe." He urges, and you realize just how dizzy you are, how badly your lungs ache. "In through your nose, out through your mouth." He cusps your face, fingers lacking in any blood as he was careful enough to avoid angling his hands down.

You focus on his words, on his eye, on the lack of emotion. Clinical.

You follow orders and breathe to fend off any unwanted emotions, any unwanted reactions.

"In, and out." He returns to his work as you breathe, in and out, shutting your eyes, resting your head back to listen to the frantic beeps slow. You hear a wrapper peel, then feel the sting of alcohol around your wounds. Hissing behind grit teeth, you force yourself to still, letting him work in spite of the more human part of you that needs to panic (he's a doctor. this is a hospital room. he is a professional and this is a weird way to test your pain tolerance. wait, your-).

"Keep breathing." The blood that pushes out from his touch collects in the wipe. Each and every time another trickle weeps, he wipes it away. And each and every time the wipe is soiled, he exchanges it. He repeats this until your bleeding has slowed enough for him to bandage you up.

You keep breathing, even as you hear the scalpel being picked up again. Even as you feel the tip jabbing at your collarbone, too close to your throat for comfort-

You stop breathing.

"Don't panic. It wouldn't be wise to do so." His hand lowers over your throat, pushing your head back into the bed's attached pillow.

"Stop-"

"If I cut wrong and hit an artery, you'll be choking to death on your own blood. You'd waste my time and your own effort. Don't."

So you don't. But.. you want to. Yet, you don't.

He follows the curve of your collarbone to your sternum, creating a thin, red line. As thin as a paper cut, nothing more. A test. It hurts less, but everything is beginning to combine.

You remember his words, and try to practice when he slices through the side of your rib, just under your nipple.

("Subject's chest and torso garners less of a reaction. To be expected.")

Beneath your right rib. Curved around your navel.

Tears stain your cheeks. Your breathing is forced to be irregular to compensate for the stress.

Sweat has accumulated over your shivering body, worsening the gross stickiness already caused by your blood. He does his best to wipe the wounds and the mess upon your skin, but even that doesn't take away the feeling.

Gauze pad fibers collect on the meat peeking that lied dormant and unharmed below the layers of dermis. He pushes it in, watching the white turn pink turn red. Your fists shake in their bonds, the pain becoming sharp within the seconds.

One, two, three, fifteen, thirty, sixty, one hundred.

The bleeding slows, your breathing picks up until your vision wavers.

("Subject's low pain tolerance is becoming quite apparent.")

Hyperventilation.

One. Two. Three. All on each thigh, spaced evenly within three inches. Symmetry.

Your skin splits like butter, his hand never trembling nor slowing with each incision.

How many times has he practiced this?

Fear gives, the lack of fear makes way for thoughts, thoughts you waste on wondering more about this Doctor.

("Subject seems to be experiencing some sort of pain-induced delirium. I'll have to stop for the moment. Administering 1,000mg of Acetaminophen to start with. This should help with the worst of the pain, while not taking the ability to feel it away.")

"Hello?"

And how his hands work. And how his mind works. And why his face doesn't move or contort. Or why he elicits no reaction to your sobbing, your shivering, your whimpers of pain.

The latex glove is no longer free from filth. It leaves a print of blood when he grabs your face to examine the way your eyes gloss over, the redness on your nose spreading to your cheeks, and your tears.

"Clench your hands if you can hear me."

So, they flex. Once, twice. And his eye flits down before he nods.

"Good. Now, rest your eyes and your head. Remember your breathing, and relax. In, ten seconds. Out, ten seconds."

With your eyes closed, and your lungs struggling against the forced breaths, you hone your focus on the sensations; the cold rag that stings as much as it soothes. His gentle, attentive hands. The itchy fibers of gauze, the bandages, and the tape that keeps it in place.

You hone your focus onto the sounds. The skipping beeping. His shuffling. The clink of glass and the flick of a finger upon a needle. The snap of gloves, and trash hitting the waste bin's bag. The squeak of a chair's springs. The quick flitting of a pen over paper.

Your skin buzzes. You do as told and breathe until your body takes over your efforts.

("Subject has slept for six hours. I have monitored most, if not all of the time spent asleep. They've had little awakenings, most seemingly caused by the discomfort of lying in the same position. I've undone the straps for now, allowing proper movement and blood flow.")

"How are you doing this morning?" He asks, because he is expected to ask, as most Doctors would. It's standard procedure.

You sit upright and wipe your eyes.

But.. you don't.

Your wrists catch on leather straps.

Today will be no different.

"How is your pain?" He asks, because he is expected to ask. Though, his tone shifts subtly, just barely. With little background noise and no disturbances, you catch onto it instantly.

"Manageable?"

"Mn." Beside you is a tray, one that attaches at the side of the bed. There is no water, no food. Nothing sits upon it meant for you, there is no need for it. The IV takes care of what you aren't supposed to.

"I'm assuming that is a 'yes'. Today will be a bit different. However, I'm still examining your sensitivity, so don't assume you're 'off the hook'."

You catch a glimpse of his hands before there are gloves. The skin is smooth, but pale. His fingernails are black and cut, his cuticles are neat and oiled.

"You remember what I taught you yesterday, correct? About your breathing?"

You close your eyes at the snap of latex, envisioning some type of instructor. Perhaps yoga. Or, maybe a psychiatrist trying to talk you down from a panic attack.

It's manipulation. Your body and mind are separated. No longer do you fear physically.

"I'm assuming you've been touched here before?"

The sounds: his monotonous tone, a plastic cap opening, the spurt of something wet.

"Considering your attire when we met, and how you were looking to 'hook up' with someone, I'd assume so. Unless of course, you're just pretending to know what that feels like for attention."

The sensations: fingers gripping your thigh, tips just centimeters away from bandages, the cold, slick feeling of lubricant between your-

"But, I highly doubt that."

"W-wait!"

The slide of his gloved fingers. The pressure he applies.

Sano watches you (just like he did at the club. just like he did when he created the first of many incisions upon your skin), your face, your body, the way that you tense, the way that you reject.

"I normally don't do this with.." And it's the first time he has stopped, has caught himself when he has spoken. "Subjects."

His fingers slither over your skin, over the tissue, they push into the muscles and nerve endings below it all.

"However, I've stated, or rather implied prior, that your relationship to that girl means something to me. And that means, while I'm not treating you with any more 'humanity' than I have the others, you could say that you got lucky."

Heat spreads. Warmth like summer sun and hot coffee. A warm hug and a soft caress.

You think in contrasts.

Hell fire. Nauseating burning, aching, twisting. Inferno.

"Hm."

Poking and prodding becomes fondling, becomes rhythmic strokes. He squeezes once, and pushes his fingers below.

'normally don't do this.' His words repeat like your heartbeat. On cue. A mantra to rival the one he gave you yesterday.

Yet, his movement is skilled. He has had practice you didn't expect.

("Subject is extremely receptive around erogenous zones. To be expected.")

Your body and mind are separated. You fight the pleasure and squirm, yanking at your bonds in a more haste fashion than before.

Rather it be pain. Rather it be pain. Rather it be-

("Something that I cannot read on their face, nor within their actions, is causing them extreme distress.")

The bonds keep you down enough for him to work, but his free hand still clamps around your thigh like a vice, holding it still, holding it open.

("Guilt, or shame? It wouldn't be quite right to assume.")

Further his fingers slip, until they're at your entrance and pushing up against the ring of muscle. Your breath is caught in your throat. You choke on a plea that should be 'no, stop', but sounds more like a moan.

("Subject is experiencing heightened arousal. Visuals: blushing, perspiration, heaving breathing.")

"Interesting." One single finger has you tensing up. A second has you arching backwards, fighting your bonds like a wild animal. He pays no mind to your struggle, pushing his knuckles in, and pulling them out. "You're overexerting yourself." He scorns, and you shake your head back and forth. "What would happen if you broke open your dressings?"

He's right. He's been right this entire time, and yet nothing is making sense.

"Your breathing. Lets focus on your breathing." You can't. He's pumping his fingers in, pushing his palm over the hot of your belly, below the wound, feeling the muscles flitter and clench. You can't. "In and out. Slowly now." You can't.

They slither, outside to your ring of muscle, back inside to the deepest parts of you. Your stomach twists.

"Tell me now, how does that feel?" Gross. Violating. Horrific. Good, so good, good. Great. Awful. "I want you to be honest with me."

"It feels," Sickening. Pleasurable. Nauseating. Good. So good. "good."

Your body rests flat upon the bed, sweat sticking your back to the leather. You gasp and swallow, disgusted, exhausted. He lets go of your thigh with a gentle pat, and pours more lubricant over the space between your legs.

"It feels good, hm? What about this," A third finger follows. The wet sound of it pushing it makes your head spin. "is this good, too?"

What's going on?

("Subject has not fully calmed, but I am noting the change of behaviour as a positive thing.")

Two quick pumps, waiting for your response when he's down to his third knuckle and swallowed up by your body.

"Yes."

And you want to say: "and that's the problem. doctor, tell me, why is it that I like things like this? against my will, cut up and-"

Yet, you don't.

As he reads it on your expression; furrowed brows and pursed lips.

As he listens to it in your noises; gasped, stuttered moans.

As he feels it in your body, within the fluttering, vice-tight muscles.

He steadies his breathing, but no blush appears on his face, no sweat on his brow. He remains calm and collected, watching in that detached way as he does such an intimate, lewd act to your willing (unwilling) body.

It's disgusting. He's disgusting.

Your stomach turns and you throw your head to the side, averting your gaze from him entierly.

There's a stutter in his movements, a singular one that lasts only seconds, before he's back on track.

Did he hate that? Your aversion?

"Mhm." The clink of metal echoes somewhere close to your head. The tray? The table? "Focus on that for me."

What other choice are you given? What other sensation is there to focus on?

The itching under the bandages? The tightness around your limbs? The light pain still hot around the wounds? The flash surge in your thigh, the wet spilling out, the feeling of fingers spreading, pushing inside as sharp digs into flesh and tissue and you-

("Patient's reaction to mixed sensations was initial shock, to be expected. Devolved into 'hysteria', I would say. Minor theatrics, caused bruising on their own limbs")

The jolt that dug the steel deeper. The jerk that slipped it through the layers.

"Relax."

He stares at you, with a fed up expression and something deeper underneath. Something more emotional. Something too human for his taste. Something too human for yours.

You watch, mouth agape, nerves flaring, as the impaled blade leaves the pocket of fat pushing past your split flesh, as the blood cascades down to form a puddle.

Sano has his hand planted above, the scalpel tilted outward, clutched in his fist and pinned to your body. The wound is obscured momentarily, as he uses your body as leverage and studies your face.

Beneath the black bangs, there is a glimpse of blue. Shining like gemstones, or neon artifical LEDs. An eye stuck parted in shock, much like your own. The grey one fixated on your body tells the opposite. A black tongue licks over his lips, white fangs peek through just for a split second.

The pain and the pleasure blend together with the fear and the disgust and every other little sensation and emotion your body conjures up. The bright white lights blur, his body morphs within their wavelengths. Throbbing overtakes you, fatigue swallows you up. There's this inexplicable burning in your throat, before it's shot out. Gone. Over as quick as it came.

("Patient had fallen unconscious yet again. I'm yet to-")

"Ah. You're awake."

Stitches litter your skin below the bandages. You can feel their strain, their struggled attempt to hold what is desperate to seperate. The pain that was once all consuming, has eaten itself down to nothing but a dull nuisance, a burning deep but not at the surface.

"I have concluded my testing. I'm noticing problem areas of sensitivity. More particularly, your arms and your legs."

Your wrists and your ankles. the purple-red splotches spreading like blush.

"There's one other. However," The chair spins and squeaks, his clipboard and pen click together, the drip of your IV is as slow as the heartrate monitor, the electronics buzz and hum, his voice penetrates all. Serious; the way it has been since the moment you had woken up here. "That comes from here."

His breath, it's cold upon your face. His pen, the back of it as it taps upon your forehead, is just as cold. In your mind, you flinch, clench your teeth, glare at him. In reality, you're silent and still and pliant and-

"I've administered a cocktail I've been working on; a paralytic. I started you off with a small dose, so I don't plan on that lasting forever."

Anesthetic is what is missing from his words. Is what is missing from your body, as all the little things still throb, and ache, and sting, and burn, and-

So, that is why your limbs are free from their restraints.

So, you're helpless yet again, and this time, unable to even protest verbally.

Only if he knew of the anger and fear and all the things you have to say against him brewing in your head. Would he want to hear it? He is a Doctor, after all.

"Seems you've been through quite a lot. Anxiety and depression, amongst other things. You've been on a lot of prescriptions. None of them have stuck, I take it?" You can blink, just barely, slowly, enough to wet your eyes and focus them on the clipboard he tilts in your direction. "Just last week, an RX was filled for Sertraline. Seems it took quite a while to be approved by your insurance."

| "There's like.. this weird dreadful feeling in the back of my mind all the time."

"Mm, is there?"

"It's like.. this.. innate knowledge of failure or death or something like it." |

"Though, I already knew this to be the case. Regardless, what I'm getting at is," He has no use for conversation. The clipboard and pen is traded for this.. tool. Like a dentist's but.. larger. A curved hook sits at the end.

| "Helplessness?"

"Mhm. I guess."

"You know, a lot of people your age experience that all of the time."

"You talk like you don't.."|

"Medication after medication. Side effect after side effect. That feeling of, no matter how much you take, or what you do to ignore everything, nothing will improve."

Squirm, move, get away, get away-

His thumb presses below your right eyelid, pushing down, pulling it open.

"It's helplessness. It's the same thing you're feeling now, knowing that your fate is out of control, held tight within someone else's. It's only natural to feel anxiety." Closer, the tool inches towards your face. The silver glows under the artificial bright lights, clutched tight in his gloved hand. "It's only natural to wish to escape."

Something draws you to his lips. The need to peer away from impending doom. The need to confirm what you had saw within your peripherals.

Tugging at the corners of his mouth,

"Egas Moniz. The first of his kind to perform such a drastic surgery. I could take a syringe and inject your frontal lobe with pure alcohol. Though, I think you and I both know you've had enough of that, haven't you?"

a smile,

"No. They had moved on quickly from that method. Instead, opting to go deeper, creating lesions inside the matter. Until,"

faint, but growing with his words.

"Someone evolved the process into something more gruesome."

The hook.

You think of fish. Clueless in their endeavors, naive to the thing that'll stick beneath their skin and rip them from their safety, from their life.

You think of yourself. Clueless, sitting at the bar wobbling back and forth, laughing drunkenly, ignoring the plop of something into your drink before it met your lips like it was nothing but a sacred kiss.

"A ten minute procedure. A quick poke through the eye, and then,"

You can feel it, the sharp point cutting the untouched skin beneath your upper eyelid. Latching on, he pulls it forward, digs it deeper, watches as your pupils shake and become far-away stars lost within the color of your irises.

"No more unsightly behaviour."

Plucked. A line reeling in a flopping, wet mass.

Pinched. Fabric between fingers, skin between metal.

Peeled. Fabric from flesh. Tape from gauze.

Prodded. Latex in tissue. Fingers inside.

Poked.

The sound of salt rocks crushing under foot.

The sound of shells cracking under fist.

The sound of teeth grinding until they break and shatter.

A bolt of lightning to the cranium. Hot, blinding, too-sudden for comfort. There is no reaction time in the world that could prepare you to go from one side of the thin bone to the other.

It's one simple pop. Like pushing a thumb into bubble wrap. A pop, like a joint setting back into place.

"Stay awake."

The fluorescent lights blend and pulse. Lightning strikes. Quick and loud. Rumbling in the ground in your body in your head.

Twisting, grinding. Dental tools digging within an impacted tooth. Thunderclap. Rumbling. Rainfall.

| The wet asphalt. Your hands hit the wet asphalt. Lightning struck somewhere close and threw off your balance. Hands found your shoulders, under your arms, around your legs under your knees. Acid that tasted distinctly fruity fell past your lips moments before the ground left your touch. Your head spun, a violent carousel.

There were words spoken. He had said something along the lines of:

"That came on quicker than I anticipated." |

There are words spoken. He says something along the lines of..

("June 7th, 1:32am. Patient is no longer showing signs of anxiety or panic. I'm writing off the procedure as a successful one. Will begin questioning tomorrow morning. I'm coming to the conclusion that I'm going to be-")

"You got lucky, you know." A pen flits over paper. His voice is low and calm, serious as always. You sit up and rub your wrists. The lights today are dim. "I had gone through this thought process. Your failures and your addictions had led me to believe my research would be concluding with a vivisection."

The smell of chlorine and alcohol stings your nose. You breathe it in deep, and stare at the massacre that occurred upon your body.

"You were becoming quite reckless. Though, when in pain, the human memory suffers from many lapses. I'm almost positive you're going to barely remember the past few days or so."

The fingers, the scalpel, the words guiding you through and the words scolding.

"I was at my wits end. The paralytic was my last resort before our treatment. Considering your behaviour, I think it went quite well."

The hospital gown is too light, too papery to filter out the drafts of cold. Your fingers find the hem and pull at the material.

"Usually, I would've administered heavy anesthesia."

Like they do to dogs. Dying dogs. Dying animals. Dying things on their very last leg of life. Suffering. Sick. Hurt.

"Euthanization."

Suffering.

Loneliness.

Sick.

Addicted.

Hurt.

Cut open. Bleeding. Stitched back up.

"However,"

Back at home in your dorm room: The pill bottles.

"None of that will be necessary for now."

The empty spot on your bed. The packet of condoms. Your wallet containing nothing but your ID, and enough money for multiple rounds of drinks.

"I'm thinking of committing to another procedure."

The letter to your roommate. To your few friends who aren't really friends but other students in your class. To your family members who still hold high hopes.

"A final one. More so for my own benefit; and yes I will agree that it is quite selfish in nature, but humans know that feeling more than anything."

The words left unspoken to the man at the bar counter. The man with his stoic demeanor, and black cresent bangs.

| "Not gonna make my exams tomorrow. Been fucking up lately. But who cares? Life's about having fun. Besides, sex isn't something to be ashamed of, like, even if it's an escape. Are you going to judge me?" |

"Regardless, this is something I wanted to consult with you about before proceeding."

| "Can't you come back? Just a little. It's only a few minutes away, like twenty tops. You can't.. just for me?" |

("Patient is exibiting a lack of emotion upon the face, and a lowered reaction time.")

"It's a simple quad amputation. Above the knee, and just under the shoulder."

| "It'll be worth your while. I promise. You won't even need to pay for gas. We won't even need to see each other again after this." |

"And after, you won't have to face those shameful scars anymore."

("Decreased emotional capacity? Or perhaps I'm looking at an inability to display them.")

"The procedure itself will take a few hours, perhaps over twelve. However,"

("Slow blinking, slightly parted lips, breathing through the mouth. Twitching brows and a partial squint implies pain between the eyes, or around the brow bone and nose.")

"You will be awake the entire duration. I cannot administer anesthesia, as it might cause muscle contractions and/or tightening around the ligaments."

