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Interested? Returning contestant?

Interested! And I'm new :3 0.61764705882353 61.8% [ 42 ]
Interested! And hi again :3 0.088235294117647 8.8% [ 6 ]
Not interested, and I did this before 0 0.0% [ 0 ]
Not interested, but I'm new. 0.044117647058824 4.4% [ 3 ]
I'll just... lurk and watch o.o 0.25 25.0% [ 17 ]
Total Votes:[ 68 ]
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I might enter biggrin
Yutora's avatar

Gracious Stalker

15,300 Points
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Holy s**t!

I completely forgot about this!
Crap... I'll try to whip something up.

I feel so bad I forgot... Be sure you will have something from me!
Yeshaya Silver's avatar

Anxious Elocutionist

8,500 Points
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Hnnng.

If I don't have a minimum of six entries, I'm going to push this to next week as a deadline.
I would like to enter.

Username: Sarcastic Butterfly
Entry Title: Natural Born Killer
Word Count: 8,697
Theme(s) Used: d. g. j.
Prompts Used: 13
Feedback: Yes, please.
Story:

I am convinced my life has become meaningless, but I place the pill bottle back in the medicine cabinet and close the open mirror. My reflection becomes painfully apparent once again, and I reconsider drowning in Rx. I will allow one more night of normalcy and try to see if I can be comfortable. I feel my white tank top is too tight, too revealing, and maybe my hair is too showy, the curls too perfect and permanent. A jacket would be a safe bet; a ponytail should suffice. Just one Zoloft or perhaps a Valium. No. I must react and participate in the evening’s festivities fully sober.

The car is full of stagnant air, like it hasn’t tasted sunshine or a kind spray of air freshener in months. I feel awkward driving to a remote party with a Volvo full of young strangers. I am glad I opted for the jacket and hair band. The boy sitting next to me is tanked from pre-gaming and breathing down my neck. Some teeny-bopper junk is pouring out of the radio, making the atmosphere heavier, fouler. I am not used to such closeness. I want to leave, but I do not want to go home.

We pull up to a house near the mountains, on a long drive spotted with lonely homes. The party is already unbelievably lawless. Some Hulk is guarding the entrance like a regular high-maintenance club bouncer. Why would they need a guard? Does he give rides back or alert the partygoers when the cops arrive? I realize no one is outside. It is too dark anyway, because there are no street lights on – I don’t remember the name of this street. We are shuffled through the door by the Grunter and washed away toward a crowded keg. Some kids are littered across the ground unconscious, deemed lightweights and rolled into corners.

I play spectator for a while next to an ongoing game of beer pong. I ask a drunken patron whose house this is, but he doesn’t know. He asks me if I want to go upstairs with him, and I politely decline. He calls me a prude, trudges off but not before accidentally spilling beer on my shoes. I try not to get angry. They were an old pair. I regret not taking at least one Valium. I finish my Dixie cup full of furious red jungle juice and head upstairs to find a bathroom. Of course there is a line. Someone is demanding and shouting, knocking on the door. People complain that it is taking centuries to take a decent piss.

I feel the growing closeness, the fear that accompanies it. I slip into a bedroom, glad it is vacant. There is a lock; I take advantage of the available privacy. The room is plain, like the room of a Spartan. A mattress is on the floor, but the sheets are clean and white, the blanket wrinkle-free. There is no pillow, which reminds me of a terrible back ache. No dresser, but there is a plastic tub full of clothes. To my left, thankfully, a small bathroom used jointly as a storage closet. I take off my shoes and drop them in the sink. The wash cloth seems clean, so I use it to scrub at the stain on the tip of my left shoe. It refuses to come out, but it is not that big of deal. I let the shoes dry on top of the toilet.

Coming back out in the room, I notice free weights lined up under the single window. All are above twenty pounds and organized in ascending order. Next to the bed is a neat stack of library books, a list of Russian and French classics. There is one book on Greek mythology. I wonder what kind of person lives in this room. I wonder why there are storage boxes in the bathroom, yet not a single box out in the open space. The room doesn’t seem lived in, like the home of a drifter. I wonder, I imagine – I am out cold.

Someone is screaming in the hallway, banging on the door. I sit up slowly, careful of a splitting headache. I don’t remember falling asleep. Panic creeps under my skin, shooting through my chest, and ending in a rapid pulse at my temples. The person starts scratching and writhing against the door before stopping altogether. I can hear more shouts and cries from beyond the hallway, running and stomping feet. I call police raid in my head and bolt for the window. Looking out, I think I can slide down the side roof and hop to the ground, no injury. But, there are no cop cars outside. I don’t hear any sirens or megaphones. And, no one is running around or scrambling for their cars. No one is outside of the house. I try the window hurriedly, panic turning into fright. The window lock is welded shut. Who would weld the lock shut? I will break the glass. All I have to do is shatter the simple plate glass and slide down the roof, make a run for it. No one will find me in all this pitch black. I search the room for something to break the glass with. All of these heavy free weights – I heave the dumbbell at the glass, happy when it makes a substantial crack. A few more and I can crawl through. Someone is banging on the door again, but it is not a desperate banging. It is a demanding knock. I smash the weight into the glass again, taking out the bottom corner. Again, again, one more time, the glass is gone. I pull my jacket sleeves over my hands and grab the sides of the window sill, hoisting myself up. Except, an arm hooks around my waist and yanks me down. The edges of broken glass rip through my jacket sleeve and open my palms.

