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.