("I had the patient follow my light with their eyes. During examination, I noted reddening around the edges, abnormal lack of pupil dilation, extreme light sensitivity." )

"You can treat this as,"

("I have dimmed the lights for the time being.")

"Just another tolerance test. After all, I will be sawing into your limbs."

Focused. Unfocused.

Sano clicks his pen against his clipboard, and tilts his head to the side.

The colors of his skin and clothes blur together.

"What do you say? Is this something you would be interested in?"

Focus on his face.

The shape of his mouth. The colors of his eyes, the one behind the bangs.

Memorize the expression. Find the word that fits the expression.

"Things like this are best to be sat on. But, there comes a time where I'm going to need an answer."

Focus.

Why..? Why me, why this, why any of this, why you?

The hand in the lap your eyes are on turns so that it is palm up, and the inner elbow is exposed. The bruises around the IV site are brown and purple, spreading to surrounding areas like infection. The tube is dripping, slow, with what could be food replacement and water.

"Okay."

The figure blurred in your side vision slithers upon the ground; makes this awful, nearly wet, shuffling as it moves. You blink (eyes down on the floor), staring at the closed ends of dress shoes and the black socks running under dress pants.

"I'll do it."

Recall. The feelings you had prior. The words you had said to him at the bar.

On his lips, a smile.

Between the gloved hands, a syringe and a bottle. Between the gloved fingers, the needle and the IV line.

"That's great news. Now,"

Prickling. Static on the TV, but.. inside of you. Numbness, but hot and flowing. Stingers of bees.

"Relax."

Straps are fitted around wrists around elbows around ankles around thighs. The white lab coat he adorns is buttoned closed, covering himself like armor, or a shield.

The thing in his hands, it is barbaric, industrial, an object not fit for the pristine, white doctor's office.

The blade is thin, oval-like, going around end to end to connect with the black handle.

It presses to skin and carves.

And carves.

And carves.

The clean, neat, safe interior is stained red.

Soon, beneath the body is more of a puddle than a sheet. Soon, the ends of sleeves are soaked and rolled up, showing off thin arms with no hair or imperfections. Soon, sweat and heat flavor the iron air.

The prickling is clear; the most clear thing in days. Like crisp, dewy summer morning air. Like, the tone of his voice.

As it began: an uncomfortable slide, flesh against metal. The feeling of a paper cut, then a knife, then a deep puncture wound. A wince, teeth grinding against teeth, a scream that never makes it to the surface.

As it progressed: a bright burning like stars in the sky, a deep throbbing, a nauseating cracking. Bone splits and splinters into surrounding tissue. A nauseating fever of 104.f. The throbbing migraine in the brow bone punctures through the brain, and worms its way down the columns of a spine, meeting and greeting the exposed stumps of thighs.

As it stands: ice cold temperatures and the blackness of space. The vacuum wave that sucks up most sound, and spits out the pitiful beeps of a heart rate monitor. The pain is physical sensation, all of it, all at once. There is nothing to process but the pain. There is nothing that stands taller, greater, than the pain. There is nothing but-

"June 8th, it has been almost one week since my venture out to the Snake Pit, and my meeting of the patient. Currently, it has been 14 hours since the procedure has concluded. Patient's body temperature has returned to its prior state with a bit of medication. Patient suffered a minor seizure half-way through, though recovered quickly with little confusion that lasted only thirty minutes or so. I have sutured the sites entierly, beginning recovery."

The building that stood before you casted a orange-red glow from its large windows to the gated outside tables. The people that sat outside spoke casually to their partners over intricate meals and tall glasses of alcohol. They paid no mind to your form stuck just before the door in.

Between your fingers was the flier picked from junk mail. Flowers decorated its edges, the words Snapdragon Lounge were written at the bottom in golden calligraphy.

You're no stranger to advertisers; the BOGO coupons for fast food, the random local bars trying to lure in more customers, the insurance and cable companies that wanted more service. Every card, every paper, ripped up and thrown into the trash, next to the cup-noodles and letter envelopes.

This one was stuck between a letter sent by your professor, and yet another McDonald's coupon deal. The cardstock was sturdy, the letters rose and popped under your fingertips, textured and smooth.

You had stood, in front of your mailbox and in front of the lounge, and traced the words with your thumb over and over.

You had thought about tearing it up and putting it with the rest of the things you don't bother with.

You had thought about it again, after cutting open the envelope and reading words that tell the tale of someone's extreme dissapointment and dissatisfaction. Except that time, it was contemplation.

For the past few months, after moving into your crowded, box-like apartment, after working at a dead-end convience store job, after countless sleepless nights spent staring at a computer in the dark, with nothing but coffee cups and energy drinks and an open doc to the homework supplied by your college professor, you've had this dreadful feeling. This.. tinge in your heart. This.. loneliness only stunted by a trip to the liquor store or the bar down the block.

If you thought about it, about the paychecks spent on alcohol rather than necessities, the guilt would eat you up, and you'd fall behind on your studies. It's happened before, a few times.

The first, an email sent by your professor. Paragraphs upon paragraphs that questioned why someone who'd turn their work in on time, who'd make it to class well-dressed with a smile on their face is now suddenly turning in late, showing up with messy hair and bags under their eyes.

[ Is everything alright at home? Do you perhaps need a little more time for the assignments? I'd be willing to grant that, but only on rare occasion.

I can't be giving you special treatment after all. ]

And your fists clenched, and you shook your head, and your fingers flitted against their keyboard to type out an excuse, a response.

[ Hi, Mr. Zeitgeist. I apologize for any issues I have caused within your schedule. I assure you I am alright. I've started this new job, and I'm still getting used to it, but I can promise that I will not have anymore time management issues from now on. ]

The second, a talk in an hallway after the lecture was done. His hand landed on your shoulder, a firm grasp that frightened you slightly. His eyes were fixated on you, disappointment swimming within the ocean blue. It was less of a talk, more of an interrogation.

Your fists clenched behind your back. You shook your head and smiled, liquor on your lips and rooted in your breath. You had said in your head that, he shouldn't be acting as if he was a detective, nor a therapist. But, your mouth had formed: "My apologies. I'll be sure to get more rest so that I can focus harder."

The third, the final, a warning taking up three pages, front to back, creased in the center and written in red.

Jazz Lounges aren't for you. Never were for you, not even that night. They're uptight, against too-obvious public intoxication. They don't appreciate the stumbling, the loud slurred words, the solicitation.

The people that paid you no mind only did so out of societal respect. Inside, you knew they were thinking that the outfit you conjured up was in poor taste, that the smell of your fragrance was cheaply artificial, that your jewelry was fake, and the posture you stood in was clumsy and unpracticed.

They knew you were fake.

The women in radiant dresses and the men in elegant suits inside sniffed you out like trash when the bell above the door rung cheerily.

The singer's (with her beautiful brown hair and her long, slit-red dress) eyes flitted over to you, absentmindedly sized you up, before returning to the other person who's fingers flitted over the piano keys expertly.

You had taken an empty seat at the counter, as you often did night after night, but found yourself with no alcohol to sip.

An oath, you had taken silently, as your black pen skittered apology after apology on paper.

( "I'm sorry that I missed the lecture. A family member has had a medical emergency and I'm their only contact. Can you send me the information? I can study before the essay on-")

I won't drink.

In front of you: a fruity concoction of sodas and syrups that lacked an acid burn.

Beside you: a man in black; hair, pants, shoes, shirt, sunglasses, a vest with golden accents swirling in complicated patterns.

I won't drink. You had said to him when he inquired about the cocktail in front of you. It's all I've been doing lately.

| "Is that so?"

"Haha, yeah. Well, it's alright. I can abstain. Besides, I like the atmosphere here." He nods, the ice in his whiskey clinking against the glass as he toasts it with your own.

"Indeed. You know, I was just about to inquire about that as well. After all, I come here quite frequently and have never seen your face."

You hope he doesn't see your eyebrows furrow, hope he doesn't see the twitch of your lip and the clench of your hand. Anxiety.

It's quick and under the dark light. Your smile is soft and cheerful and remains that way.

"I saw a flier, thought I'd check this place out. I'm-" |

He had took your hand, pressed his lips to the back of it, and your head spun from the scent of his cologne. Sharp and woody, the scent of vanilla (just a pinch) underneath.

| "Oh, where are my manners? My name is Rire."

"Rire? I've never heard a name like that. Are you not from here?"

"You've figured me out. I'm currently on a work vacation. Indeed, I am far from home."

"Oh? That's cool. So, where are you originally from?"

"Mm, France."|

When he had said where he was from, you could see the fingers on his chin in your mind. The pause, as if he was contemplating on whether or not to tell you. And you understand, if you were a better liar, you would've given him a fake name and a fake profession. Instead,

You had listened to the piano and stirred your drink, your lips pushed out, your mind a race to find digestible, relatable or some other 'nice' information to expose to him. You had told him more, just a little more. Once you had spoken, the words flew out as if you were under the influence, and your filter had shattered with the slurs.

Instead, you spoke steadily, quietly, compelled to tell him about the past few weeks, about yourself. About how you found the lounge's flier jammed between a scolding letter and useless junk. About the letter itself when he asked, and about why the letter was there in the first place. About your job and, god, how you're failing to be a human being at the current moment.

You had told him about the lies you wrote down, about the guilt you're feeling. You had told him that's the real reason why you're here. Because..

| "My professor. He's this old, middle-aged divorcee. Doesn't see his kids often, or at all. They're supposedly living somewhere off in Japan. He's nice, well-meaning I suppose, but strict and firm and.. fuck, excuse my language, but he's infuriating at times."

"I'm certain he just wants to see you succeed and not ruin your future over a few drinks."

"Sure. But he just doesn't get it. He's got enough money, doesn't need it like I do. This job of his is basically a passion project, and now he's trying to be some sort of therapist? I get the missed work, but damn, my outside habits have nothing to do with-" |

Outside habits. The drinking, yes. But the sex, too. How, more often than not, you were on top of, or under, someone who's name and face you'll never remember. It doesn't, didn't, matter who. Not the gender, nor the background. Sometimes, it was for food or money or liquor, but most times, it was just another crutch you relied on. Like anti-depressants, or caffeine.

And, while his brow raised, his smile never cracked. You imagined the amusement mixed with shock in his eyes, that sat under the blackout shades.

| "Oh, this place is not the best place to look for casual affairs."

"Sure. I mean, why would it be? Everyone's here with someone except for you. Unless.."

"You're saying that it is I who is here for such things?"

"No, no! Not exactly. Unless you're interested. I'm fine with tonight being a night where that doesn't happen." |

His fingers found your leg, just their manicured tips. They glided along the length of your thigh, over the black slacks you wore. And suddenly, you weren't fine with tonight being such a night. And suddenly, there was this ache in your chest and desire clouding your actions.

As if you'd fold over such a simple gesture. Such a simple touch.

Since his lips first met the back of your hand, you knew that'd end up being the case.

So, suddenly, you had let him pay your bill, and you had let him guide you out of the lounge. The smell of petrichor filled the air, muted compared to his cologne. The sky was dark before, but then it had grey clouds threatening to overflow. Quickly, you had walked him in the direction of your home, but he had walked as if he'd been down the streets prior. As if he knew the route back just as well as you did.

He was the one to lock the door behind you. He was the one with his hands in your hair and gliding over your body, the one to unravel the shittily picked-out outfit as if he owned it, owned you. And his lips moved, synchronized with yours, in kisses that were never open mouthed, in kisses that remained dainty and quick. But his hands, they had found your waist and you both had found the bed.

And your fingers, they had found his vest and the tiny black buttons holding it together. They had traced the raised, imprinted lines, much like they had with the calligraphy, memorizing each confusing, intricate curve, drawn to each inverted star's point.

Down, to the earth. Upright, to the sky. The sides to the ends of the earth, east and west. All ends of the spectrum. The Star.

It fell open at his sides, and the shirt beneath fell with it. The cravat, with its cat's eye golden gem, was discarded onto the nightstand. Your own clothes, the floor.

His belt hung at his hips, his slacks parted at the button. The only thing that didn't remain were his polished dress shoes.

The sunglasses. Your fingers brushed his cheeks, bumped into the plastic and tinted lenses. Your fingers, they slide against the sides hooked around his ears.

And he pushed in, right as you were pinching the plastic. And just as fast as you gained a grasp, you had lost it.

Instead, your fingers entwined with your sheets, pulling the fitted fabric loose. Instead, you fell slack jawed and starry-eyed, watching him dissappear between your legs. Raw connection, the first since you've begun your debauchery.

(But, it bothered you. You had thought in passing to tell him to wait. Tell him that you had condoms in the drawer.

The drawer.. The one that always remained open, with the condoms untouched in their box.)

And soon, there was no light. Nothing to illuminate him other than the electricity that peeked from the pulled-open curtains when it cracked down from the heavens. And when you caught full glimpses, his figure towered, frighteningly tall and imposing. A skyscraper.

Unlike how he appeared at the lounge. Unlike how he appeared before the power cut off.

And in the dark, his face glowed yellow. And in the dark, you had cried out his name and hoped the thunder was enough to obscure your cries from the neighbours.

And in the dark, you saw his mouth split open and contort. And in the dark, something wriggled, writhed.

His hands kept hold on your shoulders. Something else had made its way to your hips. Cold, leaking, tightening around you. Through the lust, fear appeared. Behind the moans you made, a scream bubbled.

Around your stomach, the thick thing curled, twisted, lifted you from the bed, and pushed you back onto him. Repeated, rough, quick.

Soon, the pleasure overtook the fear. Soon, you had fallen victim to wave after wave of ecstasy. Soon, you had thought you touched the hand of God, as it reached out to cusp your face. As it clenched its fingers around your chin to steady you as you squirmed and thrashed and screamed.

Good night. The teeth had said.

Good morning. The man sitting on the side of your bed says.

He brushes your hair aside, smiling at you with closed lips. You shiver, and peer at him through groggy eyes.

"You seemed to be having quite the disturbance there. My apologies, but I couldn't sit here and let that continue."

You blink, focusing on his relaxed form while trying to recall the one that hovered above in your dream. Snakes, or slugs, they slithered up your thighs to your ass. They slithered around your waist and brushed upon your nipples. Your body was slick with something gelatinous and thick, black like ink or paint or..

Nothing is out of place. In your dream, beside lied his clothes, and above hovered his body. In reality, beside lies his clothes, and in front sits his body.

The frames of his toned stomach, the color of his pale skin, the feeling of his hand and the feeling of the one that gripped your chin so hard you feared your jaw would burst in two. Similar in touch.

No.

They're the same.

You shy backwards from his touch, finding safety away in your pillows, and beneath your blanket.

"What the fuck?" He cocks his head. At the sides of his glasses, the color yellow. Between his lips, a worried frown.

"What's the matter?" You point, accusingly, right at his face and at his chest, your other hand holding the blanket over your naked frame.

"You- What the fuck was that? Last night? What the hell did you do?"

The worried, almost surprised, look doesn't stick around long. Instead, his cocked brow remains, and a smile curls at the corner of his lips. A gesture attempting to mimic humor and shock, coming across as mischief, malevolence.

"Are you perturbed by the bruises? Or perhaps the teeth markings? My apologies, you had wanted it rough, but it seems I have crossed a line-"

"Don't even. Don't-" You had felt it, whatever it was, wet, crawling up your sides. You had seen it, for one, diminishing second, under the lightening. It came from his back. "What kind of sick prank was that?"

Slugs..? Snakes..? Tentacles. They were-

"Fucking tentacles!?" An octopus with no suction cups. "Who the- What are you?"

He sits upright and adjusts his clothing back to how it was before you had sex. You remain, still and silent, listening as his knuckles crack.

"Why, your hook-up of course. Or, does that phrasing cause you guilt?"

"Fuck you, fuck that. Answer my question-"

It manifests as slime dripping out from the back of his vest. Before it blossoms, quick, within a single blink, as squirming roots like a plant with a hivemind of its own. They collect your wrists, and pull you from the comfort of your bed. With no warning, and no issue, you're flung to the floor.

You can hear it, the ding of your email notification, right before your vision blurs and your ears begin to ring.

"My, my. I think it is quite early for such a commotion, don't you? Is this how you normally treat your guests?"

Guests. The varying bodies, with no name and no face, because all that mattered to you was the feeling, not the person, flash in your minds eyes. Dozens, from twelve to thirty. They sat at the edge of your bed and fixed themselves up. They had left with no fanfare, with no promise to ever return, and no thank you.

But him, he sticks around. He pushes his shoe onto your shoulder and flips you over. The tentacles, or whatever that was, are all gone. Leaving no evidence of their existence other than your body and the floor.

"Who are you?" He asks, not because he is curious, but because he is cruel. "This isn't the you I was shown at the lounge. How.." Disappointing. Unsatisfactory. Upsetting. "rude it is, to deceive people like you have."

And you spit, the same words cruel and angry and harsh, right back at him.

They had all left. Not because you had made them, but because they didn't want the 'you' that offered nothing in the mornings.

The sober you. The guilty you. The you that can't pry yourself out of bed until the beginnings of the afternoon after a hook-up. The you that you are.

"I admit, we are on equal footing there. I have also not been honest with you. However, I think you've already figured that out, haven't you?"

Your face is contorted in rage and fear, his lightens in amusement.

But him, he sticks around. Curious of you, for one reason or the other. You can see it in his cat eyes, in the slits of black sitting in the middle of gold that hid behind the lenses.

The curiosity of finding an insect. The curiosity of pulling on its wings, plucking them from the tiny body as they flail in pain never to be screamed.

"I wonder who you are." Your thoughts direct the words back to him. Curiously so. Terrifyingly so.

Then he's off. Stepping over you as if you meant nothing, and into the open space of your living room, leaving the door ajar, leaving you heaving and shaking on the floor.

Just like every other encounter, you don't move from the spot you're in for a long time. For what feels like hours. There is no guilt this time, just terror and confusion and this deep rooted dread. The discomfort of the unknown.

Your laptop dings, another email notification. The sun turns your bedroom orange. You lie for what feels like hours, collecting enough energy to put clothes on, and eventually, step out of your bedroom.

A mantra repeats in your head like clockwork. A familiar ritual for every encounter, for every morning spent after entanglement with another.

'please don't be waiting, please don't attach yourself to me like I wouldn't you.'

Awaiting you there is your coffee maker, cigarettes and your house keys. No phone, and no bag. You've misplaced it again, as you always tend to do.

(but, it was by the door. your book bag was by the door with your coat and your shoes and you heard it hit the ground just yesterday morning. it was there when you left-)

A frozen breakfast sandwich meets the microwave, a slit in its plastic packaging, and spins for 1 minute 30. A mocha pod meets the coffee machine, your tiny espresso cup collects water, then waits for the brew to finish on its stand. Your fingers meet a cigarette, then the lighter, and you make it outside of your front door.

Awaiting you is your mail, at the foot of the door, removed from the box by someone not you.

In the pile: a letter from your professor, and a McDonald's BOGO coupon. Stuck between is a card, (no, you never get cards) a flier for some jazz lounge not that far from your apartment.

You rip it up and throw it in the garbage.

The smell of coffee fills the house, overpowering the cigarette smoke you've grown nose blind to. The taste of the sandwich is bland as always, boring, but it's sufficient enough for a meal. Your fingernail peels the envelope open, and you glaze over the red cursive dancing along the pages.