He throws me down on the bed, and I can’t help but scream. I clasp my hands to stop the bleeding, wishing the pain away. The man closes the door and locks it again. He hadn’t broken the lock or the door. He had opened it himself. This was his room. I think he must be an educated man. All of these books. Such a simple, restrained life and all of this intellectual literature, he must be a reasonable man. I look up to plead for him to help me. Why did he yank me off the window? I don’t say a word.

He is leaning against the door, listening with a small smile as some other kid struggles and screams on the other side. His eyes are on me, and he says, “Just my luck. Look at you. What a good face.” The person on the other side of the door wails and goes silent. Downstairs, the running has died down some, massive cries reduced to a few. “Good, now I can get a little peace to deal with you. I want to hear everything,” the man states gladly.

This man, barely a man, I think. He looks only in his early twenties, but I guess he may be older. His hair is wild, unkempt, his chest bare. He is wearing tight faded jeans undone in the front. No underwear. But, he holds a butcher knife in one hand and a paring knife in the other. His stomach is smeared with some red, his face flecked with the stuff, his knees drenched in it. He looks like a butcher. Maybe he is one. He must be a butcher to look like that.

“You can scream now. I won’t mind,” he urges me, waving the butcher knife in an eager way. I scream when he throws the butcher knife my way, but it lands right next to my leg, lodged in the mattress. Everything is so clean in here, yet now the blood on the blade stains the blanket. “How long have you been in here?” I cannot speak. What should I say? “You can answer me. I’m not going to get your tongue until later.” Now, I wouldn’t speak.

He kneeled down on the mattress and stuck the paring knife through. I couldn’t help but think I should have taken that Valium. I should’ve stayed in. I should’ve taken that bottle of Ambitropin. His hand closed around my ankle and pulled me under him. I threw my hands up at his bare chest, pushing him away, ignoring the pulsing agony in my palms. Two fiery red handprints were pressed into his heart and lungs. “Please don’t,” I whispered. What I wouldn’t give for a Valium. “I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, I know you will,” he confirmed. “They all do anything. So, let’s see what you can do with that pretty little mouth of yours. Open wide.” Seeing him so close, he was littered with scars, old and new. His eyes were crazed, happy and balanced with affirmation. He knew what he wanted; he knew what he was going to do. I refused to open my lips. He laughs, “But, you were so willing to do anything a second ago. If I promise to let you go, will you do anything?” He is mocking me. His hands are between my thighs.

“No,” I plead, closing my legs. He forces them open. He is a lot stronger. “Anything but that.”

He takes the paring knife out of the bed and runs the flat of the blade down my cheek, not pressing enough to split skin. “Anything,” he orders. “Scream.” The knife is stuck next to my head, and suddenly there is ripping clothes and struggling and crying and desperation and lost jeans and jacket. “Well, aren’t you a peach,” he compliments. He takes the knife again and touches the tip on bare skin between my raised shirt and the hem of my panties. A quick sweep across and a cut is made from hip bone to hip bone. I whimper, bite my lip. He wants me to sob. He makes another cut down my upper arm. I wince and split my lip. His hand grips my chin roughly and his mouth is on mine, his teeth furthering the wound I’ve inflicted. The knife nicks in all the wrong places, making me itch and burn. I pull his hair, tearing his mouth off, shoving him away. He slides the knife back into the bed and slaps me. His hands are between my thighs again, spreading them apart. His fingers are scrabbling for a touch. I close my legs, but he is between them, forcing them open. Good fingers; deft fingers; skilled. No. I scream, trying to take a bite out of his ear. No. He pins my hands above my head and continues a safe distance from my mouth. There is blood dripping down his forehead, and I guess I may have gotten him there during all this struggle. I pride myself a bit in that. But, he has more than the upper hand. He has every hand.

“Stop!” I shout, arching my back. I want to kick him, land a strike right between his legs.

“Give it up, chicky,” he snorts. “You’re done.”

“Don’t touch me!” I scream, writhing and managing to maneuver my legs out. I use enough leverage to send him off the mattress. I grab the paring knife and make a swipe at him. “No one touches me!” He dodges the slice, but I get him in the stomach and again on the whip back. He falls backwards, and I leap forward, sticking the blade in his gut. He grunts his extreme displeasure, splayed out on the ground. I sit on his chest and take shots at his face, the strong jaw, the classic profile, the determined eyes. He is out within a minute.

A small woman bursts through the door yelling. She has a bloody club in her tiny hand. “You b***h!” She throws the club at my head and charges. I let the weapon hit me, and pulled the knife out of the man’s stomach. She readily descended on the blade like an ignorant animal. Unfortunately, she took it with grace and pulled me down, trying to bite my face. Bite, with filed teeth, like a beast. I twist the blade in her belly, pull away, strike her a few times in the mouth.

Someone pries me off her and hits me in the gut. I look up about ready to pass out. It is the Grunter.
__________________________________________________________________________

“That didn’t take long at all,” the man says next to me. “We loaded you up pretty good.”

“Can I take a shot now?” a girl says from across the room.

“Nah, let her get her bearings first, Twiggy. So she knows exactly what’s going to happen,” the man replies. “Good job, by the way, Biggie. She almost had me there. I can’t believe even you couldn’t handle her, Twiggy. You must be getting complacent.” The girl calls him a dirty name.

I curl away from the man; he’s seated next to me on the mattress.

“Ah, she’s alive!” the man announced, pulling me back over.

“Mars, come on! Let me,” the girl Twiggy complains. I gave these two a knife. How are they still moving?

I shove away and sit up, pressing back toward the door. But, the Grunter, Biggie, is leaning against it, sitting on the ground. He looks like he’s over two hundred pounds. Much too much for me to get over. Twiggy is leaning against the sill of the open bathroom door, right next to my head. She lifts her foot and clocks me in the head. I go down hard. The man, Mars, yanks me back onto the mattress.

I can barely move; my muscles like sludge. My head is fuzzy, mind slowly going through the motions of what’s happened in the past night.

“Twiggy, I said no on the face. That’s my favorite part. I always save it for last.” He lays me down, leaning over and brushing my hair out of my face. Where did my hair band go? “Just look at you. This kind of face shouldn’t go to waste.” The paring knife is sliding down my cheek dangerously. “It is almost Halloween, you know. Want to surprise everyone, sweetheart?”

“I don’t want to die,” I blurt out, touching the hand holding the blade.

“Most don’t,” he agrees. “But, you don’t have a say in that anymore, do you?” He presses the tip of the knife into my bottom lip, drawing a drop. “And, all you did was come to have a good time, right? Poor little lost girl, just like all those kids.” They had murdered all of them. No one could get out of the house. Welded window locks, a two hundred and fifty pound guard, armed to the teeth and chasing down inebriated and drugged up children. No one got out. My gaze shot to the window; it was still dark out. The glass was still broken. It must not have taken long for me to come out of it.

“How did you manage to wake up so quick, darling? I gave you a good shot, enough to knock you out for at least two hours,” he asks. “Just curious.”

“Are they all dead?” I whisper, feeling a growing tremble. The drug-induced haze is fading away quickly. My blood is starting to boil with adrenaline and terror.

“All those kiddies? Yeah. My friends here made quick work of all that. I had a little fun, too. But, you know I like to take my time with just one. You’re special,” he answers. His shirt is still gone. He has white bandages around his abdomen and a couple Band-Aids on his face. His lip is split, his eye black, his eyebrow and forehead bleeding. I did a good number on him. Yet, he seems too energetic. Twiggy is holding her stomach where I gutted her, but she seems fine and well. “You’re thinking how are we still standing? I’m used to this, peach. I’ve been in the business a long time. A paring knife doesn’t really do much for me, you know. You would have had better luck with the butcher’s knife. And, Twiggy there is a master at bleeding. She’s ripe and ready to give you a fat lip for interrupting her play.”

I concede, about ready to cry. “I have very bad luck.”

He agrees, “Yes, you do.”

“You drugged the liquor. That’s why all those kids were unconscious,” I explain for myself.

“I’m glad you’ve figured it out. Yet, you seemed so full of energy after drinking that juice. Didn’t take you long to shake it off, did it? Why is it so easy for you, peach?”

I wouldn’t tell him.

“You know what I think?” he starts. I don’t care. “You’re used to these kinds of drugs, aren’t you? I slip some sleeping pills and roofies in those kids’ drinks, and they are all out like a light. Easy as pie. Yet, you do go down, but you come out quickly. You’re a pill popper, aren’t you? A little drugged out rich girl, right? Am I correct?”

“I have a few prescriptions,” I let him know.

“And you take advantage of them generously, don’t you?” He laughs and pulls back, walking over to the window. “Well, you made quick work of this didn’t you? What a smart girl.” He motions at Twiggy, who leaps like a cat. I can’t even ready myself.

Afterwards, I’m spitting up blood and holding my stomach in agony. Mars pulls Twiggy off and tosses her at Biggie.

“You guys go get something to eat. I need to have a little privacy. Get me a burger and fries, no tomato and onion,” he orders, cleaning his paring knife. They get up to leave, but he calls, “Oh, and a chocolate shake.” He looks down on me. “I always celebrate after a night like this, you know. Always a special night.” Was he trying to tell me he doesn’t eat fast food often? What do I care?

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, splayed out and staring at the ceiling.

“Can’t you ask a more original question? They all ask that,” he chides.

“I guess it is what goes through anyone’s mind when they’re presented with a situation like this,” I explain, noticing the wounds on my arms and hips have clotted. My hands bleed slightly and cry out. I still have no pants. I don’t see them anywhere, either. Why didn’t I just kill myself when I had the chance? It would have been a lot more pleasant and painless than this tragedy.

“You sound educated,” he observes. “Are you a poor little rich girl then?”

“Why are you so interested?”

“I like to get on the most intimate of intimate levels with my victims. It makes it more pleasurable and worthwhile for me, knowing all about them before the slaughter. I know what I’m taking away,” he informs me with a small, proud smile. “I want to see a bit more bite, child. Start crying, scream, sob, plead, anything but this dejected s**t. It’s no fun for me.”

“I’m not here to please you,” I bite.