"Letter from your professor?"

"Mm."

| Mx. - I understand that your work hours conflict with your sleep schedule. That is not the issue I'm addressing here. I am, however, addressing your lack of an appearance for this week's lecture. Compared to other students, you're quickly falling behind. If you cannot put your studies over your alcoholism, which, yes, I've already cracked your case from the incident we've had two weeks ago when you- |

Slender fingers find the ring of a tea mug, dark blue with intricate stars and milky ways gliding along to the front design. The sun and its quirked face.

"Oh? What is it this time?"

The smell of earl grey, a tea that's been sitting in the cabinet forever. The smell of chocolate and cream, drowning out the coffee, poured delicately into your thermos and slid across to you. The smell of something sharp and woody, cedarwood specifically, and smokey, with vanilla, floods your senses suddenly. You ash your cigarette and-

There's a stranger here. In your apartment. His outfit reminds you of royalty from the Victorian era of England. His hair is slicked back, neatly tied into a ponytail that sits on his shoulder. He smiles with closed lips.

"Are you going to write him back? It'd be rude to abandon all your hard work, you know." The date signed on the paper is June 3rd. You had checked the calendar on your phone yesterday night. It was June 3rd. You check again, at the date on the page and try to recall the last place you put your bag. "Or, is that just another part of your facade?"

Your brows furrow in concentration. His fingers slide up your leg, over your side, and stop at your chin.

"The hard-worker, the star-student every college professor dreams of. You know, humans have this tendency to wear many faces. I wonder how many I can peel from you."

The sudden shock of pained sensation breaks you from your concentration. The paper falls from your clutch, and your fingers find his wrist.

"Ow! Hey-" His other hand is fisted into your hair, freeing it from covering your face. Something slithers up your body and pins you to the counter. Your elbows and knees bend directionless, as your body panics before your brain does.

The blue cup shatters on the ground, pushed accidentally off the counter, unsweetened tea pours over the ceramic shards and over the floor. Your legs flail just inches above it all.

Your fingers dig into his skin, clawing, tearing, frantic like a cornered animal. They're your only defense. The drawer full of knives is on the side you can't reach from around him. The things slide over your stomach and pulse, clinging to you harder as you thrash again, and again, and again.

His fingers pinch again, and pull. And pull. And pull.

Like a scab that hasn't fully formed, or the layer of reptile skin that is beginning to shed. A thin, almost translucent layer, begins to separate from your face. From two inches under your chin, to the tops your cheeks, to the bridge of your nose. Like glue slathered and crusted. You watch it come undone, pupils tiny and unfocused on the sight, as it comes over your eyes and their lids, and then finally, your forehead. And then, it's off, dangling in his clutch as you scream to nothing, because nothing comes out.

The skin left on your face is raw, premature, not ready to come out its shell just yet. It tingles, warm and wrong. The thing clutching you retracts, and your knees fall into the pile of sticky mess and ceramic.

You can see in the shadow casted above you, that his wrist is twisting, that the layer of meat jiggles as its inspected. Your hands fly to your face and scramble around the surface.

"I wonder, which is this?"

His question is left unanswered. You dart forwards, knees nearly giving out as your feet pound the length of the wood floor to the tiles of the bathroom. Your palm slams against the bathroom counter, your hand padding the wall to find the light. And when it flicks on, your reflection stares back at you.

Visibly, nothing has changed. You think.

It's your face that you're looking at. Your bags under your eyes, your frown lines and your creases in your forehead. That's fear in your eyes, terror unlike anything you've seen before, let alone as your own expression. Your hands have this horrid tremble to them, as your fingers hover an inch above your cheeks, afraid to come in contact with the surface again.

Your knees, they're visible but barely, hiding just below the countertop at the very bottom of the mirror. They're bloody, dotted with dark blue and gold sharp spikes. They're leaking in trickles like water down your calves. Behind you in the reflection peeks the lack of color. Someone else. You force yourself to move before he can get in, slamming the door in his face, fumbling for the lock, using your weight to keep it closed.

"Get out! G-Get out! You can't come in here!"

You expect banging, you expect for him to grab the knob and shake it. You expect him to break down the door. But, it remains unchallenged. Closed. It's a barrier he allows you to have, for one reason or another.

"I think I figured it out. The first one you show to people, am I correct?"

You can't get a grasp on the cup's shards in your skin. Quickly, are your shaking fingers slippery with blood and sticky with tea.

"The facade of happiness. Of content with your situations, and the people you find yourself entwined with."

But you try, and try again, able to get the biggest piece out, listening to it skitter across the tiles, before trying your luck on another.

Your thumb splits. Something slides from behind you and snatches up your ankles. Skinnier than the last, less consistent in their form. Wetter, but holding onto enough strength to pry your legs apart. Your head knocks against the wood, your hands flying to the black appendages. Another fiddles with the lock.

"Superficial.. is that corporate smile. The bright, cheery tone you bring along with it. to greet your customers. That isn't from the liquor, is it? No, this one is all you."

He talks as if you're not screaming. He talks as if you're not on your hands and knees, attempting to scour through the cabinets, throwing everything on the ground to get your hands on something useful. He talks as if he's not flicking the lock, as if the door isn't cracked open and being held by his fingers as your foot bashes back into it. He talks, low, calmly, mockingly.

"A shame. What a pity."

The things wrapped around you fill out, thicker now, finding a good grip around your shoulders. Your hand just barely grabs a pair of hair scissors before you're sent flying upwards. Again, he finds your hair with his hand, grabbing hold as your stomach is slammed into the bathroom counter.

It takes a split second until metal is in the meat of his arm. It's a clumsy movement with no real thought behind it, but it's enough, just enough, you think, you hope. Blood drips quietly into the white porcelain. The scissors clatter as a black, tiny tendril pulls them from his flesh. Your eyes focus on his reflection, rather than anything else.

"I thought I knew you." Says your coworker. "Remember that time I invited you out for drinks? You know, at the lounge. I could tell you were stressed, I thought it'd do you some good. But.." He has these sunspots across his nose, and these spring green eyes that sparkle under the light. He was one of the only people working that you trusted, that you paid mind to. "Now you turn and attack me?" You can see it, the pain in those irises. You can hear it, in his soft tone that never raised at you or anyone. You're staring right at him, and at yourself.

So, you had sex with your coworker. So, you brought him home when you probably shouldn't have. So, you got a few drinks. So what?

It's human connection. It's stress relief.

So what?

He liked it as much as you did. You're not the only guilty one here.

"Just.. how many faces do you have?"

The writhing things do not show in the reflection. You feel them, but your eyes refuse to lose focus on him, and on you. Your clothing comes apart in pieces, stretching and falling in piles at your feet. Something pulls you higher and spreads apart your legs, leaving you exposed.

His fingers are under your chin, where there is dead skin peeling around your neck. He pinches, and something pushes up into you. In the reflection, your face is hot and red, your eyes are half-lidded, your mouth is agape. In the reflection, you're left gaping, and something bulges in your stomach. Something writhes around.

"I like this one."

There is a deep rooted bruising in your stomach, a violent tear at your entrance, and a trickle of something wet before it morphs into a stream. Slimy, something black but red falls down your ass, and you watch as the ring of muscle contracts around nothing.

"It suits you."

A moan escapes you, something pitiful and high-pitched. A scream lost in translation.

Fingers caress the underside of your chin, his thumb presses into your cheek, keeping your head still, assuring that your eyes are fixated on the pulsating black mass.

It showed itself in just one blink, pulling out and twisting like an oversized worm. You can feel its tip where it pokes from inside of your stomach, right below your ribs, in-between them. Impossibly deep. Then, it's gone from view, just as fast as it manifested.

There's acid in the back of your throat, leaking past the sides of your lips as foamy drool. Moan after moan erupts from your chest, the reflection shows your body moving back against the invisible intrusion, accepting it in all its entirety.

"But, there is still more underneath. Let us not just focus on one, but instead on all."

Your coworker's fingers hook into the space where dead skin separates from fresh skin. This time, (was there a first?) you see it all as it peels from a deeper layer. There is nothing to do but go slack in fear, even your body betrays your need to fight now.

The feeling of it

coming undone,

like a sticker,

or a stamp.

The expression of lust. Plucked. As if it never belonged to you.

Around the edges, blood begins to bubble, dots like stars in the sky.

Your lips slide open on their own, a scream to the sky.

"Ah, there it goes."

The rhythm between your legs shifts into something roughly erratic. Acid and blood ejects itself into the sink below you. The thing in his clutch dangles in front of your blurring vision like deli meat.

"This is the second. This is the lust you bring after you lure in your prey."

The shape contorts into a face you've never seen in anything other than pornography.

"It's simple, and quick. It's an easy role to play. It's an easy role to hide your disgust for."

Against your wishes, the muscles of your pelvis contract, finding a rhythm around the wriggling tentacle, leaking waves of pleasure.

"But, underneath lies your true feelings."

You're staring at it, bugged eyed, as it mocks an expression you've had in pictures, had shown to many of people. Filtered, palpable pleasure. Through it's translucence, you almost see your own face again.

Slipping from between his fingers, the face falls into the puddle of bile and blood, clogging it all from draining. When the shivers between your legs finally come to a halt, the hold on you retracts, and you crash onto your side upon the cold tile. "I think that's enough for tonight. Humans are so fragile, so easily breakable. And, we wouldn't want our fun to come to a close so soon, wouldn't we?"

The water runs, a quick thirty or so seconds, before it stops, and the click of shoes falls upon the ground.

"By tomorrow, we'll finally be making some progress."

Within the sink, there is nothing. You sleep to nothingness on the ground, tears stinging the untouched flesh of your face.

In the morning, your coffee and your breakfast awaits you on the table, plated neatly by a collection of mail.

In the morning, you rub your raw eyes and peer at the man sipping tea, his eyes glancing over a letter.

"Good morning." Last night, you had went out to the Snapdragon Lounge. Last night, you had almost broken your promise not to drink. Almost. But, you prevailed.

"Morning." There's something off in your voice. The tone, it sounds less cheerful than you remember. But in his own, it sounds familiar. Like you have heard it for your entire life.

"It seems you've gotten yet another letter from your professor. Should I be the one to write him back this time, dear? He seems to misunderstand your circumstances."

Pancakes and scrambled eggs. Strawberries and blueberries. Sweet coffee warm and not cold in a thermos. You can't recall ever going to the store.

And his eyes. Cat-like and yellow.

You sit down across from him and eat. Everything is bland, like the concept of food from a memory. This happens during your slumps.

"Ignore it." You tell him, because there is no use trying to get through to your Professor.

"And, what about your Boss? It seems he has left some less-than desirable messages on your phone."

"Ignore it." You tell him, because there is no use trying to get through to your employer.

"If that is what you wish, my Dear."

Dear.

Your eyes follow the length of the wall next to the refrigerator. Beside the analog clock lies pictures of your family and friends, asymmetrical and flowing out into your living room.

You scan the faces; first your Mother and Father, then your friends from college, finding them blank expressioned, almost guilty looking. When you finish your breakfast, and move to collect the dishes to wash, the eyes are drawn to your body, shifting when you do.

"I'm sorry." You tell him, your boyfriend, much like you always have. "I don't want you getting caught up in my affairs. It's not.. It's not right, y'know? I'll respond to them when I get the chance."

And he frowns, too. Much like you do.

"See, Dear? That is what I'm afraid of hearing. You're stubborn, you don't like when I try to help you, why?"

Because, you can't be helped. Because, your fate is written in stone and nothing can reverse the outcome. Because,

You walk the twenty steps to the living room, eyes to the walls. The sun catches on the white curtains, glowing over the furniture, accentuating yours, but also your boyfriend's shadow.

It towers over you, almost inhumanly so. It stretches with your steps, swallowing yours completely.

He stands behind you, head cocked, hands clasped behind his back.

Within the photos, he begins to appear. Always behind you, always in the same outfit, with the same expression, as if he was copy-pasted into them post-taking. He wears black sunglasses, and smiles with his mouth closed. No one in the photos next to you pays him any mind, not your parents, nor your friends.

There's something about your face, too, that isn't correct, isn't right. You remember most of these; the family reunion, your high-school graduation and your 21st birthday. You were at your happiest (or, were you?), but now, you look sad, defeated, and deep in your eyes.. terrified. But the man, (who is your boyfriend) towers over you still, friendly, wearing your smile.

Your fingers, bony and pale, flit over the stack of cards next to your books on the coffee table. He watches, silent, leaning over your shoulder and head, his shadow swallowing the sun from behind you.

"The Emperor, Reversed. The Tower, Upright. Death, Upright."

"Has it always been that bad?"

Just last week, The Devil. But, today, that is lacking. Perhaps, maybe you have broken free from the chains of addiction. But, probably not.

"You know, in the Fool's journey,"

"I know."

"Look at it this way," Your professor and your employer, the destruction of your life, the death of you, and all the things you've made into you. "There are many different interpretations of the Arcana. Perhaps, yours tells a story of great good."

"Turmoil."

Something isn't right here.

"You're very nihilistic." His hands run along yours, collecting them away from the cards, before they slide up your wrists, then to your neck, and then, his fingers push into the skin.

"Who are you, again?" You ask, but it sounds like his voice more than it does yours. His honeyed tone, deep and smooth and sinister.

"I'm your boyfriend. Remember yesterday? When I took you out to your favorite lounge?"

"No. That doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't?"

No. Because you have this deep-rooted guilt and fear. Of becoming attached. Of hurting someone else. Of love.

You see it reflected on the table top before you feel it; flesh separating from flesh, blood leaking down a neck and spilling drops loosely onto glass, his fingers twisting in the mess.

"Beneath the lust; that guilty, nauseated look you give yourself in the mirror before you vomit all your feelings down the drain." Furrowed brows. Tears streaming down flushed cheeks. Beads of sweat. Terror.

Those are your tears, those are your fingers digging into his wrist, that is your face. A part of it. A layer of it.

The pain of parting is familiar, as if this has happened before (but, has it?). When it is gone, and you get a good look at it, you can see the mantra mouthed from its missing lips.

'please don't be waiting, please don't attach yourself to me like I wouldn't you.'

Gone is the guilt, in comes the fear to fill the void.

You kick the table so hard it skirts against the ground, its glass top cracking. His back is pushed from behind you, and, without another thought, you're barreling towards the front door.

It's a confusing thing, this entire encounter with him, with whatever this is. No longer are the things you see considered hallucinations, or bad dreams. Blood is dripping down your shoulders, sticking in your hair. Nerves on your face are raw and screaming as loud as you are.

The circular handle of your front door is the curved handle of your bathroom. Instead of your 'Welcome Home!' mat and the note letting your neighbours know it's alright to bring your mail up, you're face to face with the marble countertop. The sink. The salt lamp and the half-empty fresh scent hand soap. The hand towels and the lotion. Your face.

You, not two seconds ago, were in the living room. The same one with its TV and its clutter. The front door, not even twenty steps away from where you were standing.

"Going somewhere?"

It's coming down in large globs, from your scalp and from around your eyes. Crying, much like you are.

Your eyes are wide, bloodshot, the bags underneath are darker, somehow still there. The stranger behind you cocks his head and smiles, hands clasped behind his back, slicked with the scent of blood.

"The fuck!?"

You turn, hands flying into the fabric of his vest. You try to pull him forward, to shake him out of pure rage, but, he doesn't budge.

"What the fuck are you!? Why- What are you doing to me!?"

Instead, you ball your fists, bashing into his chest over and over, until your knuckles are white. Your yelling and your screaming, the banging, it must be causing a commotion to your neighbours by now.

"You mean, what are you doing to me?" The sadness in his voice, you see right through it. Fake, someone trying to garner sympathy. You know, because it's your voice. "Look at how you're hurting me. This isn't like you."

"Fuck off. Fuck right off. Get away from me!"

"You've been so sweet to me. Is the stress getting to you? Remember how you used to kiss me? How you used to treat me?"

And, you do. But, you can't. That isn't you, isn't real. You've never had a relationship in your life, not a single one. And him, this thing, you know he isn't capable of that either.

You scramble again, this time, towards the kitchen. The drawers fly open, hiding the few knives you keep around (fear of hurting others, fear of hurting yourself). Your shaking hands clutch it tight and point it directly at him when he comes into view.

"Don't! Not another step forward, or I swear to God, I'll-"

"Hurt me? Kill me?" You swallow, sick in your throat now down in your stomach. "Are you capable?"

Yes, you are.

"Rire." You spit, his name venom and acid. "Stop fucking with me. Get out of my fucking house."

"Such vulgar language." He clicks his tongue, and with no fear, breaks the space between you two. "I'd say, you're the one fucking with me. You know, so many fake things you've shown to me. We're only now starting to get somewhere."

And this is raw, this is the real you.

The one who hurts others before they can hurt you.

(but, is it really you?)

Blindly the knife slices, right into his arm, his shoulder, his chest, his hand, him.

(you've done so much to avoid such a tragedy)

Steel clatters to the ground. Your body hits the counter, fingers failing to grasp the edge. The black appendages hold you up, pin you down. You look up to him, anger over fear.

"Some.. kind of demon. Right? You're some.. big shot from where you come from?" Pure amusement resides on his face, etched there like a painting. You've seen it hundreds of times before, but not like this.

"When did you figure that out? Just now? Or perhaps,"

You already knew.

It was just too hazy. Too confusing. Too..

You'd wake up in your bed, bruises and scrapes around your face, imprints on your hips and waist. No recollection of the prior night. But now,

"Well. I think there's still more waiting for me, don't you?"

too many things are starting to not make sense.

He kneels, just far enough down to collect your weapon, blood slicking its handle. He looks at it, at the crimson smeared over its blade, then at you: your grit teeth, your warped angry-red face.

Give it back. You want to say. The parts of me that wouldn't harm. The parts of me I've had my entire life. Give me back.

There's a pain in your chest, blooming open, sharp and vibrant like spring sunflowers. Your eyes dart down to the black, plastic handle of the knife.

In one quick push, the steel is stuck inside. Easier for him than it was for you.

"Why don't we see what tomorrow brings? Perhaps, this fight of yours burns brighter. Or perhaps, you'll have given up."

Tomorrow? Blood is coming from your mouth instead of words. there's this awful feeling of dread in your mind, something your flailing body can't express properly.

You're a fish caught on a hook. A bug between tweezers. A human in the hands of..

He leaves you to remove the knife yourself. He watches just feet away in front of you as you topple over, grasping and pulling and choking as it slicks out wetly.

There are wounds. In your hand and on your shoulder and on your arm. In the mirror, they are his own.

"Good morning." Familiar is the voice. Soft, worn by years of stress and overexertion.

"Good morning." Familiar is the voice. Soft, worn by years of stress and overexertion. Except this time, it vibrates in your own throat.

"I hope you don't mind that I went through the mail." It calls out, quiet enough to not yell, loud enough from fear of not being heard. "I have a letter here, from the Professor."

The hands that are in front of you tremble slightly as they reach out to take the open letter.