“You were much more fun before. I like those unpleasant faces the most.” He throws the knife in next to my head. I am afraid; I want to cry. I tear up a little. “Just like that. I will be getting more of those soon. I got a little greedy before, forgot to check you. I thought you were still drugged up, but you weren’t. Got a good chunk out of me, didn’t you? Proud? Satisfied? I didn’t think you had it in you to stick me or even throw a decent punch. But, my face is pulp. I’m still going to be nice, though. I won’t touch your face until the end. Are you used to fighting off advances? Do you have an aversion to men? ‘No one touches me!’ Makes me think you’ve dealt with this sort of thing before.”

“Just stop asking me questions,” I plead.

“Ah, I got it right,” he smiles, satisfied with himself. “But, now it’s time to get a little dirty. I want to be done by the time those two get back. It’s close to dawn, and we got to hit the road soon.”

I quickly take the knife out of the mattress and brandish it at him, threatening and hissing like an animal to throw him off.

He laughs, “Go on! Take another bite, if you can.” He is mocking me. He kneels on the bed and I lunge forward, going for the same wound again. But, he slaps my hand to the side and punches it, breaking the knife from my fingers. “You’re much too inexperienced for me, peach.” He takes the knife in his hand and yanks my head up by my hair. “Time to get rid of all these pretty curls now.” I scream when he starts roughly cutting locks off. I’m scared when the blade comes close to my face. He just laughs. “It’s not that bad, honey. Just imagine what’s coming later.” I shove my bloody hands at his chest, making more prints across his hard flesh. “If you move too much, my hands might slip and take out an eye. Neither of us will like that very much. So, keep a bit more still.” Stop playing with me. Stop mocking me. Stop laughing. Stop thinking this is fun.

“Now, we have ruin,” he marvels, running his hand through my short, choppy hair. “Next, we have despair.”

I whimper, “That’s already arrived.” He just smiles gleefully.

The blade is between my thighs, and my breath catches. “No, peach, this is despair.” A long, languid slice runs down the length of my inner thigh from knee to crotch, halting at the bottom of my pelvic bone. I hold in a broken sob. “Time for the other side.” He repeats the movement, opening the skin on the opposite thigh. He threatens to bite me, his teeth falling short of my cheek. I turn my head to the side, hearing him whisper, “I’m at the top of food chain, baby. You’re the easiest game out there, and trust me, I have all kinds of heads on my wall. So, let’s both give our best during this whole ordeal, okay?” His fingers are in a private place again. I cry out, pushing them away, but my palms ache and burn. “Just give in, peach. This is the best part for you.”

“I don’t want to. Anything but this, please,” I plead. Please, don’t let him do this to me. I can’t stand it. After all this time, I just wish to keep it. After everything, all the s**t, just let me keep it.

His lips are on my cheek, hushing me, mockingly gentle. “It’s not as bad as you think.” But, it is. It’s all bad. It’s horrible. I should never let it happen. Not like before. I bawl when he tries to press his fingers in. “Oh, a virgin?” He chuckles to himself. “And, here I was thinking you were a rape victim. Such a sad thing to be a rape victim. Maybe you’re a lesbian then, with such a hate of men. Am I right?” I cry uncontrollably now. “Ah, I’m wrong. First time tonight, huh?” His hands are spreading across my stomach now, smoothing up toward my chest. One hand is on my breast, one on my wet cheek. “Tell me what you’re thinking, peach.”

I feel worthless, the most unfortunate girl in the history of man. God must despise me, must love doing this, like a kid with an ant farm. “I was going to kill myself,” I sob. “Before I came to the party, I was going to kill myself. But, I wanted to try to be normal one more night. And, now – .” I laugh, a horrible and sardonic and ironic laugh. “Now, this, I think I must be so stupid to think anything is that easy. Look at me. Look at this. I am so sad and easy.”

He sits up, kneeling between my legs. “Well, that’s a first,” he admires, laughing a little to himself. “You have the shittiest luck. How were you going to do it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, I just found out something very interesting. You don’t value your life at all. I take little pleasure in taking life from someone who doesn’t want to live. It’s dull and way too easy. Why did you want to kill yourself? How were you going to do it?”

“Go ******** yourself,” I bit, writhing a little, trying to throw him off.

But, he held fast. “And, you’re one of the few to put up such a hard struggle. You gave us all a run for our money. Now, I think it’s odd that someone who doesn’t care about living would go through so much trouble to stay alive. I’m doing you a favor right now.”

“I don’t like pain,” I told him. “I didn’t want to feel any more pain. This is horrible. This is the worst. This is torture. Do you understand?”

“What an unlucky girl.” I throw a hard punch right between his eyes. He goes back, and I’m up quickly, sitting on his chest and giving him more to think about. The knife is back in my hands now, and I put it in his shoulder, hoping to puncture a lung. I pull the blanket over and press it over his face, sitting on his chest and leaning over, smothering the b*****d. Soon, he is still. I pull the blanket back over and check for myself. He isn’t breathing; he appears dead. Good. ********.

I yank off his jeans and slide them over my hips, ignoring the stinging between my thighs. They are too big, but I have to deal with it. I run into the bathroom, see my shoes still on the toilet. Pull them on, run for the door. It’s locked. It takes a key. What the ******** is with this place? I throw my hands up over the broken glass, ignoring the surmounting pain. Anything just to get out. I hoist myself up and jump through the window, sliding down the roof and dropping uneasily and unbalanced onto the rocks. I think I’ve twisted my ankle, but I plug on, weaving through the cars surrounding the house. It’s still pitch black outside, but I find the road and run in the direction of town. I scream bloody murder as I charge down the street, hoping one of those lonely homes will hear my distress. A car is making its way down the road; its headlights catch me. I turn off the street and try to hide into the desert. I am afraid of who might be in that car. The car stops next to me, two people peering into the darkness on my side of the road. They must have seen me running and heard me screaming. Should I go to meet them? Will they help me? I approach the car slowly, staying low. The closer I get, the more calm I become. I think they will help me. One gets out of the passenger door on the other side and comes around. The driver also exits the car and walks toward me. They are silhouetted by the car lights, but the shapes scare me. A large man and a smaller woman. I make a desperate run for it. They are back in the car and pulling the vehicle onto desert terrain.

Why? Why is my luck bad? What did I do? What did I say or think? I think the mountain is coming up. I will climb. I will climb fast and try to escape. But, the car has already caught up; the headlights are on me. It pulls to a quick stop and someone is running after me. I can’t hide from the lights. Someone’s right behind me, heavy feet and breath. His arm wraps around my waist and yanks me up, shoving the air out of me.

“No!” I scream. “Stop! Please! I won’t go back! Stop it! Let me go.”

“******** Mars!” Twiggy screeches, exasperated and pulling the car up next to Biggie. I scratch at his arms, his hands, kicking backwards near his groin. “Slips up again. I’ll pop the trunk. He better not be dead, b***h, or I will give you a real taste of hell, you ******** slut!”

I throw my hands at Biggie’s face, but he tosses me into the trunk and slams the door down, smashing my head. I am out for the third time that night. Please stop ******** with my head. Please stop cutting me. Please let me go and crawl into my tub and wash and cry and die. Please let me go in peace.
_______________________________________________________________________________

I think about my psychiatrist handing me my first bottle of Valium and Zoloft and Ambitropin, all in the first session. Something for the panic attacks, something for the drudging depression, and another something to get me to sleep. But, just because it gets me to sleep, doesn’t mean it gets rid of the night terrors. It puts me down, but I can’t wake up. I am trapped in the nightmare until morning. I am forced with the harsh realities for a whole ten hours.

So, here I am, sitting on the porch. A typical and usual way for me to start my dreams. I swing leisurely on the rocking bench, holding a children’s book upside down. I am wearing my Sunday best dress, the white one with lace. I don’t fit into it anymore; haven’t for years. My brother comes up to the house and sits next to me. His hand is on my thigh. I ask him what he wants. He transforms into a beast, dripping and sweating and loud and mean and brutal. I scream for help.

Someone’s hand is on my forehead, holding me down. My hands break out and slap and smash and strike. I jolt out.

“What a way to wake up,” Mars breathes, sitting next to me on the mattress. The room is different. The windows are all unbroken. I can hear birds outside and see the sun through the window. “You were out a lot longer this time. Had to move, you know. When the sun comes up, we have to split. We are across town, getting ready for the long haul. Twiggy and Biggie are out getting a new car for the trip.” His hand is still on my head, moving to cover my eyes.

“What trip?” I ask.

“I don’t think you’ll be on it, peach. This should be your last stop.” His hand moves to close over my neck for a moment, tightening slowly but then slipping off. His complexion is pale and troubled.

I can barely move. My head is screaming. I turn over and see blood left behind on the mattress. Feeling the back of my head, my fingers come across split skin, a bleeding wound.

“I almost didn’t think you were going to wake up, but you were still breathing,” he explains. “You have a pretty bad concussion, so I suggest you don’t move around too much.” I leaned over the side of the bed and heaved bile onto the carpet. That was all that was left in my stomach, since I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. “Certainly not a peach anymore, are you.”

I try to bring my legs up and curl in on myself. I feel so cold. But, my ankle is swollen and pulsing red. I must’ve really beat it up when I fell from the roof. I didn’t notice through all the adrenaline and panic. Now, I can’t even try to run away with a leg like this. Maybe it’s broken, totally unusable.

I’m still wearing his jeans, but blood soaked through the thighs leaving angry streaks down the legs. Mars is wearing a new pair of jeans complete with a clean t-shirt this time. His face is all kinds of messed up.

My hands are swollen and the joints stiff beyond belief. The skin over my knuckles have been scraped away from the struggles and hitting this man in the face. The gashes in my palms have clotted but are dirty and showing beginning signs of infection. I am in no shape to try to get away now.

“You have surprised me,” he whispers in my ear, now surprisingly close. “Resilient for a suicide-case.” I want to die. Why doesn’t he just end it? “God hates you.”

I reply in a low, defeated tone, “I don’t believe in God.”

“Good, because he doesn’t believe in you. You’re better off going your separate ways, a mutual and clean break,” he affirms, massaging my shoulders soothingly.

“No,” I start. “We were never together to begin with.”

“How about giving it a try with the Devil?” he asks. His lips are on my ear.

“I would rather disappear completely. No place is safe.” He is surprisingly gentle, even kind right now.