"I've read it." The voice says. You nod, sadly. You don't need to read it, but you do regardless.

| Mx. - I understand that your work hours conflict with your sleep schedule. That is not the issue I'm addressing here. I am, however, addressing your lack of an appearance for this week's lecture. Compared to other students, you're quickly falling behind. If you cannot put your studies over your alcoholism, which, yes, I've already cracked your case from the incident we've had two weeks ago when you- |

Alcoholism? What the fuck does he know? You haven't drank in four days!

"But, you want to, right?" There's a burn in your chest, a sudden throb that mimics the beat of your heart. You crumple the letter and toss it at the ground. "You want to do these things. To drink, to go out, to have sex. They're simple, materialistic things. Addictions. It's not your fault for falling down to temptation. Right? There's always someone else to blame."

The devil in the garden of Eden. The serpent that wraps around the hand and guides it to the apple. The voice that says the words: "It's okay."

There is no guilt, no shame. Not yet. Because there are no consequences.

You drink your coffee, (bland, tasting of nothing but hot water and bitter sick) leaning over the table, tracing your finger over the flier for some lounge not that far from here. When you're done, you trade your dirty cup to another hand (a hand that has this tremble to it. a hand with your fingerprints), and leave the kitchen, feeling nothing of hunger nor nausea.

The light catches on your white curtains, shining bright enough to swallow up any shadow your body can cast. Your footsteps double, and you find the cards on the table.

This, too, is a part of your morning routine. A quick glance over at the Arcana, just to see if anything has changed, if there's any improvement, or any hope.

Today:

"The Emperor, Reversed. The Devil, Upright. Death, Upright."

"Hm. Well, nothing's changed here. Seems that the Devil will always stick by your side. A sore thorn. Or, perhaps, a comfort object." Your voice says. But, the wording isn't correct.

So, you need to get rid of your Professor. So, you need to stop drinking and smoking and having sex. So, your life will change, one way or another.

"What's the harm that can be done from a little drink? A smoke? Sex?" A second mantra; the one to rival mid-morning's.

Peering up to the picture above the table; your mother, your father, something between the two.

They have no faces. No eyes to watch you sin, no ears to hear your complaints, no nose to smell the liquor, no mouth to express their disgust.

Your friends, the ones you used to call friends, they've met a similar fate.

And, the thing in the middle, its face is contorted in joy. Real joy. Not the fake smile of an opera mask. A real one. Sick in its existence. Excited on the bases of self destruction.

"It's just one smoke." Behind you, the smell of fine tobacco. Within your fingers, a cigarette and lighter. Retracting away, black shadows of wet gelatin.

Your hand clutches the plastic, your thumb swipes the metal roller. The fire flickers over the pictures and their glass. Another hand (your own) takes a marker from the table and scribbles out the heads, out of fear that their eyeless existences can still peer down.

The filter is kissed between your lips, the smoke bellows out thick and grey. Your lungs are full, but your head is light and clear of fog.

"It's just one drink." In front of you, the door outside. In front of you, the handle in your clutch. Your fingers are on fingers, twisting, turning. The cigarette is still between your lips.

The door opens (when did you walk towards it?), the artificial light of your fridge blinds your eyes.

There's no food inside. Stocked on the shelves are bottles and cans. Seltzer and wine and beer and vodka. There are brands you don't recognize, brands that you don't like. But, it matters less in the end. Eventually, you'll drink anything. Because eventually, nothing tastes like anything anymore.

Your hand is around your hand, your fingers grasping your wrist.

No. Don't. You promised, remember? You promised.

The black appendage throbs, as if its circulating with blood, and tightens around your wrist.

Plucked from your lips is your cigarette. Burned into your shaking hand is its cherry ember. A punishment for hesitation.

"You know you want to."

"I promised that I wouldn't." Something speaks from your throat, the voices of the faces you no longer wear.

"To whom?"

"To you."

"To I?

"To me."

A blister has formed, bright and red and white, raised and spreading like summer hyperthermia.

"To us."

"Yes, though, when have I ever been the one to keep such promises?"

... ... ...

Who said that?

It vibrated in the body you're in. Your body. Or maybe, that thing's body. With the black tentacles now holding someone's hands into the fridge, now splitting into tinier tendrils that can fit around fingers, that can maneuver them over a metal cap.

"You haven't been."

Your tentacles close your hand around the bottle's neck, and pushes it up to your mouth.

You swallow without fanfare. The burn a comforting one. The haze a much needed one. It taste confusing, a mix of everything and nothing, the taste of nostalgia.

"It's just a little sex." Your voice purrs as your stomach fills up with the cold liquid. "What's the harm in a little sex?" You can't stop drinking, overcome by thirst and desire. Tingling begins to overtake you, your legs like jelly, being held up only by your larger tentacles. Your hands slide over your body, flitting under your shirt, the pads of your thumbs and forefingers pinching your nipples. "A little self pleasure?"

Down the hatchet. One, two, three, five shots. The bottle is only a quarter of the way empty, there is still more to go.

You had made this promise, once, (or maybe twice, or maybe it was more than that) to your professor.

( "Mr. Zeitgeist, I'm sorry that I missed the lecture. A family member has had a medical emergency and I'm their only contact. Can you send me the information? I can study before the essay on June 3rd. I'm really sorry about my behaviour from last time as well, coming in intoxicated was the wrong call. The next time you see me, I'll be sober and ready to perform to my best ability. Kindest Regards, Mx.-")

Whatever slips past your lips is collected in curved tendrils, pushed back into your mouth. Your stomach swells, aching, burning like an inferno.

Your hands rip open your shirt, and pull you back from the fridge, your foot kicks the door closed. Into the bedroom, you shuffle backwards. Your knees are spread still, by your tentacles, and your other knees below you.

Your pants are next to be destroyed, a hole torn over your genitalia, wide enough for anything to fit through.

The bottle is heavy in your hands, tilting up and up, straining and shaking.

Your hands hold your legs up, arms slotting against the undersides of your knees, your fingers finding that spot, holding you open. A singular tentacle makes its way up, your eyes strain to see it over the bottle, as the waves of alcohol cause it to shift. But, you feel it, leaking over your entrance, this viscous fluid, before it pushes in.

There is no time to waste. It is already five, or maybe ten inches deep. Pleasure bursts within you, sharp like a knife. Your moan bubbles around the liquid, as more and more flow into you.

It's almost gone. There is this heaviness swimming around inside your body. No longer can you hold the bottle up. Instead, the tentacles do it for you.

Inside, it squirms, back and forth like a snake on flat land, swirling its tip in circles, finding the winding curves of your intestines.

Two more large drinks. Your body has no need to swallow, it goes down on its own, welcomed. The bottle is discarded, your hands are on your hips to hold you steady.

"Ehn-"

That's not good. Something in the deepest recesses of your mind (sober, and conscious) tells you something is deeply wrong with this. Not only with the indulgence, but the fact that you're no longer a human being.

A drunk thing with these weird, writhing wet limbs. A drunk thing with two sets of a body.

Your fingers slip below, above your entrance, massaging your dripping, wet nerve endings. They scream out in overstimulation, your wobbly lips do the same. Except, its this croaked, broken thing. An animal stepped on. A bug squished. A faulty squeaker in a toy.

Your voice from behind chuckles, finding familiar rhythm with fingers as the tentacle pushes deeper.

There should be pain there, somewhere. Its just an inch above your navel, bulging as it twists within a loop of itself. You can see it, blurry, spotting vision aside. It's tight, a squeeze not meant to be forced apart. And yet, it persists.

"G-Guh-"

Impossibly so, it becomes larger. Or maybe, it's just unfurling. More push into your hole, filling out a centimeter at a time, stretching the muscle loose. You're choking on words now, your fingers relentless, picking up their pace.

"It's frightening, to see how much you can take." You say, astonished in your own ear. Excited, lustful. "Will it go all the way through?"

You're drooling all over yourself, pushing yourself back onto the appendage (or maybe, its the hands on your legs pulling you forward), leaking hotness like blood (is it?) over your ass and thighs, smearing onto your legs below.

"You're eager to see it, too?" The bulge burrows deeper, deeper, to your sternum, between your lungs that can't get enough air in them. "But then, you might die."

No longer is it your voice. Your trembling, skinny fingers are full and strong, yanking your legs further, making way for a widening mass of dripping black ichor.

That isn't your voice in your ear. Beneath you lies something that isn't your body. Around your legs, locking you in place, are not your arms.

Your fingers, your real fingers, are entangled with sloppy tendrils, darting quick over your genitals, forcing your body to succumb to an orgasm the second it pops into your-

There is no pain; no sensation other than the rushing, hot waves flooding through your veins. Bright flashes of electricity shock your nerves, and the system they make up. Within your vision, the bright white of the sun, or perhaps, something divine.

You clench your teeth into it, the outer surface jiggly, the inner more tough, like raw meat. The taste, an opposite. Salty, like seaweed, but musky, like sweating flesh.

It wriggles, similar to a live squid. Its tiny, leaking tip unfurls over your bottom lip, covered in blood, and something utterly acidic.

No air can escape, nor enter, the space surrounding it in your throat. Each pulse of the tendril causes your throat and stomach to bulge, pushed to an inhuman point.

Behind you, Rire chuckles.

"Seems as if you're alive, no?"

You're shifting forwards, your limbs are dangling and flailing weakly as you hover over the ground. Three, maybe four feet.

It looks so close, yet so far away.

The mass shifts upwards, backwards, pushing up into your spine to compensate for the change of direction. Bile is bubbling around it, you can feel it burning the lining of your esophagus. There's swirling things in your vision, changing color and size and shape with each, tearful blink. Fingers find your hair and force your head back.

"You're looking a little pale." He thumbs the tendril, it twitches in response and rubs back. "Yet, you're persisting."

Hate. Hate. Hate. Bubbling in your chest, in your mind. All you feel is hate. How strong, so strong, it is. You've never been so..

"Good."

Spiteful. Angry.

Not at your Boss, not at your Professor, not at the asshole customers that ruin your nights, or the stupid naive people you put up with at the bars and clubs. Never, have you hated someone much like Rire.

He's reading it on your face, all the insults and long-winded sentences you can't speak. He sees it in your pupils, even through that fear.

But.. you have hated someone like this before. Just once, because it only required one single fuck-up.

"I was afraid you'd be giving up on me. That is what you really want, no? The easy way out? The ticket to freedom?"

There's a slinking movement. A stiffening. Then, a pull so violent it leaves you heaving, hacking up puddles of black vomit. The mess splatters on your carpet, watery and slimy, no hints of food, just the coating of the tendrils.

Around your throat, your shoulders. Your legs drag behind you, the butt of your palms push the ground in front. His footsteps trade places, until his body casts a shadow over you.

Now, you see where they all manifest. The point between his shoulder blades, like wings, three in a triangle over the vest.

This time, you know it isn't a hallucination or a bad dream. You're seeing it head on, albeit blurrily. He keeps his hands clasped beneath, a show of strength, and drags you along until carpet is wood and wood is tiles. Tiles coated in brown droplets of blood that you swore weren't there before.

Out of thin air, they're gone. No need for a snap of a finger, just released concentration. He bends to pick you up manually, and forces you over the counter again.

This time, the reflection in the mirror shows him, and something else that resembles you, but isn't.

"That's your last. That self-destruction, and utter disgust."

You're sick of it. Of him, of this thing you're staring at flopping over and letting him-

"Just one more, and then there will be none."

You're sick of it. Of him, of this face of excitement.

From the top, your nails hook inside the scalp. And you pull, violently, scraping until flecks of flesh stick under your nailbeds, until there's blood slicking your fingers and-

You're screaming at the ceiling in a rage so loud.

You don't wish to watch it come off.

Even with your closed eyes, you know his are open, boring into the back of your head with their yellow hue and slit pupils. Beneath your scream is the dull sound of droplets, like rain hitting a window, and the squeak of a wet surface connecting with another wet force.

There is pain, like pleasure and haze. There is pleasure, like a skinned, throbbing knee.

The wobbly fingers pull, the liquor-tainted nails scratch and scratch and-

Silence. Catharsis. The feeling of sleep without sleep. The feeling of a coma whilst conscious. Numbness.

When it is all gone, there awaits nothing.

Good morning, the teeth say.

"You have a letter from your professor. Don't worry about it today, I already wrote him back for you."

Thank you, no one says.

Tucked neatly between office buildings and second-hand shops awaited another bar you've yet to try. This one was a little further out of your reach. Downtown, two or three blocks away from the supermarket you were headed to. You were passing, just passing, anxiously trying to beat the moving storm clouds overhead, your shoes pounding on the pavement.

In the end, you lost.

Once the beginnings of rainfall let themselves loose, the rest followed. Your grocery list's pen ran and smeared, the paper itself wilted, and your hair got soaked. Thunder cracked somewhere near, and you ended up shaking off at the entrance of the Braying Mule.

The first thing you took note of was its color; orange and brown and red. Bright and comforting, similar in shade to autumn leaves and fall sweaters.

The second, the smells; greasy finger foods (pretzels, peanuts, sliders..?), and the sting of beer.

The third, the groups of people.

Instead of the usual crowds of drunken 25 year olds grinding against each other that you're used to, there were people in their middle ages. Women with crows feet, and men with greying hair. No one was there on their own, outcasted to the sides where the light didn't quite touch.

No.

People chatted in pairs, some in three, most in two. Parents on dates, coworkers on a much needed break, friends finally able to gather round after months of absence.

There was one, just one, who was alone it seemed. But, not necessarily. He was going from group to group, person to person, slowly. And everyone that he talked to smiled just as bright as he did. Eager for embrace and conversation.

That one, you had thought, must be a regular.

The bartender greeted him as he sat down, finished with entertaining a women and what seemed to be her wife.

You overheard the conversation from where you were headed. He was talking about some project he had been anticipating. Something that he's been thinking about 'for what feels like forever'. Something that got him so giddy he couldn't 'sleep for days'. And the bartender laughed, her smile lines crinkled with her face.

"You know, I can't believe you can finish what you start sometimes. It seems like once every few weeks you come up with something new!"

He laughed, too. Booming, even over the conversations and general noise of clinking glasses. But, and maybe it was your imagination, but..

His face. It looked sad almost. Like that face you make when you can't finish an essay on time. Or when you show up to work late, and apologize over and over to your manager.

So, maybe not sad, but guilty. An: "Oops! You caught me!"

"Ooh, is it really that obvious?" He scratched his chin, and played into that guilty smile a little more. "Well, I have a lot of ideas going through my head. Sometimes I get a little carried away, and finish one a little rushed. I just get so eager to start something fresh!"

What marked the end of their conversation was his wandering eyes. Light brown, a little hazel, tea with honey swirled in. They landed on you, his words trailed off and the bartender cocked a brow in your direction.

She smiled to herself, eyes closed, and shook her head. To anyone else (to you), it would've been insultive. One look at you is astonishment. Judgement. Because, what is someone like you doing in this place of all places?

But, it was meant more so for him, than it was targeted at you.

A gesture that said: "Another one caught your eye?"

She waved you in, a gentle welcome, as your feet carried you along into her direction. You sat further away from him, two stools down.

This was bad, you had thought, I shouldn't be in here.

Your 'habits' carried you from bar to bar, club to club, liquor store to gas station. It had been weighing you down recently, heavy on your mind and crushing in your chest. The strangling guilt of falling behind in life, the choking guilt of succumbing again.

Shelter, you had told yourself, I'm here for shelter and nothing more, I don't need a drink in my hand.

So, he had closed the gap, two seats to only one between, and leaned over the table a bit.

"Hey! I've never seen you around here before. Rain get ya?"

"Unfortunately. And, yeah.. I don't usually come downtown to drink, believe it or not! In fact, well, I didn't even think this place was a pub. It's tucked between those office towers."

He had chuckled under his breath, but the sound was the only thing he stifled. In his expressions, he didn't. His face contorted cheerfully, his cheeks sunk in to show dimples and aging lines.

"Haha! Well," He rested his cheek on his palm, smiling warming towards you. "How else are the white-collar workers supposed to get their jobs done?"

You laughed with him, but, deep down it stung. A bit, just a little. In an understanding way, sympathy for the faceless. "I get it, been there done that."

"Ooh, I couldn't. I have to come here only on my days off. Operating machinery under the influence is a good way to line hospitals pockets!"

Machinery.

From the looks (and smells) of him, you could tell that was his line of work. His green button-up had old oil stains, brown and black, lining its bottom and the sleeves. His hair had a sheen of grease in its curls, and he smelt of iron and gasoline.

"What types of machines?" You had asked, before anything else, trying to avoid ordering any drinks, trying to keep your self-made promise.

"Hm, well," Maybe it was rude to stare, however, you couldn't help but study his face and hands. He had looked to the side, pushed his lip out and scratched at his stubble. "All types. Mainly, I'm a mechanic. I work with all different kinds of cars and trucks." His eyes had found yours again, the oranges of the atmosphere lighting their reflections up. "What do you do? Must be something that wouldn't get you hurt if you're brave enough to show up tipsy!"

"I'm a clerk. I mostly work evenings, so it's not like anyone would care, y'know?"

"Haha, very true! Retail workers always seem to be the ones I see in here the most!" His eyebrows furrowed once he was done speaking, then, they lifted in shock and rememberance. "Oh gosh! Where are my manners? I completely forgot to ask your name!"

He said his name was Strade, and had mentioned he was from Germany. And, when he was still living there, he was going to college still to become an engineer. Though, hadn't really worked towards that since he migrated here to Manitoba. Instead settling in with a younger relative from Japan, his nephew.

In his free time not spent in the pub, he said he frequents his neighbours houses. Cookouts, fixing up things, painting even, sometimes for a drink and a conversation.

He is, quite literally, the opposite of you.

And yet, you had stayed and chatted, feeling the thunder rumble through the ground.

You had learned about his woodworking hobby, and the machines he had pattented back in Germany. He had learned about your..

"I take it you're not here for a drink, are you? Considering you've told me about what you get up to on the job!"

Alcoholism.

To put it bluntly.

"Still, let me get you something! Please, you've been so polite to me."

You opted for a soda, thanking him internally for not being offput by it, for obliging, for not pushing you to intake even more and more.

But, it was never just the drinking. There were 'others'. More risqué to admit to him.

The things that lay hidden beneath your clothes, and in the deepest parts of your psyche.

He spoke, yes, but he pried, too.

Do you like your job? How long have you worked? Are you friends with your coworkers? How long have you lived in Manitoba? Do you like it here? Oh, you're going to college too? You must be busy! What are you studying?

"Working hard, or hardly working?"

"Hardly functioning, Strade. I'm like a broken machine. Yet my professor, and my boss.. they're still trying to keep me going."

He liked that. He laughed louder than he meant to, covering the sound with the back of his hand. And, it felt good, to get geniune humor out of someone when you've been used to the dry chuckles that come from everyone around you.

But, you could tell he wanted to hear more about you. About who you are outside of cracking jokes at others' (and yourself) expenses. About who you are outside of the bits and pieces of insecurity you have surrounding bars.

You didn't want to tell him. You didn't want to have a genuine connection to another. It wasn't something you could add to your already full plate.

Certainly, you didn't want to go with him. To his home. To yours. To a hotel. Anywhere.

Because, it wouldn't be the first time. Because, you didn't want him to think of you like that.

But, as you talked, and as he questioned, you realized just how stubborn he was. Stupidly stubborn, and overly friendly. Once his focus shifted to you, he didn't want it to leave.

"So, what do you tend to do with those you meet at bars?" The place had thinned out, you two had moved to a table away from the counter as to not disturb anyone with your conversation. He traced his fingers absentmindedly along the table, you swirled your black straw in your drink and dreaded answering. "Something.. scandalous?"

"Haha, does it really matter?"

"Well.. lets just say, I'm really into you. And, lets use a hypothetical here,"

"What? You're worried I might ditch you?"

"I am an old man compared to you! We're so different, but I'm so intrigued by you!"

Scandalous.

You could call it that. You did during your conversation.

But, a scandal implies something to keep secret, something that would ruin your reputation.

And, in your eyes, you had nothing to lose.

You're already leaning towards the deep end.

Stepping toes past the 6 foot drop, feeling yourself float, feeling so afraid of drowning.

"It depends on the person."

But, really. It didn't.

Once you were five drinks in and wobbling around making a fool of yourself, anything went. The only thing that mattered to you was that you'd never see each other again.

No exchanged numbers, no second meetups, and absolutely no getting attached, romantically or even platonically.

Threesomes, orgies, with those who are genderless, something between or strictly cis, nothing mattered.

You were sober, completely. Promising yourself no drinks, nothing.

And yet, you ended up following him anyway.

And yet, you climbed the step up into his lifted Jeep and sat in the front seat.

You watched the rain race down the window, and observed the decorated interior.

The little keychain, a hammer and drill, that was tied to the rearview mirror. The fruity, almost cotton candy-like smell of the air freshener. The cigars in the center console, and the unopened cans of energy drinks forgotten in a gas station bag.

He talked your ear off the entire drive back to his home. You learned about his nephew. He moved in way after Strade had, a few years ago. He apparently doesn't like to leave the house often, or ever, and would probably be too engrossed in his games to care that Strade brought you back.

But, the guilt wormed its way into you. Creeping up on you, mimicking the cold rush of the stormy winds on your skin. Goosebumps raised, you began to shift.

You wanted to joke, to break the tension that was beginning to sweat you out.

'lets play never have I ever. i'll start. never have i ever gone home with someone sober.'

Yet, the words remained thoughts, humorless to you, mocking you.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"

He had said it in the car. You had shook your head, and tried your best to smile.

He had said it again, as you had stepped foot into his house. As you smelled the scent of peanut butter and chocolate cookies. As you walked across the dimly-lit kitchen. As he pushed you up against the wall.

And, he said it again, as he kneeled and looked at you, satisfied with the work he had done to tie your hands to the support beam.

You couldn't speak even if you wanted to.

There was a throbbing in your head. There was a poke in your back that bled and fingers that bruised your wrists. Then, adrenaline had sorted it out, leaving no pain, just a thought.

'would it be easier to speak if I was-'

"If its any reassurance, I don't plan on hurting you tonight."

Because, the scuffle you had trying to escape wasn't hurting you. More so, like.. wrangling a house pet that tried to run into the street.

You made it to the back door, through the garage, your fingers had nearly touched the button to open the metal shutter, and then-

Because, the fight to get your clothes off wasn't hurting you. Any injuries you had sustained during were accidental, avoidable.

He was cooing, attempting to calm you down. His hands worked firmly, but they weren't angry.

He was not angry.

He looked at your face, followed the goosebumps on your shivering body.

"You cold? I'm sure I have a blanket around here somewhere."

So, off to your right he went searching, in some makeshift room that you could see only by craning your neck. So, back he came with rough fleece the color of army green. So, he draped it over you and patted your head and went:

"There! I want you comfortable so that you get enough rest. I have lots planned tomorrow, you're going to need it!"

Your face was scrunched in. And your eyes.. they were narrowed at him, but, you were unsure of what you were feeling. Unsure of what you would say if your slack lips would stop trembling enough for you to form words.

It was too dark to see at the time. Through all of it, he kept the light off, as if he knew the layout of the basement like the back of his hand. Not only the layout, but where everything was placed. From the blanket, to the rope, to the trashcan where the cut up scraps of your clothes and underwear were discarded.

But, you made out his expression. Through the satisfaction, he was relieved to see your body stop trembling. And when he departed up the stairs, you had become disgusted with the harsh scent of cleaning supplies, and iron. Some part of you wanting to smell a warm body, rather than a cold, harsh concrete cage.

It was too dark to see at the time, made worse only by your blackening, exhausted vision, but you swore, feet in front of you around the drain, there were rusted trails telling old stories.

Sleep didn't come easy. The thought of tomorrow weighed heavy in your chest. The endless amounts of what ifs, and disaster scenarios, all screaming in your thoughts, in your own, panicked voice.

| Thunder shakes the building, lightning strikes the city behind you. The bright flash illuminates the office room, casting your shadow over the surfaces in front of you. You twist in place. The backs of your thighs and bottom, the flat of your palms, all imprinted with the dingy carpet outline. Crumbs are stuck in the crevices, embedded in your flesh, bleeding.

Rain beats down on the window, obscuring the outside world. Quickly, you stumble to your knees and push your hands into the glass, feeling it move and shift from behind the bars. A cold draft leaks from the un-caulked sides of the windowsill, the wind howls like a tornado.

The glass trembles, unsteady in its frame. You push again, your forehead bumps into the bar only five inches from another. There are city lights, but no cars. There are the outlines of buildings, but..

Nothing is clear. Not because of the rain, instead because of the blur. It's as if your eyes haven't adjusted to being awake just yet.

Still, there is a figure in the glass. Not your reflection, yourself.

Grocery list in hand, your left arm overhead shielding you from the rain, you stand before a pub's door.

Panic bubbles in your throat. For some reason, the sight of you alone makes your hands move on their own.

Flat palms slam, once, twice, then repeatedly, until the pane of glass rattles instead of shatters, until you can feel it slip out of frame.

The you below discards the sullied paper, right hand reaching for the hooked handle.

It pops from place. With no sound, the glass falls unbroken into the messy, flooded streets. Your arms and hands, now uncovered, are battered with heavy rainfall, the tiny pricks of water cutting lesions in your flesh.

You're screaming. Supposed to be screaming. At yourself now inside down below. At yourself now coming out again with someone else down below.

But, your mouth doesn't move. |

Slowly, your eyes flutter open, crusty around the edges and itching. A smell hits your nose second, a wave of nausea bubbles in your throat as you come to.

The smell, of course, is coming from the machines, the tools, the metal of the pole and the steel of a sheathed hunting knife. The dingy yellow light illuminates the greys, making them more pronounced than anything else in the room.

Sharp objects. Screwdrivers and drill bits. Nails and the claws of hammers. Each, you note, are shiny and clean, as if well-cared for, as if brand new. Each have their own spot on the workbench. It seems, despite how unkempt he is, he takes pride in organizing his workspace.

Workspace.

The rope digs into your wrists as you shuffle uncomfortably at the word.

So,

"I'm eager to get started." His tone is giddy, anxious even. His steps are quick, and the butt of his palms rub against his khakis. He flits between the array of tools, opting to wash his hands in the low water pressure with some giant drum of what you assume is medical-grade soap. "I'm sure you are, too! You were moving a lot in your sleep."

this is what he meant by project, wasn't it?

"Almost like you were having a nightmare or something." He flicks his hands over the sink to dry them, wiping the excess on his pants before he turns to you. "But, you looked so peaceful. Maybe you were having a good dream instead?"

You remember nothing of the sort.

You do however, remember bits and pieces of last night.

The pub, the walk to the car, the drive, entering his home, the wall, the struggle, the-

"Well, even if so, I think we have better things to look forward to today!" Your eyes flit down to his bootsteps to avoid his smiling face, following the beige of his pants, landing on the holster and the handle. His hand comes into frame, chubby fingers clasping around the-

And suddenly, just as you jolt back, just as your head collides with the beam and your ears ring, you realize the blanket he had given you is gone.

Just how long has he been down here? Pacing the ground? Staring at you?

Or.. touching you?

Kneeling down, he reaches a hand behind your head, cusps it to pull it away from the metal. You're staring at him, at his face, at his honey eyes and how they assess for any damage. When he finds none, he pats your head, giving you a smile before retracting his hand and-

You don't need to ask what happens next. You don't need to ask where you're headed now.

You know, deep down inside. You just.. know.

There's warmth in his hand, bordering on hyperthermia, as he slides it gently over the length of your thigh.

It's tender in that way a lover hovering above would touch.

An action posed as a question, as an invitation to intimacy.

His fingers inch closer to your hip, second knuckles at the faded, sideways scars. Your eyes are locked together, faces lacking in emotion, or, expressing one of uncertainty. When your lip twitches, his does. When your eyes threaten to move down again, his do too.

Now, you're both looking at it. At the nails pushing gently into the scars.

They're not as old as he might think.

No. You're just good at taking care of them. Good at making sure they're miniscule, healed long before they're ready to heal.

The blade is above, his fingers are lifted, his nails touch the steel, acting as a barrier and a guide.

And you think, for a fleeting moment, that it's improper.

The blade glides across, the skin splits centimeter by centimeter, opening up.

It's slow, but he knows it's not your first time. After all, you're sure he can tell that just by your delayed reaction. Can tell by the way your eyes gloss over before anything else. Before your mouth parts and you blink and you jolt and you scream.

The noise sputters him to life. You're pulling at your bonds and he's pushing the tip of the knife down into a longer scar below the first cut. You're telling him no, no, no don't, but the noise falls on deaf ears, and the mark on your skin is broken open once again.

This second one is deeper, sloppy. The kickstart makes him act without thinking. You can see it on his face as it twitches with excitement, before pity washes over like a tidal wave.

"I went too deep." He mutters, but the hand holding the knife is still his. The blade pushing into your skin, not sideways, but downwards (stabbing, like a butcher through an animal carcass), is still an action he did.

And yet,

"I'm going too far."

he cringes, winces in pain and at the sight of the serrated back of the blade pushing through the layers.

"Ngh-"

You can feel it, the slice through bone, the side of your femur now chipped off into the surrounding tissue. Blood bubbles up around the handle, (knuckles deep inside a dripping cunt) falling down your thigh in rivulets. He grits his teeth and you do the same, bracing for the inevitable.

It comes free in one strong pull, though, not without a mess. Sinew sticks to the back of the steel, where the serrated edge curves into the square handle.

A large gash is left in its wake. Within the layers of deep shades of red, you spot sickly yellow, deeper in the yellow, you spot white.

You don't focus on it long, can't; the wave of dizziness blurs your vision and burns the back of your throat. Instead, you focus back on his face.

He sighs deeply, releasing a breath he's been holding for what feels like an eternity. He wipes his forehead free of sweat with the back of his hand, dirtying it with a streak of blood in the process.

"Sorry, sorry. I got carried away."

Despair.

You'd recognize that tight feeling in your chest anywhere.

It's familiar. Something that comes only when you're facing things completely, utterly, entirely out of your control.

(the loss of a beloved pet, the destruction of a friend group, the separation of a family, the moment before being dragged downstairs into-)

This is something he cannot mimic.

That human feeling of entrapment. Because a predator doesn't understand the pain of prey. Can't. Never has he ever, perhaps never will he ever, understand.

When he lifts his finger to your teary eye, and wipes away what begins to fall, it's insulative. Disgusting.

It only makes you cry harder. The tightness more painful than the throbbing from your wound.

He makes this noise like an animal. Quick and high-pitched, but deep enough in his throat to be gutteral. The start of something familiar, never to continue, or to finish.

"I know, I know. It hurts. But," But. Always a but.

("I know you've been stressed lately, but you can't keep taking days off. We're understaffed-"

"I know you're going through a falling out, but I really need you to turn in this essay. I can't give you special-"

"I know you're hungover, but can't you just make some effort to-")

"We've barely gotten started. Can't you just do one more?"

He's conflicted between above, or below.

A cut above would be on the crease of your hip. Below, would be across the knee.

He shakes his head, smiling to himself, and catches your gaze.

"What do you think? Here, or there?" He taps the pin point tip to your knee, then aims it at your hip bone.

He should've asked: "which would hurt more?"

In a state of confusion, your mouth bubbles out the answer:

"Other.. one."

Like a dog, he tilts his head, just an inch to the left, and looks between the two spaces before finding your other leg.

"Oh!" It's tucked beneath your ass, your knee's joint aching from the pressure. He shakes his head in response. "No, no. I have other plans for that one."

The tightness in your chest drops to your stomach, forming a twisting pit.

"Well, if we can't decide.." His knee pushes into your calf, keeping it trapped in place. "Then, we'll just have to do both. How does that sound?"

Which would hurt more?

Over your knee, or your hip?

The crease of your stomach forcing you to lean back, unable to double over or lie down properly.

Or, knowing that, if you bent your leg, the wound would open again and again and stretch the skin further, bleed more?

"Hip. My hip. My-"

It's too late.

The steel is at the outer end of your knee, then suddenly at the inner. A line parts over the bone, thin skin, and little fat, a rush of blood going every which way.

He ignores your scream, finding your lower stomach with his free hand, pushing you backwards so that he can follow along the crease. Your struggle doesn't deter him, does nothing but make the cut crooked.

It curved upwards toward your navel, stopped just an inch below. Your heavy breathing pushes the dermis out, pink tissue now the main focus for his finger. He brushes over it, index's pad testing the sponginess.

Shutting your eyes does little to dull the pain, but continuing to watch will only make you throw up.

Something tells you that.. that still wouldn't deter him.

His heavy breathing shudders for a second, before he retracts his hand, and steel makes the sound of connecting with leather.

"Wow." Exasperation? "You're bleeding a lot!" Excitement.

You are.

You can feel all the stickiness pooling under your ass. The smell alone is sharp, the only smell you can focus on other than his sweat.

You wince and gasp when his palm clasps over your stab wound.

"You're gonna need stitches." But, they'll never be clean, professional, safe from opening again, being pulled on, touched, ripped- "Just a second."

His boot connects with the pavement, and his steps move away from you.

It's over.

You should be relieved, happy, but.. you're only anticipating more, worse.

Plastic clings on plastic, something drops and clatters on the ground, Strade makes this 'oop' noise under his breath, leather presses on concrete and you feel the vibrations before you feel his body heat again.

Still, your eyes are shut; the only thing you can do to attempt to steady your breathing, to push past the pain.

A plastic latch opens, the latch to what you assume is the med kit.

"Hm, we're gonna need to stop the bleeding first." Right. "Otherwise my fingers would get too slippery!" Otherwise, his fingers will get too slippery. You know, because of the blood.

Your blood.

So, for what feels like an eternity, he pushes something (a cloth? gauze?) against the wound and holds it there. And, for what feels like an eternity, you keep your eyes shut.

You don't stop crying, the pain doesn't lessen. In fact, it comes back when he places his thumb and index finger on each side of the wound, and pinches it closed, preparing the skin for the needle.

The needle's prick is lesser, something that draws a breath between teeth. But, compared to what caused the damage, you'd prefer this one thousand times over.

He works the thread through the thick of your flesh, poking a new spot into your skin not too far away from the previous.

You nearly gag at the sudden tug, nearly cry out at the needle finding another open wound, working faster than before. You persist, and wait it out.

It's not as long as you thought. A minute, two, five at the most once the biggest wound is taken care of. He worked at a surgeon's pace, never faltering, as if he has had many hours to practice the art of fixing what he has broken.

"All done." His prideful tone makes you dizzy, makes you curious. Your eyes open on their own, slowly, and with hesitation. "Well, what do you think?"

The skin is splotchy red and turning purple in places. The thin black thread goes across your thigh in zig-zag patterns, closing what you didn't think could be closed.

"It's.."

No loose thread sticks out. No jagged edge of the wound is left gaping or exposed.

"perfect."

The face he makes, it's this contorted thing. Shock, then an all-teeth smile. The corners of his eyes scrunch in, dimples on display. The laugh he makes is louder than you've heard previously, something like a cackle.

"Really?"

Really? Is that all you could think of to say?

| The nurse's fingers move quick, the thread and needle flit in and out in seconds. You can tell it isn't her first time, maybe not even today. She looks tired.

You avoid her eyes and watch your arm come together. |

"I think-" He talked as he finished up his work. As he cleaned your wound with a wet rag, then an alcoholic wipe, then as he smeared over the rest of an antibiotic tube.

Something about an aspiring canvas, something about you.

You tuned him out long ago, had no choice but to. All you wanted to do was sleep.

(medical care means that he's planning on keeping you alive? the blanket means that he cares if you're comfortable?)

| The grains. The dry air. The lack of sunlight or a breeze.

Heat surrounds you.

Your left arm moves, then your right, then your head.

A weighted blanket.

A suffocating body on top of a suffocated body.

A tomb.

You flail in a panic, twisting your upper body when your lower can't move. In waves, sand flows out from around you. Yellow and beige turns to dark blue.

A stagnant ocean?

Your throat clenches with the thought.

No. It's just the sky.

Planting your fingers into the ground, you force yourself into a sitting position, looking all around at the vast, empty space. There is nothing but dunes of sand, and a horizonless sky.

Heat waves obscure most of everything.

Except.

Yourself.

There you are, standing out in the endless open, holding no material possessions, staring out into nothingness.

Your head turns, like a deer to a predator, a quick movement that leaves no blur, into the opposite direction of where you're buried.

A voice had called, once or twice, the name you had become familiar with.

You do not hear it. You do not hear anything but the shifting sand beneath you as you crawl your way from the dune.

But you do.

Your body follows the direction of the sound, and ignores the scrambling, hurried movements coming from behind.

That's it, your problem, always off on some adventure.

Can't you see it?

Your legs? The cuts and the bruises? The blood covering your flesh like a veil?

You're crawling, completely unable to stand, in the direction that you're headed. The heat waves wobble your vision of yourself, and someone else.

You open your mouth to call out. But.. what lulls from your tongue is anything but words.

In the far off space where you and the figure have vanished, the sky has turned green.|

The first thing you register is the coarseness in your throat. Pin pricks that light up when you swallow, as if there is sand stuck in the backs of your esophagus.

"Good morning, Mein Liebchen."

There's a kink in your neck, and horrid stiffness in your joints (especially your wrists). Craning your neck to look over at him is hard, but not impossible.

"I've been thinking about what else to do today. I don't want to get too ahead of myself."

No, no. Keeping you alive was the plan. Destroying you entirely is the end goal.

You pity your outstretched, unharmed leg, and shiver.

(who kidnaps someone to kill them day one?)

"Strade." He hears it, the hoarseness caused by screaming, by swearing and cursing his bloodline. You don't remember much of what you had said, if you had said anything at all, you only recall the pain.

"Ooh," You know what he really wants to say, you can read it on his face.

'You don't sound too good.'

"What's up, Buddy? Got something on your mind? An idea?" But, those words aren't programmed in his head. Not now. They're on a schedule, you think. And right now, his main priority is the array of tools in front of himself. All lined up, screaming: pick me, pick me!

His hand is on the workbench still, laying over the rubber grip of a hammer.