“Would you like a bath, Mallory?” he asks me. He must’ve gone through my wallet in the last night. I don’t know when he did, but I don’t think it was until after I smothered him. He probably didn’t care about it before. “Your name was Mallory McIntosh. A nice little peach aren’t you with your curly red hair, right? An Irish princess. You lived on 423 Olive Street in a rich zip code. You were fifteen, five foot seven, one hundred and forty pounds, not really small, above average height and strong. Biggie said you had running muscles like a ******** stallion. He almost thought about running you down with the car.” Why was he talking about me in third person, as if I was already dead? “And, I found your health card, including an address card for a Dr. Aspen, your psychiatrist. You were quite the pill popper, carrying around prescriptions for all these anti-anxiety, anti-depression, sleeping pills. This is some heavy stuff. How come your doctor prescribes you all of this? It’s really excessive, but it does explain your tolerance for high class tranquilizers. How are you feeling, Mallory?”

“I want a bath, a real bath,” I request, turning over towards him.

“I can manage that. But, it might be your last one.”

“I will take it.”

“Do you want a Valium before your bath, honey?” he offers.

“I would love a Valium or a Xanax if you have it,” I answer, but I know full well he doesn’t have any of those things.

Yet, he waves two medicine bottles in my face. “I put in the prescriptions for these early this morning. Pharmacist was a gullible little thing. I told her you were my little sister, and you were too sick to come in yourself. I had a few myself, but they don’t do much for me. I am also used to s**t like this, if you can believe it. They don’t really help you either, do they, peach? I can tell, since you were about ready to kill yourself despite them.”

“They do make me feel better. They make me feel nothing,” I reply, making a small reach for the bottles. He holds them out of range.

“But, I want you to feel something.” He shakes the bottles teasingly and then tosses them across the room. He hauls me over his shoulder, carrying me through a closet to the back bathroom.

I am dropped straight to the tile, so he can bend over and turn on the faucet. The room is freezing, steam rising from the tub.

“Take your clothes off,” he orders, sitting down on the toilet next to an open window. The open window explains the cold, how the tile is sticking to the skin on my arms. Mars repeats himself, but I don’t want to obey. “It’s not like my hands haven’t been all over that body. Take your damn clothes off and get in the tub. I promise not to do anything.” Promises are made to be broken, but the hot water is inviting.

I slide my bloody tank over my head, handing it over to his offering hand. He motions for the jeans. I unbutton them and slowly inch them off, feeling the cloth separate from the dried cuts between my legs. I can’t help but hiss, yet once the pants are to my knees I pull out quick and toss them at Mars. I reach for the front of my bra, fingering the easy clasp. My back is facing Mars now, and I am still anxious. He has not proven to be very trustworthy. But, what do I have to lose? Oh, yeah, that. My a** is fusing with the tile, so I unclip the bra and maneuver out, reaching behind me and handing him the garment while crossing my free arm over my chest. I stand up and shimmy my panties off, letting them drop to the floor. I kick them back in his direction and then step into the steaming bath.

The water quickly turns pink and slowly darker.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, stuffing all the clothes into the jeans and tying it up. “Now, let me wash what’s left of your hair.” He kneels behind the tub, telling me to lean my head back. I watch him warily open the shampoo bottle and lather a large amount in his hands. “Enjoy this while it lasts, peach.” I dunk my head under water, and, when I come back up, his hands are in my hair. He has great hands.

“This is cruel, you know,” I tell him.

“And I thought I was being nice.”

“Being nice is just as bad. You should just get it over with.”

“But, I am as mean as they come, peach. I’ll drive you into complacency, so you won’t know when it’s coming. Death is supposed to be like that for the young – spontaneous and ironic,” he explains, wiping suds off my forehead so they won’t fall into my eyes. “Down,” he orders, and I slide forward to go under and wash the soap out of my hair. His hand is lying over my neck; the other moving water over my head. I close my eyes under water, waiting for him to finish.

I start to sit up, but his hand is pressing down on my neck. He is putting his weight on top of me. I reach up to punch him in the face, but he moves out of the way, clasping both hands around my neck. I kick upwards; writhe sideways to move some water out of the tub, but it’s not enough. God, I hate you. ******** you. I can’t breathe; my lungs hurt, crushed by lack of oxygen. This isn’t as bad as being cut into pieces, I will agree, but you are no saint, Mars. I am out.
_______________________________________________________________________________

I wake up with my face pressed to the tile floor, still wet and freezing. What an a*****e.

“You’ll always be the victim if you keep lying there like that,” Mars informs me.

“What is your damage?”I manage to get out after hacking up acid and water.

“I am not damaged, peach,” Mars declares firmly from the doorsill. He tosses a folded shirt next to me. “I was neither abused nor abandoned nor any other lame s**t other killers claim to have endured. My instinct is natural born, and I realized a long time ago that I am nature’s most evolved predator. Not everyone can be what I am, because not everyone can handle such a highly functioning beast. I am perfect and content with such perfection. Now, you – you are the damaged one, peach, but salvageable. Very salvageable. So put the shirt on and eat something. If you starve on me, I will be disappointed, probably irritated. But, starvation might teach you a thing or two about the real animal nature. So, hurry up before I change my mind.”