"I don't.. I don't have any ideas. I just-"

"Not a single one? You were thinking about your other leg yesterday. And I was thinking: Hm! Maybe I should let them choose tomorrow."

("let me go." your lips form. "I want you to let me go." he cocks his head and smiles this wicked smile. )

He's anticipating something like that. How many 'attempts' has he given someone? How much 'freedom' did he extend? How many took it for 'granted'?

"I want this to be a team effort. I want to know what you think, y'know? What you'd do if I let you."

He's got another thing in his left hand, something sharp and metal. You can't crane any further to make it out before he turns back to the bench.

"I saw all the scars." There is no privacy, no cover, they're all front and center. And now, you're unsure if there's any room left for shame. "So.. you like playing with sharp objects. Right?"

His knife is in the holster. It's right on his back. If you could just.. wriggle your arms free and leap over the room then maybe you could get him in the side.

(you'd be betting on his reaction time. you'd be playing with the idea that maybe pain makes him angry, makes him lash out like it does some people.)

"I think that makes this decision a lot easier. But, who knows!"

If you were going to play with tools, machinery, you'd choose a lathe. Something large that could suck you up and kill you instantly. Or, maybe a screwdriver. Something lightweight with a large point to stick right into your jugular. Or his.

A hammer is blunt on the end, can only cause enough damage if slammed as hard as you can manage. The claw is more square than usual. Sharp, but not sharp enough. It could dig into something, pull something out, but what?

A drill is sharp on the tip, can cause any damage with a simple button press. Though, there's hundreds of bit attachments, presumably hiding somewhere in a storage container. The range varies. Would he pick one, or would you?

"Which is more appealing for you?"

But, the hammer is lacking nails to hit.

But, the drill is lacking screws to spin.

Neither are appealing. Not the tools themselves, nor any extras he'd throw at you.

You hang your head and shut up.

Talking got you into this mess. The desire to be inside of a bar (was it really for shelter?) got you into this mess. The desire to have sex got you into this mess. And, you didn't even get to have that.

"Hey, hey." He's cooing at you, voice low and soft, there's a hint of agitation, but he realizes yelling would be going too far. After all, your thoughts are plastered on your face. "I think I'm starting to understand you."

He's kneeling, tools in hand still, face showing nothing but sympathy, no hidden sadistic excitement (not yet).

"You're not the type to like taking control, are you?"

No, no, he's got it all wrong. You love that control. That's your issue. When things go south, the bottle is at your lips and something (someone) is inside of you. When things get bad, so bad, you're only forced to give up control. You let things roll off of you. Because, at that point, why bother?

But here there are no coping mechanisms. No hands to work with, no drinks or drugs to consume. The only person (why, out of all of them did you want him? why did everyone else have to be taken already?) around won't even have sex with you (why would you want that? why now?).

"No." His lips are parted in a soft 'o'. You watch the bushy brow above his left eye cock upwards. "No, that's not true."

"I think you and I both know that's not the case. I mean, after all, intoxication is surely one of the biggest ways to give up control!"

Of the body. Your body. Your body that is now his.

The only thing you can control now is the method of damage.

"Or.. maybe that's desire in general, ja? It's like.. it clouds your head and all the judgement you have. Makes you, ah.. what's the word?"

Stupid?

"Irrational! It makes you act irrationally! I get it, Bud. Let me tell you-"

Is this irrational? Is this clouded judgement? The torture? The god knows what else he's planning on doing? Spur of the moment actions?

No. He doesn't get it.

How could he?

"But you're sober."

Your voice is pathetic; a hoarse, sharp squeak. Your words cut off his monologue. Your wrists bang against the pole as you push forward.

He's caught off guard, leaning back with his eyes all wide (with no fear, never fear).

"You aren't drunk, aren't high. At least, I hope not- You're- Nothing is making you do this!"

Something is turning up there, something you're sure hasn't turned in forever (if ever), you can see it in those honey eyes of his.

His body language is stiff. He pushes out his lip and looks to the side, but it's not guilt on his face. It's something else. Wondering. Pondering. Inner questioning. A question with no answer.

And then, his eyes are on yours again, taking in your anger, your despair.

"No. But, Buddy, I'm only human. And you are, too. You know how we get, caught up in pleasure."

Human.

You're repeating it in your head, peripherals catching his movement as he retreats back to the workbench.

He's human, faulty, not hardwired or programmed to do such things.

It doesn't compute with you. Doesn't make sense.

A plastic box lands on the ground, millions of nails rattle together. He sets the hammer down inches before your knee, and something much larger behind himself.

"We'll work our way up, Ja? Gotta pace ourselves. I have lots to work with, so I'm not worried about running out of space."

He goes to grab your leg, you're one step ahead (but his eyes light up, fiery and excited, fixated on where your foot is headed).

His wrist clasps over your ankle, but not before your heel slams into his chest. He giggles, not condescendingly, but manically.

"Woah! I didn't know you had that in you!" (but he did. somehow, he knew.) You're thrashing now, the soreness in your day-old wounds morphing into sharp burning again.

How? How does one go through the steps without second guessing? Without wondering if they're doing the right (or wrong) thing?

The walk down here, the morning breakfast before, the pacing around the basement, the hesitation before a decision.

Not once was there a moment in time where he contemplated forgoing all of this?

(that's your issue.)

Not even now, as he raises the hammer above your knee?

Not even now, before it swings down and connects?

Not even now?

(and yet, you got into the car anyway.)

The blunt metal collides with the bend, the impact hard enough to straighten your leg. It goes flat, rigid, and it shakes much like your shoulders do, with such ferocity. You're yelling more in rage than you are pain.

He takes the opportunity immediately, pushing a nail just above your kneecap, the sharp point slipping into the very top of your flesh. Then, it dings as it's hit. A quick tap needing barely any pressure to sink it through.

Another one follows, aimed at the side of your thigh just before your joint. This one is long and skinny, three or four inches in length. Sickeningly, your eyes can't escape the sight.

He smiles above, twisting your leg in his arm, and lets gravity do the job this time.

A trickle of blood slips down your leg. Your body flinched, shut your eyes on its own, but you can feel the metal still sticking out into the cold air.

It didn't go through. It didn't go-

"Oops." The tip is in the fat, pushing on a nerve that sparks with your body's tension.

Strade chuckles under his breath above you.

The second hit never comes.

You can hear his hand readjust, hear the sweaty skin slick over the rubber.

So.. this is the game he wants to play?

It's between your sanity, and his pleasure. If it means dragging this out into hours, days, weeks, then so be it.

( You're curious. At the end of the day, you're always going to be curious.

What would happen if you drank more than usual? Mixed your drinks? What would happen if you omitted the condom and the safety and told someone: "do what you please?"

At what point did it become thrill seeking? At what point did wondering become an itch that needed to be satiated? )

One eye opens, then the other, just enough to see, but not without the blur of lashes.

His fingers grip onto your thigh, and sliver cuts through the empty air.

Now it's in. Now all you can see is a glint of grey reflecting the basement light. Redness begins to spread around the nail, inflammation and driblets blood.

Some part of you is satisfied. Some part of you revels in the fact you controlled when it went in.

"Ah, lets see here."

But, why?

"Oh! This isn't right."

"What isn't.." You're getting dizzy again. There's pain on one leg and the other. There's a burn running through your wrists and it's all morphing into one giant sensation. Your skin barely registers the grooves on the nail. The way they spiral down the tip. Twenty of them, maybe more or less.

He's tracing it up and down. Up. And down. Up. And down. Over the fat of your thigh. It follows an ever-changing rhythm, going slow, then stopping, then speeding up just a little.

You're mesmerized with it, for only a second.

(the fingertip of a lover. the same questioned posed from earlier)

"This isn't a nail." He exclaims in a tone that sounds a little guilty.

And yet..

The hammer hits the screw's head regardless, unfazed by its existence.

All the little ridges feel much like the serrated edge of his knife from before. Each catch on flesh, and each work their way deep, molding the fatty tissue around them.

Here is where you notice just how badly you're shaking. You can hear it in your sobs, how they're vibrating unsteadily out into the silence. His smile is sad, his eyes are watery, but unlike you, he persists without complaint.

"Your legs are getting a bit too much attention!" The stitches over your knee have broken open, pink and red soak the gauze shoddily taped around. "But.." His hands are trembling, much like your legs are. He reaches in for a nail and finds the longest one buried at the bottom.

Ten or so inches. So thin between his fingers.

"You can take it." He promises, more so to himself.

It rolls between his fingers, fondled so slowly, before it's pressed to your skin just above your fibula.

The angle, you want to warn him, isn't right, isn't good.

A small tap, just barely enough to push it through with a wet pop. It's only an inch, maybe less. He looks up at you (at your red, snotty face and all its unabashed sorrow) as if he's asking for permission.

Why? Why is he-

Another tap, rougher, one that shakes your leg and sends the nail three more inches inside. You're gasping, utterly out of breath. He gives you but a moment for collection, to brace yourself, before a third strike comes down.

This time, the blunt head smacks right into the side of your shin.

The vibration collects within the bone, flowing throughout in one long, sharp lightning bolt.

There's white in your eyes, then nothing.

Your chin hits your chest, a scream is punched out of you so fast it becomes but a breath.

"I knew it." The nails rattle again as they're pushed away. "But, that's too much." There's pain somewhere deep. Somewhere close to the pin prick points. Somewhere surrounding the phallic lengths.

His body heat shifts to your left side, then to your right. He hums beneath his breath and it's back in front of you.

"Are you right, or left handed?"

It's not as bad as the cuts. Blood is barely leaking from around the flatheads. The nails are a plug that if pulled would-

Something cuts through the air. A revving engine. A blender's spinning blade.

You get no chance to answer the question. (did it ever matter?)

It's similar to the screw, spinning grooves going down and down, circling around dizzyingly so.

His sweaty hand clutches your left arm, fingers curling tight around easily. Closer, the spinning bit inches closer, until you can feel the wind around roar with the force.

There's no resistance in the mind, or the flesh. It forces itself inside, wrecking the pathetic tissue as it delves deeper and deeper. He's holding the drill with both hands, face scrunched much like yours, his eyes wide much like yours, as the tool shakes violently.

The sensation is something otherworldly, something you have no words to describe.

All you know is that the burning throbbing pulsating tearing in your arm is down your wrist and in your shoulder, far away from the starting point just above your inner elbow.

The noise stops, the spinning stops, but the vibrations linger, shuddering through your nerves and into your bone.

It pulls out with more resistance, caught on the flesh in a much more angry way than the knife was. The exit wound is larger, gaping. You get one good glimpse of the red mass before you double over.

Strade gulps in air like he had forgotten to breathe.

How long was it? A minute? it felt like more.

You barely register his finger prodding, the heat of his body and the heat of the wound nearly one and the same. The differentiating force is his grasp, pulling your arm out to the side until it's bent unnaturally.

He's going in again. Lost within desire. He's not even giving you a chance to process.

Your head snaps in the direction.

This time, he's gone lower, closer to your wrist but not close enough that'd he'd need to untie you. From this angle, he's forced to go in backwards. From this angle, you watch as it pushes in one end and jitters. You watch the black round top push against your arm. You watch the sharp point poke from within, wanting to get out.

Are you screaming? It hurts like you are screaming. And yet, the white hot violence on your arm triumphs over all.

He pushes it closer, he pushes it through. The first splatter of blood hits your side, the second hits your face, a trickle becomes a stream down your arm and a puddle on the floor.

Then, there is relief. It comes on so suddenly, an ice bucket over the head. Hot becomes cold, burning becomes this deep-rooted itching. As if you were sleeping on your arm. As if..

You can't pull your arm away. Can't clench your fingers without weakness.

He doesn't notice. If he does, he doesn't care. He already shut the drill off. He's already pushing at the tip of the bit with his thumb. He says something you can't register, and laughs louder than before.

Something clicks. Through blurry, swimming vision, you watch the drill depart.

The silver is still in your arm. You can feel the weight's pressure, but nothing else.

Something squishes. Through blackening vision.. you catch his finger pushing into the backside. It's his pinky, the only one able to push open the wound without causing any more damage. It goes in smoother, aided with blood, pushing past the tight muscles and into the gummy tissue.

You're heavy. You feel like you're carrying the sun on your back. Your gasping breaths do nothing but strain your lungs. It would be easier to not look. Keeping your head in this position, keeping your eyes open, it feels like fighting against the force of an oncoming hurricane.

| "You're stubborn! I like that."

"I am?"

"C'mon! You don't like taking no for an answer. You know what you want and you don't want anyone getting in the way of that."

In his voice you hear a man's familiarity. In your stomach something twists.

"Hah.. Well when you put it like that, it makes me sound like a bad person."

Does he not want to? Or does he?

"Oh, no, no! Don't take it as an insult, please. I'm just saying-"

He likes that.

"-that we have something in common." |

There's something erotic about the way he is panting above you. Something erotic about the way his finger shimmies, about the way the bit is pushing through, now loosened by the penetration. It unearths from you like a bud, the wound around opens up wider as if eager to take more upon this release.

The first two rows of grooves screw out slowly, the rest follow once he is knuckle deep inside.

You release a breath you didn't know you held as the bit clangs to the ground.

"There we go!" His finger is red. Beneath the nail there is something whitish-yellow and pink. He wipes the mess on his pants as your arm falls back into place.

"Wow.. You're looking a little pale. I take it you're not feeling too good, Buddy?"

There's something wrong. Something not right about this.

The drill is abandoned on the ground somewhere behind you. Messy hands find your waist and glide upwards to catch your face, leaving a trail of scarlet in their wake. You blink and try to focus, tears roll down in a silent stream over your cheeks. He catches them and wipes them away.

He looks as if he wants to kiss you. There's lust in his eyes, yes, but you think within you see admiration, too. Maybe. But, your head is pounding. There's a million and one sensations flowing throughout your body.

You're overloaded, overworked. You think if he does any more you're going to be out of commission.

For good.

How much blood is sticking to your flesh again? How much has pooled under your ass and soaked into the ground?

"Stop.." Blood begins to flow in your arms. One to your fingertips, the other through the wounds. They're at your sides for just a second before he snatches the one with all the little holes. "Wait.."

He isn't listening.

His tongue is at the site and you're-

Slowly, he circles the tip around the hole above your elbow, dipping it in just once to taste. You jerk back instinctively at the wet squishing noise, unable to escape the grasp he has on your wrist. The wet muscle flattens, lapping over the surface. You're unsure of who's moan you heard, his, or your own. It came from your chest, but it wasn't your voice.

It's raspy and deep. It's breathed against your arm and out of your throat again.

He loosens his grip and closes his mouth over the leaking hole. You're looking still, unable to stop. Familiar warmth swirls inside your stomach inappropriately.

You're murmuring, trying to tell him to stop, stop, stop you can't you can't it's gross so gross gross disgusting stop-

The nail of his blunt thumb pushes into the wound. With no sensation, you're left with nothing but the visuals. He's opening it so that his tongue can slide in deeper, so that he can taste the destruction the tool had caused. Slick strands of drool leak down your arm, foamy pink and translucent in the middle. The suction forces more blood to the area, drowning out the saliva, rushing down past his lips, unable to be swallowed completely.

| "When's the last time you.. ah, what do you call it?"

"Hooked-up?"

"Ja! 'Hooked up' with someone! Especially with someone ten years your senior!"

To avoid an awkward gaze, you turn your head towards the window and watch the buildings drift further apart from each other.

"Oh wow. Uh, about a week ago?"

The last time you barely remember. It was quick, and in the bathroom of some club. In fact, it was the day of a lecture. Something went wrong and you ended up there. You can't recall their face above their nose.

But.. their tongue.. Their tongue was- |

A different throbbing finds home between your abused legs. With minds of their own, against the pain, they part, smearing blood outwards.

He doesn't stop to look, following the length of your arm to the gash he opened just minutes ago. His free hand not clutching your wrist travels down south.

Shakily, you reach between, finding your knee and the nail stuck within. You wince. He sinks his teeth around the wound. You pluck the nail's head and pull.

It clinks before it rolls, following the ground's tilt towards the drain.

There's another, longer in length. Your stomach aches as if ready to spill at the thought of taking it out. But you must. He won't.

Clenching your teeth, you find the metal and clip your nail beneath. Somewhere inside, the point prods, creating this sharp, shooting pain that stuns like a taser. You flinch back, dizzy and exhausted, before going back in with vengeance.

It's sickening in an unimaginable way. Like, pulling flesh from another's flesh during the afterglow. A tongue in a mouth with a tongue. Wet, hot separation.

It skitters. You shudder with relief and revel in the bout of pleasure(?). He presses bruising kisses until your red arm is splotchy purple.

There's a screw in your thigh. A ten inch nail going through one end of your calf to the other, its outline visible from underneath your flesh.

You grab and twist, the sharp ridges of the screw slice their way back out. They move, up and (down when your fingers slip from blood) up, twirling counterclockwise until the tip is a centimeter away from the exit.

The screw hits something far away, flung from your grasp in disgust.

One more. One more. Just one-

Blunt fingers grasp your thigh, pushing at the cylinder outline. An involuntary scream rips through your throat.

Unlike you, he does not hesitate. Unlike you, he thinks ripping a bandage off fast is the most optimal way.

It writhes out like a parasite, moving under your skin at mach-speed. A blinding white light is the mercy you're granted from observing any longer.

"Hah.. you could've asked for help, Buddy." Heavy is the lust in his voice. You shudder with something more than fear and agony. "That's alright. Like I said, I wanted this to be a team effort."

He lowers your arm slowly, placing the torn up thing in your torn up lap. Then, he shifts so that your eyes are together. From this angle, you can see the purplish blush spreading down to his chest underneath his shirt. He's breathing as heavy as you are.

But, there's no time to waste on longing, or lingering. He gives your face a gentle pat and rises to his feet.

"Lets get you cleaned up!"

You're a wreck. An utter mess. Left throbbing and disappointed below surface level despair.

Could he see it? In your eyes.. just before he pulled away? Your heavy lids and your parted lips, slack in agony yes, but also want?

You've never felt more wrong in your life. Maybe it's best if this time you just let it go.

"You got tiny holes. I don't think we need any stitches this time."

It's hard to. It's a bodily function you've used forever to get rid of the unwanted. You don't want any of this. Who would? It's aching mutilation.

He attempts to test your reflexes on your fingers, and frowns sadly (a naughty puppy) when they barely are able to move.

"Looks like I got a little carried away."

You look to the hacksaws and wonder if that'll be the solution.

(Your left hand, the hand that had touched his over your thigh in the car. That had traced over the tiny hairs and the bulging vein. That he had taken and done the same to.

It was gentle and flirtatious.)

White gauze wraps tightly around your arm, from one hole to the other, creating a makeshift cast to keep out any foreign materials. He leaves that wrist untied, finding no use in straining the injury further.

(Your left hand, now flat in your lap, unable to pick and scratch and yank at the ropes binding you to this place. You stare at it and weep.)

The injuries on your leg he cleans with a solution of water and alcohol in a spray bottle, wiping up any mess around the area with a rough cloth that has seen better days. They remain flat, toes pointing to the drain.

Alone in the darkness, you can't recognize the mutilation as your own.

| Goosebumps rise to the surface of flesh. A chilled wind becomes freezing. Joints ache and muscles strain.