He leaves me alone, and I quickly pull the shirt on to combat the cold, letting it slide to cover my knees. I look towards the door and wonder what is waiting on the other side, knowing he will probably plan to slit my throat as soon as I exit the bathroom. Yet, at this point, I can’t bring myself to care. Pain radiates through every nerve, so a knife to the throat would be a blessing. Quick and the agony would blend into the rest, so yes, leave the room, Mallory, accept the death you prayed for only last night.

Mars wraps his hand around my upper arm in a vice and tugs me towards the door. “Change of plans.” He shoves a greasy bag in my hands. “We need to leave now.”

“On the trip?” I question. “I thought I wasn’t coming.”

“Well, after the latest turn of events, I’ve decided to graciously extend an invitation to you, peach, so don’t protest and get in the car.”

When we’re all seated, Twiggy turns around to voice her worries. “It shouldn’t have been so easy to get her in the car,” Twiggy reasons. “She’s like a doll now, Mars, a waste of space.”

“Don’t be rude, Twiggy, you don’t know anything about her. A girl with nothing to live for has no qualms about joining a trio of serial killers in a busted up Impala, right Mallory? Tell me you are scared or nervous or even happy to be getting in this car.” Mars scoots in next to me, twirling the remains of my hair around his knotted index finger.

“At this point, there isn’t a reason for me to feel either way,” I admit honestly, staring at the burger in my hands. “I guess I feel relieved and hungry.” I tear into the burger, swallowing large chunks, feeling my esophagus swell uncomfortably with the weight of the meat. “I wonder what my parents are thinking.”

“Don’t get too comfortable, chicky,” Twiggy sneers, turning around and starting up the car, the engine roaring and growling, the gears grinding as she shifts into gear.

I eat quietly and observe the big guy in the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window and breathing steadily, in and out with power, sleeping through the sound of the engine and dirty guitars spewing out Ziggy Stardust over the radio. I notice Twiggy place her hand on his thick neck, her small fingers curling around the solid line from jaw to shoulder, rubbing almost lovingly.

“How about I give you the option?” Mars offers, pulling my attention away. He is sitting up against the opposite door, holding a couple of plastic, orange prescription bottles. His stare is calculating, weighing every possibility and considering each consequence. “You want to die. I am obviously not the one to grant you that wish. You want these pills; you can have them. Shove them into your burger; crush them into your fries. I’ll see you off, if that’s what you really want.”

Joy Division comes on over the radio, Ian Curtis pouring his Heart and Soul amidst persistent drums and subdued twangs of a guitar.

Mars shifts, crawling over the seats to kneel next to me. He grabs my hand and places the bottles on my palm, closing my fingers around them. My hand is too small to hold both of them like that, but he supports it, keeping his hand closed over mine. In his eyes, I see he can’t decide what my reaction will be, and he seems frustrated.

“And, if I don’t?” I wonder.

“I can’t answer that,” he states simply.

“You’re not joking with me.”

He shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips, the bottom one swollen and split but mirthful around the obvious pain. “Why are you still here, Mallory?”

My throat constricts; my heart is racing. His mind confirms everything, and now he looks sure.

“You want to make the decision for yourself. You won’t let anyone else make it for you. I’m giving you the choice.”

“Mind games,” I whisper, my fingers tightening around the plastic. With the window open behind me, the wind taking up his wild hair, sucking the air out around us, he is the most frightening and enthralling thing I have ever seen.

“I’m good at it,” he says with a chuckle. He takes his hand away and returns to the opposite corner of the backseat.

Looking at him, all I could see was an opening, nothing but uncertainty. Yes, it was a surprising relief, something refreshing. The night before I was sure I had no future. I would go to my therapy sessions, let my psychiatrist drug me and feel me up while I babbled about my convict brother, go home to silent and disappointed parents, sleep controlled, hunger controlled, emotion controlled. It would be an endless repetition, an empty cycle that had convinced me my life meant nothing. I was meant to be used. Mars had prodded me in the worst way, provoked an animal I didn’t know I was capable of unleashing. I looked at the bottles in my hands and thought of all the days I had spent relying on the false complacency they provided, fully aware of their meaningless comfort, of the end they could give me now, an end that could mean something in the grand scheme of things. It would affirm the existence I lead before last night, affirm its lack of any value. To deny all of that was my choice now. So much power gained in so little time, outside of the realm of the doctor and the parents and the brother, out of their reach where they couldn’t make it for me.

I tossed the bottles out of the window behind me, not watching them fly across the desert to some unknown plot.

Mars nodded. “Not a single bit of pity.”

And, I suddenly felt a smile tugging on my lips, a bubbling giddiness rising in my gut.

“You want me,” Mars declares, laughing to himself.

Twiggy announces from the front, “It will cut you from the inside out, chicky. I’d be scared.”

I crumpled the empty paper bag in my hands over and over again, trying to ignore the heat simmering in my belly. All of it was just one big game, just an experiment. I glanced at Mars, who was gazing out the window now looking content and thoughtful. I shook my head. Either way, it didn’t matter, because death was ahead regardless.
_______________________________________________________________________________

“It’s best not to ask why and just go with it, peach,” Mars explains while cleaning my hands with rubbing alcohol and wrapping them with clean gauze. “How is everything else?”