You're pushing past dead brush and thick branches, fighting the wind blowing snow in your face.

Your legs carry you aimlessly into the forest. The sky is pure white with no moon. You follow no land markers, and carry on.

Far off in the distance, a deer hops fast, getting away from something in the quiet.

Your footfall does not disturb its presence, so you carry on.

Clumps of snow begin to gather in your hair, begin to frost over on your lashes. You're red in the face and exhausted. And yet, you follow the deer and carry on.

Something isn't right with it.

It stops when you do, as if waiting on your call.

Its antlers are bent unnaturally. Its eyes are this bright blue like the sky. It cocks its head as if questioning your decision.

Far off in the distance, you hear a voice call your name.

The deer perks up, standing completely straight instead of hunched. It looks to you, you think, then at something behind you.

Don't turn around. Keep walking.

Don't turn around. Keep walking.

It beckons with this almost-human cooing noise, easily is it swallowed up by the snow.

It's warmer over there. Quieter, and safe. Something calls your name from behind, angry in its tone. But.. to turn around would be to give up security. To turn around would be giving into the nagging anxiety of never letting go.

The voice draws near, louder in tone, a name that is yours falls from its lips.

The deer braces itself, then hops away.

You remain in place, tilting your head up to see past the tall tree line. Snow falls down in warm, thicker clumps onto your face.

Soothing and calming, like a warm bubble bath after a long, hard day.

You shut your eyes, and tune out the voice.

A weight lifts off of your shoulders. Guilt and pain free, you fall up. |

In the dingy light, you barely recognize the mutilation as your own.

He, of course, reminds you that you're still 'kicking!'. That, despite the 'unfortunate accident', you're still bright in the eyes, and more importantly, alive.

This morning, (or afternoon? or night?) he starts behind you, undoing the knots around your wrist.

"Careful stepping up."

Stepping up? Upon the wobbling, bruised things for legs?

He said he needed you off the ground for this. Said that, he wanted to show you something extra special to him.

You're on your toes, all your weight sinks straight down and shoots right back up. Without the thick arms around your body, you'd come crashing down to the ground.

Your eyes follow the dirty concrete to the stairs. Each step takes ten seconds. Each step brings a tear to your eye and a gasp to your lips. Unless it was his will, unless he had swooped you up like prince charming, there's no conceivable way. No option. No out.

You're lifted with each step. And with each step he guides you closer to some table that has a thin layer of dust.

Where is your fight? Your desire for life?

Your working hand clutches the table's edge. You blink away blurriness to hone your vision on the silver blade.

You had asked him once, weeks or months ago: "What kind of machines?"

He's giddy leaning over you. His smile is so bright and his hands shake with excitement. Today, he can't contain himself.

"Something catch your eye?"

Reaching your hand out, you swipe your finger slow across the flat end of the blade. It's fairly new, and clean. No hint of sawdust or any 'human materials'. It seems to have never been used.

"I had my last one for over ten years, can you believe it? But, we're moving into different times. I needed something heavier duty." He's leaning over your shoulder. In your side vision, you see him spacing out in his words just at the sight.

You lean forward to compensate his weight, pressing your stomach up against the rough edge. Now you're on your toes, knees bent and aching in protest.

Still, you tilt your head and blow your breath over the steel, wanting -needing- to see your reflection.

"Lots of people are afraid of big machines like this. You know, ones scared of losing a finger or two."

Your face is dirty, covered in a thin layer of grime. Your eyes are puffy on the bottoms, red around the whites, from nightmare-ridden sleep and the days spent crying. Your mouth curls downward, then flattens, but never maneuvers upwards. You spent your energy. You have none left to fake anything anymore.

It's you. That's you.

Fingers brush against fingers brushing against steel teeth. Two hands caressing gently what was made to never be gentle.

His and your fingers smooth up and down, flit between the grooves, come to a rest upon the flat end.

"I've seen my fair share of accidents."

Fingers nicked by the blade, skin split to show thin, white marrow and bone. Hair caught in the force, wound around and around and around until the scalp meets the teeth.

"It always happens when people.. panic. When they lose control over themselves."

His hand on your hand. His stomach on your back. The blade waits hungrily. You can hear it crying out in that all-too familiar desperation to be useful.

"Use me, use me. However you like. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of being useless, useless"

Your mouth echoes the words silently in the reflection. You push your palm down over its teeth and hear its needy whimper.

Horridly, pathetically, you're beginning to understand the correlation of mass destruction and desire.

The need and want to do that which harms you. Irresponsibly so. Irreversibly so.

( "Think about your career. Think about your studies. Who wants to deal with someone who can't be assed to show up sober?"

"Going out again? Don't think I haven't seen the bills from last time."

"You just don't learn, do you? Do you think hooking-up will fix your problems? That prince charming will just fall into your hands and swoop you away?" )

Prince charming..

A knight in shining armor. Steel grey and reflective.

But, he is no prince. He is but a mere machine built for one thing and one thing only.

And yet, just as you had hoped, on an evening spent revolted and in shame, he came and stole you away.

Pain thrums dully in your legs, becoming further and further away. No longer are his fingers on the saw, instead, they've found home between your thighs, prodding at your entrance.

He speaks above you, about machines and human nature.

About self-loathing, self-love, self-destruction. About how the lines between the three are all thin. About how fear of something and love for something are so, so close to just being one.

Why the repulsion for the machine? It knows no pain. It knows nothing of what it is capable of. It knows no better. It's job is to cut, to sever. It's design is repulsive. Things designed to hurt are repulsive.

Saws and blades. Hammers and drills. Tools with such a great capacity for harm to a human body.

Alcohol and street drugs. Sex and hands. Tools with such a great capacity for harm to a human body. Tools that are used for pleasure. Such pleasure.

( You did drink that night. He had honed in on that fact about you. About you wanting to go just one night without. But, he's stubborn.

He had said: "C'mon, lighten up! I'm not here to judge. Please, just let me get you a drink. Maybe good company will help you gain a brighter perspective!"

He kept pushing, shoving, daring you to take the plunge. )

You can't bring yourself to find him repulsive. If you found him repulsive, you'd find yourself that way, too. It's as if, your time spent locked down here- the days months years- has sapped away your shame. Your drive. Your will. Your morals.

What's the point of holding onto it all? Holding onto yourself?

His fingers pump inside you, dry, and absentmindedly. His words drone on about machinery again. About how he's found his calling.

He has found an excuse.

A descriptor for himself that takes away all responsibility.

You are no stranger.

This is what he is good at. And you, this is what you are good at.

Your mouth opens, a broken noise silenced by the violence whir of the saw. His fingers, slow and lazy, now frantic and quick.

Something wet splatters over your face, dark and colorless, a stark contrast to the bright white of the scene you're staring at. It leaks in globs down your hand, black ink the heat of summer. You squeeze your hand and watch the ink flow.

Blinking brings the color back slowly. Monochrome to steel grey, to browns and yellows and flesh, and lastly, red. The innards of a blood orange.

The tip of your thumb, the side of your index finger.

One missing entirely, the other hanging on.

There's a thinner, smaller cut on your middle finger from just before you wrenched yourself backwards.

Feeling creeps up into your hand, pins and needles, registration of stickiness, faint burning.

In your vision there are swirling colors and unsteady shapes. Your stance is broken by hands around your hips. The table is receding into the backline and the ceiling is falling down upon you.

Your back thuds against the concrete. Beside you something falls.

A shadow obscures you from the basement, slowly swallowing the light until..

His hands are on your wrists. His smile wide and his eyes unhinged.

There was concern there, once. Written on his lips and in his brows. For a split second, before he had climbed up the length of your limp body.

You reach out, -hand shaking, leaking- and let your palm find home on his cheek.

| The fingers around your wrist are damaged and unsteady. you turn so fast your head spins from the force. The vertigo nearly has you crashing to your knees.

Behind you, the forest becomes a basement with no identifiable features. Behind you, stands someone weak and frail.

"Who are you?" The person's lips move in time with yours, speaking quiet in your voice. "Am I you?" You ask them, tilting your head to the left and theirs to the right.

They're hard to see in the dark. You lift your hand up and watch theirs go with it. Your fingers are sliced open, theirs are the same. Your palms touch, an electric tingle runs through the open wounds.

Where did the blood go? Where did the pain go?

"I am you." You can feel it as you run your other- tingling, numb- hand down their body and push it into their chest. They breathe as you breathe. Their heart beats slow, then frantic.

You follow the curve of their body, and they do the same. Suddenly, the gap between is closed. Your legs are between theirs, vice versa. You find all the little holes and confirm.

"Where are we?"

"Where am I?"

They push their finger into one of the wounds on your leg and you gasp.

Where is the pain?

Pleasure shoots up your spine. You clutch onto yourself and dig your nail into the tissue. Deeper now, your finger causes a split in the walls, causes blood to rush down the floor.

"Home."

You stumble, as if intoxicated. The you in front follows suit, crashing into you.

You both impact the ground with a thud. The concrete below is cold, and unforgiving.

You're straddling yourself, hands on your hands, hips over your hips.

"Home." You repeat above, your voice echoing throughout the basement.

You're writhing below, you're wriggling above. Someone's hand gets free from the grasp.

One second is all it takes.

You push your palm upon your face and watch the blood smear over your cheek.

The squirming stops. You look at yourself in the eyes and watch the color shift. Hazel, to emerald. Honey to bright fiery green. Then grey. Colorless. A reflective void.

Without the color you can see emotion clearly. Lust and desire, burning hot within your irises.

"Let go." You say. "Let go." You repeat.

You're leaning into your palm. You're panting, breathless. You're aching, needy.

"Just let go already." You demand.

Inside of you, something shifts. |

Where's the pain?

Within the tips of your fingers there's bright, hot sparks. Each one sends a shiver down your spine. Each one has you leaning into him for support.

He's excited, because you are excited.

You can feel it in your body; a heat wave, building pressure behind the dam, ready to be released.

His belt lies at his hips, his zipper is open and you see all that he needs to release.

You're pleading, you think. With your eyes, with your tongue. But all the words you say sound like noise. And all the things he responds with sound like you.

"Needing this?"

"You wanted this from the start?"

"Eager! Eager! You like to be hurt."

Something in your head turns, an old gear kickstarting with new life. There is relief in your chest. Catharsis.

You've been ready to come out of your shell.

The hands on your body work you from your cocoon. The hands on your body twist where it hurts and mold pain into pleasure.

He pushes in and you scream. You push back and he screams. This scream like an animal. Sharp and loud. A howl in the night.

He's been waiting for this. He's been craving this. You have, too.

The first taste is overly sweet. The second is settled, is pure bliss.

He fucks into you rough, fast, raw. He fucks into you as if it is the only thing he knows how to do. As if it's second nature. As if it is what he was made for.

To hurt. To maim. To destroy.

You're yanking on the chestnut locks. You're scraping at the scalp beneath them until blood is under your nails.

Your body moves on its own, uncaring of the reopened wounds. Your hips smack back against his.

Brutal. Angry. Desperate.

You've danced this dance before.

With lovers. With strangers. With gentle movements and sloppy roughness.

Never has it been like this.

How? How do you describe something so otherworldly?

He slams his hands down onto your shoulders and he fucks into you. He's groaning, drooling over himself. He's staring at your bloody hands, and gazing at your torn up thighs. He's groaning expletives, your name, threats that feel like something else.

This is a dance of pure self-destruction.

You open your mouth and beg for more.

Yes, you've danced this dance before.

And you'll dance this dance until you can't anymore.

HEADCANONS | Mixed NS/SFW |

SFW:

Catholic Family Man™ (no spouse, absent child)

(terrible) painter with a taste for renaissance/old religious paintings

extremely into classic literature (Sade, Shakespeare, Lovecraft, Alighieri)

^ into reading in general and completely a picky cunt about it

possibly writes his own poetry... (didn't say it was good)

sweaters everywhere (he dresses like an old librarian)

coffee>tea

^ much like Rire, Cain has a seasonal rotation and is also a picky cunt about this

angel tattoo on his right arm, roses and vines going down his left (when he got them done, who knows)

needs his house to smell like something, preferably sweet, but something nonetheless, it gets stagnant in Hell

English Literature degree, should've- been Historian (he's got shit tons of letters from over the years)

totally went to public executions (LOVED the Colosseums)

obsessed with romance/relationship drama, eavesdrops on gossip all the time

mimicry? yeah, he's doing it all the time. which means he's on earth more than Rire is.

he is the most beautiful biblically accurate angel, and he should not exist

NSFW:

50/50 chance on it being extremely violent, or vanilla, no in-betweens

pouring expensive waxes (scented !) on you that he got from all over the world

collection of whips, ranging from average to barbed wire

BSDM room 100% (he's got one somewhere in his house)

sybian? check. rig system? check. Chevalet? check...?

tries out new rope bondage techniques on you almost every week

^ finds himself lost in tying them at times

totally into cannibalism it's not funny

RELIGION KINK (you? the nun, the non-devoted, the desolate. him? the priest, the guardian angel, the devil)

^ he's making you recite passages and prayers while he whips/fucks you

Master/Sir/Father (no daddy kink, make it religious)

church sex. doesn't matter what type of church, or even what religion, he's fucking you in one regardless

There's a lot missing for Cain's canon background, possibly because it's just the biblical Cain and EP didn't want to change much? I didn't want to change a lot either, I just altered some things here ! (ᵔ⩊ᵔ)

Background: I do believe Cain (BTD2) and Cain's (Biblical Figure) backgrounds are similar at the start, save for the reason for killing Abel, and his relationships with mythological Gods + his.. mother..

I remember that Cain in Canon was banished to Caina for a few hundred(?) years or so, before breaking out and wandering where the Reapers couldn't get to him. I'm 100% keeping all of that, except adding a little on the side about this particular banishment coming after the creation of the city of Enoch, and around the time where the flood wiped the earth.

Rire and Cain's meeting timeline hasn't been set, or even their circumstances. However, I think it was a couple hundred years ago, possibly at a 'public execution of some political figure' in Hell (and by that I mean the King's downfall/Rire's uprising). Cain wasn't too interested in Demon politics, and definitely wasn't liked by anyone in Hell (you know, for being fucking Cain), but attended these Battle Royales anyway.

He's been wandering around since then, poking his head around Rire's sector ever so often for fun.

Personal Thoughts: I like Cain a lot. Or, actually, I like writing him. He's got a lot of potential when it comes to religious horror/trauma, and allows me to tap into old literature/historical texts. I get to be further educated on things, and I get to dump it all on him, a win/win situation. However, in BTD2, or just EP's writing for him in general, it's kinda.. eh. It's something. Cain is self-centered, yes, and sadistic, absolutely, but the other things he is (romantic, lonely, y'know.. religious) aren't really utilized, and fair enough, the game was pretty short and had a shit ton of other characters in it.

I'm trying to make up for that. I think Cain can be very sweet, and maybe loving at times, I mean he is still partially human in there after all.

Musical Thoughts:

Ohhh.. Off the top of my head..: Pompeji (Deftones) | Would That I (Hozier) | Hallelujah (Jeff Buckley's cover)

They're all such beautiful songs, very soothing to listen to. Pompeji especially, with it's harsh, rough contrast at points in the song. I have that song listed first because I don't think there's one out there that hits as hard, or as deeply, and matches him more.

To be fair, the entirety of Ohms fits Cain well.

But, Ohms isn't the album I'm assigning. Actually, I think there's something deeply wonderful, and disturbing about the religious guilt and shame that comes from..

Perverts (Ethel Cain)

When writing The Phoenix (Cain's chapter in Song of Imaginary Beings), that is the one I took the most inspiration from. It's a long listen, but a listen I recommend for everyone at least once !

Miscellaneous:

Voice Claim... Sebastian Michaelis (Kuroshitsuji)..? It matches Rire's..

I think he preens a lot, obsessively so, even though no one sees his feathers

needs a Bird Beastkin asap. he's a chaser for them, I'm serious.

he's the top in the hateful situationship with Rire

type of guy to start drama to watch someone's downfall (Rire better watch his back)

I really don't understand the blood around his house how does he stay so clean ??

Closing Thoughts: Cain is like Rire if Rire was even more of an egotistical douchebag (love you Rire), and even more evil somehow. He's overpowered in his domain, and outright mimicking human forms outside of it. He's able to twist himself to wear the face of your loved ones, or a friend, or just a nice middle-aged priest looking to give advice. No matter how romantic, how sweet, how caring he can be, it'll never make up for what he is, or the things he has done.

There is no place where Akira Kojima is more alive than when he is at The Snake Pit.

Bright flashing lights, shelves upon shelves upon shelves of liquor and mixers, bodies upon bodies grinding and touching to deep-hitting EDM music.

A building made for the loose, the naive and the daredevils who are misguided. 

You, are all of the above. 

And Akira, he is someone looking to forget himself. Lose himself utterly in the raw sexuality that can only be found in recesses such as this. 

It was a match made in hell, honestly. You two have similar issues. Rampant alcoholism, and are not choosy when it comes to unsafe sex with strangers. 

Sano may have been your first impression, but Akira is the light in that dark tunnel of your life.

The problem with Akira is that he sees you as a person, an equal, someone to forget after the fun, but someone to have fun with regardless. 

He’s seen you at your most vulnerable, sexually, and knows your body, face and name.

You are human, a person with thoughts and feelings and insecurities, and there was no need to reiterate, no need to work up to this.

He doesn’t belong here, not in this game. He’s the oddball, the outlier.

You do not belong here. 

“I wasn’t sure that you would.” 

Akira says, when the MC jokes about him being surprised that they stuck around until after his shift. 

He’s been through multiple people before. Whether they led him on, ghosted, or turned him down altogether, he knows not to have that unreasonable expectation of anyone staying around for him. Until you do, but, then again, you were meant to leave in the morning. 

When you make that one mistake, that one wrong turn at the end of the hallway during the morning after, that is when your fate is sealed.

Sano taking you in turns you from an accident that he caused, to just another victim.

When asking about Akira, you say: “He is the reason I’m here.”

And Sano replies with: “The reason why you’re here is because you’re nosey.”

He deflects blame from his brother, forcing the narrative to push the idea that you’re the issue. (Hence, the one mistake). It’s denial, a familial need to protect, and an inhuman one to blame the human in the situation. It’s on par with Sano.

But, that statement is a double entendre, too. 

Not only does he take you as nosey for snooping around in his lab (which, we know as the player is complete bullshit), but for snooping around in Akira’s life as well.

Despite Sano saying that he doesn’t question his brother’s choice in sexual partners, he still holds that judgement for them. 

That comes from another interesting line of dialogue about Akira said between you two. 

“Does your brother know you’re doing this?” + “And he’s okay with it?”

“He doesn’t bother me if I’m working.”

Sano notes this as normal human behaviour. MC writes it off as weird, and it’d only be normal if they were ‘both murderers.’

“I never said he wasn’t one.” 

I gulped. Maybe I shouldn’t talk to him anymore. I didn’t want to know what other skeletons he had in his closet. 

Sano gives zero confirmation on whether or not Akira is ‘okay with this’. But, that lack of a yes is the proof needed to show that Akira, in fact, is bothered by it.