“Just fine, I think.” I honestly don’t know, but it appears most of the other cuts have clotted and are on their way to healing properly. But, he lifts my still swollen ankle, wraps it stiff with an ACE bandage and then tapes two bags of ice to either side.

“Keep off it for a bit.” He sets my leg across his lap, sliding his arms along the tops of the car seats, relaxing as if having my bare leg there is natural. His hand remains on my knee, stroking it leisurely.

“Could I have some pants?” I ask matter-of-factly, referring to my lack of undergarments underneath this sack of a shirt.

“I might be able to rummage something up, but this will have to suffice for now,” Mars assures me. “Pants are for squares, peach.” His hand slides up my thigh, pausing at the mid-groove before moving back down to my knee.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. We are still about two hours out. Do you like the ocean?” he replies, keeping it vague.

“I haven’t seen it since I was little.”

“Well, the first thing we’ll do is go swimming, maybe get some fish tacos, look for sea shells. Sound good?” he asks, eyeing me from the side to gauge my reaction.

“You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I wasn’t trying to. Sitting there tense and ready for action is just a waste of time, peach. Enjoy it while it lasts. At this rate, you should have just taken those pills.” So quick I couldn’t keep up, he lashes out, his hand gripping my neck, slamming me down on the leather seat. “Is this what you were expecting?”

I push my fingers into his gut; twisting at the wound I can feel bandaged beneath his white t-shirt. His jaw goes tight, but his face doesn’t change. I can feel his fingers tightening gradually the more I claw, threatening to crush my wind pipe while I put my hand into his belly. His face is so close, observing and calculating, but he barely lets on the agony I know he must be in with my nails playing at the nerve ends.

“Harder. That won’t do,” he eggs me on. “Try and tear my heart out, peach. I know you’re capable of it.” His words make me drop my hand to my side, feeling something slick and warm on my finger tips. “Not far enough.”

He sits up, his hand sliding off my neck. I watch him slump into his seat, pulling his shirt up to survey the damage. Blood is soaking through his bandages, and he grunts and presses his hand to the open wound.

“Fear is useless, Mallory. You know that, right?” he explains. “If you don’t fear death in any form, then you have nothing left to fear. But, it’s such a tricky thing, giving up your fear, especially when it’s something you will never understand. Were you really so willing to kill yourself or was that a lie?”

Yes, I was more than willing. I didn’t feel alive, so I figured there would be no difference between the drug-induced haze I was floating through and a dark sleep, an empty dream that would never end. But when I woke up to the pounding at the door, the screaming, broken glass and a butcher knife, I was never aware my body was capable of expending so much energy, that my nerves could feel light up like that. The pain was a shock to my system. I felt like Frankenstein’s monster reborn with so much electric adrenaline, a corpse pulled from a grave of monotony and prescription bottles. My life suddenly seemed worth of preserving, like it deserved more than being butchered at a random house party. My whole existence had been spent giving myself over to these users that to let a strange psychotic end my life seemed like a waste. Mars reminded me I was alive, warm and breathing and bleeding, that I could still feel pain.

I threw the pills out the window because I wanted to feel something, even if it was agony or pleasure. I knew Mars was capable of dolling about both generously.

I leaned up against the door, my legs still outstretched toward Mars, who had dropped his shirt and was looking at me sideways. I couldn’t stop gazing at him and thinking I had never seen such an awe inspiring creature, so frightful and powerful, a god of war and destruction personified. Slowly, he moved towards me again, his hands spreading my legs to make way for him. With my thighs pressed to either side of his hips and his hands on my neck, lifting my eyes to look up at him, all I could see was possibility and uncertainty and a terror I wanted to embrace. I wondered how difficult it would be to tear his heart out, wondered if once I held it in my palm it would set me on fire or eat me alive, the heart of nature’s perfect predator, this natural born killer.

Queen Bombshelle's avatar

Tipsy Autobiographer

I'm new to this but I got inspired by so many of the prompts I will try and probably return if it happens again. <3
So yeah. An entry will happen sometime.
AngelicH0micide's avatar

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I still intend to submit an entry, but a personal family matter left me unable to write this last week. Hoping the deadline will be pushed...
Yutora's avatar

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You'll have my entry before the deadline is over, I promise.
Yeshaya Silver's avatar

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Yay entries!

And the deadline is extended five more days.
AngelicH0micide's avatar

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thanks for the extension!
SayaAki's avatar

Gekko


I'm super serial about finding/co-hosting another contest with you, though. At least one. I'd like to give it a shot <3
SayaAki's avatar

Gekko


And btw, haven't been around lately because got Plants VS Zombies and MINECRAFT! heart But hubby laid off for summer so prolly no new games any time soon
Yutora's avatar

Gracious Stalker

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Wait! Extended deadline? Meaning, I can get some sleep?
Awesome. I was pulling an allnighter to finish this!

EDIT: Nvm I finished it anyway. lol
But now it means I can sleep and post tomorrow.
Oh please, please push the deadline back! I'm trying to get this done, but it's just not there yet crying
AngelicH0micide's avatar

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I have a question, what time zone is the deadline in? I live in Pacific time, so just curious because you seem to be a day ahead of me
Luna Vox's avatar

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Ahh! Thank the lord there's a deadline extension. I'd half completed my story when Finals week hit.
But, my story's done now! I'll be posting it in a second. (:

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