The ending dialogue can also be spun in Akira’s direction. You know what Sano is capable of. But, Akira? 

MC doesn’t want to find out to what extent Akira’s murder goes to.

However, Akira’s inaction to save you is crueler than any torture. Knowing that, just a room or two away, awaits a man who has treated you somewhat ‘well’, or, in better terms, hasn’t acted upon you with any ill intentions has to hurt. It has to be soul crushing. 

When you come face to face with Akira, holding onto hope that maybe he’ll fucking do something, he merely doubles down. 

“Pretty sure I’m not in charge here.” It’s an underestimation, Akira holds more power over Sano than he thinks.

“There’s no way outta this.” It’s a misconception, Sano has let people go before. But, why should you know that?

“Who am I to step on my brother’s dick?” This, here. The final nail in the coffin. Forced acceptance of ‘things out of his control.’

Who is he to try to convince Sano to let someone like you go? You’re a one night stand, that is all you are. 

Just like that you realize, to save himself the guilt, to deflect the blame, things must be this way.

From now on, death endings to dialogue, we must view it like this.

This hidden knowledge allows us to better understand our dire circumstances, and Akira as a whole.

One of the first death endings you can get with Akira relies on how you treat Sano, much like other ones in his ‘route’.

When taking the prompt to call Sano crazy, Akira jumps to his defense. And, for the MC, this comes as a total shock. It’s out of the blue, happening so fast. He smiles down at you, a little psychotically, and it’s over like that.

He ‘didn’t see you lasting long’. To him you were already dead. And, his view of you now that you’re in Sano’s radar reflects that. 

Let me reiterate. You’re a victim now, Sano’s victim in particular. Any time that Akira may maim you, or outright kill you, would become Sano’s burden to bear. As a victim, Akira knows that the chance of you really living through his brother’s crazy experiments is the same luck winning the lottery would require. 

Little to none.

So, the next time he outright attacks you, in front of Sano might I add, he knows he won’t face any consequences. Sano doesn’t see you as a person, can’t unless you really, really try, so why would he stop Akira? 

Though, Akira does say that we’re lucky Sano is here. 

Possibly because letting himself go to the point he kills you is embarrassing? 

It’s obvious that he isn’t worried if Sano finds out you’ve died due to his hands. And, if we really look at each death caused by Akira, none of them include Sano being there, save for one where you’re already low health and he’s beating you with the bat for making too much noise.

And then, yes, even then, there’s something akin to hesitation. A short sentence.

“Ya hear that?” He asks, directed to Sano.

It’s not shown on screen, but with that little remark, we can envision the glance back. The look for approval only Sano can give. That need to know what he’s going to do isn’t wrong, that it’s the correct thing to do.

This need for approval isn’t as strong as say, someone like Ren, but it’s a vital part of who he is.

Most death endings after that one basically follow the same path as the first I mentioned. You do something to Sano, or say something about him, and are met with Akira’s low tolerance.

This next one is more understandable, as you’re outright attempting to kill Sano, only to be stopped by Akira in a fit of rage and panic. You’re pulled back by a wire, and hastily decapitated. 

This is the total opposite of the other ending where you try to kill Sano. Whereas, in that one, it’s drawn out, meant to hurt, and laced with dialogue I find more than intriguing. 

“Normally I don’t give a shit about this torture crap.” + “But you’re making me care about it.”

There’s later dialogue I wanted to save for a bit longer, but it really does tie into what he says here, so I can’t put it off. 

However, what Akira says here can be taken as another double entendre (as most things he says can be).

When you get him to open up to you during a scene later in the game, he mentions that torture ‘isn’t really my thing.’

As he’s playing around with tearing your teeth out, he begins to like it, in a sense. He has that need to maim you, when prior he was ‘against’ it. 

Throughout his route, he does start to care about it. As in, care that it’s happening if you play your cards right.

But, that relies on you more than it does him, in the same way it did for Sano.

There are many times Akira comes to you, and there are many times where not wanting him to stick around leads him to abandon you altogether. 

There’s a scene where you try to escape knowing Sano is asleep at his desk. 

Akira says that you’re Sano’s now, and that trying to run away isn’t your best bet. 

If you let him go without saying anything, he manhandles you onto the table, and you opt out of getting the option to see him again. 

He isn’t questioning this, or bothered by it outwardly, because there’s no need.

When stopped, he rejects what he said earlier.

“Maybe he’ll let you go. I’ve seen it happen before.” 

He is gentler while strapping you down, asking if it’s ‘okay’. He puts his trust in you to not make any poor choices that would lead to your premature death. 

These little interactions are giving him hope, no matter how tiny. Perhaps unknowingly, as it’s inadvertent. Still, it shows that he’s thinking of you, and considering your safety. 

The next time you two interact, he brings you a drink supplement, making a joke that you’re a pet when you ask why he only has snake food, but quickly rethinking his words as to not upset you.

The death here is a bit more personal, not just for his brother’s sake. 

Sano is cold and creepy, ‘like a snake’. Akira is warm and nice and easy to open up to. 

You don’t know that your insult is directed towards him, too. In fact, there isn’t really any way to know that, considering the MC thinks of nagas as fairytales and didn’t have the conversation with Sano confirming that they aren’t. 

Regardless, your remark can’t be taken back. And, in a fit of awe and confusion, you helplessly watch his body morph, and watch as he takes advantage of your stunned state to knock you down to the floor. 

The heart color drops to black, similar to one of Sano’s betrayal endings.

And this is a betrayal ending, too. 

We know Akira thought of you as ‘different’ in a way, compared either to other people, or other victims he may have had encounters with. 

Akira may be warming up to the MC, but the MC’s dialogue still shows that human need to protect themself from danger. 

So, in another act of ‘betrayal’ (although lighter), you stay away from him. 

I stayed in my spot. This guy was crazy too. Who knows what he’d do to me.

“I’ll see ya.” 

He says, dejected. 

I like to imagine his face; his eyes as they look at your expression, at the way your body tightens as you reject any more offers for assistance or comfort. The quick twitch of a lip or an eyebrow. The pain of knowing how he is perceived by you, despite trying his hardest not to hurt you.

And, I think he knows he can’t really fault you for that. It’s nature after all. How could he expect otherwise?

He doesn’t put up a fight. Instead, he takes the hint and walks away. Leading to the default death of trying to kill Sano instead. 

I like the progression these rejections show. How each and every one is different, more severe in the way it stings for Akira. 

This is the final time.

In this interaction, he spills it all, whatever he can to you.

“I’m a contact killer. …The gun. It makes it less personal.” + “Easier to kill when I take the humanity out of it.”

His death endings, save for three (the bat (accidental), the tail (proving a point) and the wire (trying to get you away from Sano) ) all include a gun. Despite thinking of you as Sano’s ‘experiment’, it’s still hard for him to outright kill you. He keeps this bridge up again, to protect himself.

Again, you tell Akira that you don’t want to die. Today, it brings tears to your eyes. A breakdown no longer able to be fend off. Something in him snaps. Tomorrow, you are let go.

I mentioned this prior in Sano’s study, that this might be one of the worst endings to get in any of the games (at least, in my opinion). Not only for you, but for Akira, too.

All this buildup, all of this hope you two hold that maybe you’ll be one of the few who get out alive. The anxious nights you spend in pain, freezing, in fear, inside of Sano’s lab. The anxious nights Akira spends in the rooms feet away from you, thinking to himself that maybe, this time when he checks in on you, you’re already dead. Lying there on the medical bed. Unmoving and bloody, or, morphed into something unrecognizable.

And yet, with that off screen anxiety, he still makes the effort to see you.

I don’t think he’d forgive Sano for killing you once he’s attached to you, but considering he ‘allowed’ his brother to kidnap you to begin with, we know that he isn’t going to open his mouth about it. 

I don’t think he’d forgive Sano for this, if he knew about it, either. 

After all, the thing controlling you is a demon parasite living in your head. The you that Akira has come to like, to know, to worry about, is no longer the you interacting with him.

Sano has betrayed his brother worse than you ever could, hurt him worse than you ever could.

Their relationship is a tricky one. Codependent, incestuous and toxic. 

Sano’s nature is to capture and control. Akira’s nature is clingy in a more acceptable way (for now), he craves to be wanted without the outright force. 

They’re two sides of the same coin. 

You being in this is bound to not work out. You can’t have one without the other. Despite Sano’s affection (or non-affection) for you, giving something up to his brother is just unfeasible, wrong in his eyes.

This is the last time Akira walks out to leave you alone with Sano. Something he has done in the past. Something he did to separate himself from you in your position. 

And something he should regret.

It has been said in an old answer from EP that Akira is never told about this, and that Akira never really finds out about what has happened to you. He’s overjoyed, naive and oblivious to your odd, submissive personality and cheery dialect. 

I think Akira’s worst feat is how easily he trusts the people who are close. Unlike most, actually all, Boyfriend to Death characters, Akira is too naive for his own good. 

Him allowing Sano to step all over him, and (mostly) dictate how he should act or what he should say. Him not questioning your change in demeanor, or even why Sano let you go in the first place, seals his fate as someone close to Ren in terms of control and emotional maturity. 

Sure, it isn’t that bad compared to Ren, and he’s still doing fuck all whenever he wants. He’s free to, but that bond, the closeness he feels towards Sano, that familial need to not disappoint, to not hurt, again as I said before, to protect, is all still there. Ever present.

When they were younger, Akira was spared from torture by Sano. When they were younger, Akira put himself in horrible situations, allowing himself to be abused and assaulted in order to do whatever it took to help Sano out. 

And this is how Sano repays him? And this is one of the times Akira is connected to someone that isn’t a fleeting fuck to be forgotten?

It’s in Akira’s nature to flee, it seems. From this happening to begin with, to him walking out on you if you don’t pressure him to stay. 

Despite possibly being torn apart inside, I think if the truth ever got out, he’d give you back to Sano. I think something like that is another one of the things he believes are ‘inevitable’. 

We’re unsure if this ‘procedure’ is reversible, and it doesn’t seem like Sano has done something so extreme before. It’s a spur of the moment thing he thought of at the last second to give Akira what he wanted. I know that, if Akira did find a way to fix this, that hesitation would stop him from doing so. 

Sano did this as an act of mercy towards Akira? As a gift? A reward? 

I don’t think he’d be smart enough to see just how bad Sano’s decision is. I don’t think he’d really quite understand that it could be taken as malicious. After all, Sano loves Akira, and while we don’t really get to see them interacting with each other, or even what a confrontation about our ‘predicament’ would look like, we can assume Akira would ‘trust’ Sano’s judgement on this matter. 

We can assume however Akira feels will be pushed aside, drowned in the same way our MC drowns their problems out. And he’d start again from square one. This time, possibly making sure to not bring anyone back to his home.

There’s one instance of mercy granted to you. One time this entire game.

“I think I’m dying.” 

It takes a single glance over at you to confirm. He knows. There’s absolutely no hope for you, nor for him to convince Sano to change his mind. 

There’s a chance to object to Akira’s idea, to beg. And, against his better judgement, he obliges, but states that your only chance of survival is rooted in ‘lying there and taking it’. Not a hopeful statement, not advice to be taken and used in order to stay alive, but instead to ease the pain for when you do end up dying later on. Whether by accident, or purpose. 

Still, with his proposal, you think he’s a maniac. And he knows it. But, what else is there for him to do? 

He isn’t offended this time, just.. defeated. An eyeroll, a cock of the gun. 

Why keep you alive knowing there’s only suffering awaiting you? Some part of you knows this is true, possibly understands him. That adrenaline kick, the desire to live, it’s front and center, but under that, you still know.

How many other chances would you get like this? 

Not many.

- - -

In Dollmaker, Akira is a strange case as well. Instead of most rewrites where the character turns out completely different, here, Akira’s traits are amplified, brought out to the light.

The clinginess and the insecurity isn’t as well hidden, though, he’s obviously more mature than he was when he was 19. 

Here, you have no prior interactions with Akira to go off of. You aren’t a hookup, or friend, or acquaintance. Here, you’re already something Sano is experimenting on. And now, Akira is more ‘open’ with you. 

Your first time meeting Akira has him grabbing you by the throat and pulling you into his lap in the living room. Each option picked leads him to be flirtatious, one instance has you flitting your hands under his jacket, seemingly unbothered by his presence.

You’re asked why you’re running around, telling him in response it’s Sano’s fault since he told you it was alright.

Akira notes this as reckless, but prods the inhuman marking on your skin and says you won’t get far because of it.

In one of the dialogue options, you can ask what it is, to which he tells you it’s a binding spell, and that Sano likes to bend the rules around the magic he can use. 

But, this isn’t as important to note compared to his reaction when your hands go further into Akira’s hoodie and feel the handle of a weapon strapped to him. 

Unlike the buildup in BTD to Akira telling you what he does, this is quick. 

You note that Akira isn’t worried, that he’s not even tensing up, as you say: “I think I figured out what you do.”

And, considering your predicament and lack of attachment, why would he care if you knew so early on? 

It wouldn’t cause any strain between you two.

At least, that’s what he’s under the impression of.

“As much as I’d like to continue this conversation. I shouldn’t get to know a corpse.”

However, unlike you needing to reach out to him through Sano, you’re able to go straight to him. You’re able to seek him out, despite himself and in spite of what he said. 

You knock, he answers, letting you in as if the moments minutes ago weren’t real.

Now he knows you on a first name basis. Now, there’s a shift in that demeanor. He went from referring to you as a moron Sano picked up to experiment on, to a student, noting sadly that Sano can’t keep his hands off of anybody. 

Your conversion continues as he mentions the knife in his pocket is used for execution, rather than the torturing, kidnapping game Sano is playing with you. It’s pushed into your chin, a false threat. One you can play off as nothing, mocking him by calling him a tough guy, and not letting him get another word in before pushing his head into you.

I don’t think either of you planned something like this. But, when you have someone as loose as Akira, always looking for hedonistic pleasure, and an MC who just wants anything to do to forget their circumstances, it was bound to happen. 

But, he knows it’s wrong. Saying: “You’re too gentle to be here.” + “Aren’t you supposed to be hating me or something? That is my brother who kidnapped you.”

There is no break, no pause before you respond, shutting his words down. 

“Your brother isn’t you. You’ve been kinda nice to me.. Even if I’m a corpse..”

They’re words better left unspoken, leaving him torn up inside, guilty.

He grips your shirt tight, and whispers out an apology. 

Much like how he did in Boyfriend to Death, he is hasty to leave. Unable to face you after such a thing. But now, he lets you know that you’re free to stay. 

And while this ‘route’ doesn’t go anywhere after this, another iteration of meeting Akira does, in which he tells us that Sano won’t come in here, he’s ‘not that type’.

And it’s true, he doesn’t. Akira’s room is the only safe place in the house for you. 

In that ‘route’, you see Annabelle face to face, overhearing her anger and anxiety when it comes to you being around. He’s sympathetic to her, and to you, he isn’t any different. 

He doesn't outright call you a corpse here, viewing you in a different light after his ‘scuffle’ with Annabelle, and hearing out her feelings. Seeing you as just another victim after that? It wouldn’t make much sense to.

But, I think that’s worse for you both.

The interactions between you before ended when he walked away, feelings left to die because of guilt and shame. 

Here, they have that time to morph and twist, dragging you down a different path than the one Sano had envisioned for you. 

Taking the option to rub his shoulders when you choose to stay until he comes home from work has him shaking, anxious about your touch and you as a whole. That is, until you offer yourself to him (the game uses the word ‘forced’ here, when MC kisses him.) as stress relief. 

This sex scene is optional, actually, one of the only times where your consent is taken into consideration. He is gentle throughout, giving you a safeword to use if belting you hurts too bad. There are two times where you can decline, both leading him to immediately stop and cuddle you to sleep.

If you don’t initiate and take the other two options given to you when he comes home, they end up in the same scene. With him laying down, and you tracing over the scars on his back. 

He mentions that it’s a vulnerable position to be in, and you agree, but you’re there, aren’t you?

“I know. And you shouldn’t be.” 

It’s another layered response. For his sake, you shouldn’t be in his room. For Annabelle and your own sake, you shouldn’t be here in this house to begin with. 

For his..

“But I am.. I feel safe with you.” 

You’ve sealed your fate. 

Akira tells you that he won’t let anyone hurt you. And, that is partially true, but a complete lie when directed towards himself.

Choosing to pursue the sex scene or not, leads to the same place. However, I think the conversation above hits the hardest when in retrospect.

In the morning, you meet Sano again in the kitchen, and are able to have a small chat. During this, you can make a rude remark, stating: “maybe you should take better care of your things.”

And while it’s meant to hurt Sano, the only one bothered by it is Akira, as the game lets you know he’s overheard. The compliment you can give Sano is also overheard, and possibly regarded with something akin to jealousy. When the scene ends, and Sano warns you about his brother, you have the chance to grab the doorknob leading outside again.

It isn’t forgotten that you can’t actually run away. This is something you, Sano and Akira all know. It’s just pushed to the side. This truth doesn’t matter when the attempt is all he can focus on.

“You’re trying to leave me?”

“I’m not your prisoner!”

“How fucking like a human.. You all always wanna leave. You all always fucking leave.”

My prior assumption was true. Akira has gone through countless, nameless, faceless hookups, failed relationships, and broken victims. None wanting to stay, none able to stay. Whether because the truth of what he does and who he is is unbearable, or because of Sano’s interference, they all end up going before he does.

“What happened to you?” 

This time, the blame isn’t pushed to Sano, instead homed in on you and you alone. His actions are his, and his alone.

“You did.” 

You wake up handcuffed, staring at the knife he wields. This time, it isn’t a useless threat, but actually used to harm you, pushed into the skin upon your thigh.

A rape scene can be somewhat avoided, if you beg for him to cut you. But, then he begins to falter, unable to fully carry out whatever punishment he deemed necessary, quick to fuck you. 

Maybe you’ve gone crazy, maybe this is a coping mechanism, maybe you’ve figured out what to do to make him tick. After all, all he wishes is to be needed, craved, asked for, begged for. 

Rationally, instinctively, you’d bash your head into his face. In reality, you’d watch as his blood splattered upon you, as it dripped off his lips and his chin. You’d watch him crack it into place, and helplessly watch as he retaliates and urges you onto continuing your scuffle.

A taser is jabbed into your skin, pricking you, stinging you repeatedly. 

This Akira is unlike the one we knew previously, in Dollmaker and in BTD. 

Within this scene, all intentions are to hurt you. Not to punish you for what you’ve done to Sano, or tried to do, but instead, this is punishment for you attempting to flee. This becomes something for his own personal gain very quickly. 

Even when you’re stopped by knocking, even when he knows Sano has overheard the chaos, he refuses to back down. He’s too lost, too arrogant. 

Before, willingly, Akira had given you up to Sano. 

Now, with a gun pressed under your throat, he orders you to tell Sano the opposite. 

And now, Sano is the one giving up. Sadly, upsettingly so, Akira was right when he had said you wouldn’t be bothered in his room. Sadly, upsettingly so, Akira was right when he had said you wouldn’t be hurt by anyone else.

The training you're forced under is solitary confinement.