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  It may not always be like this, and I may not have the opportunity. My only chance of survival is the bitch locked away in a room right now, wallowing in her own demons.

  If I want to win this game, I have to finish it as quickly as possible before she has another chance to outsmart me.

  For what could possibly be the final time.

  9

  The door has long since slammed shut, but the walls look like they’re still shaking. I’m breaking on the inside, which means I’m starting to lose my will. I thought I would be able to last longer than this, to see the end, yet I can feel myself faltering much faster than I guessed I would have.

  It doesn’t feel like the end yet, and I have no intention of giving up as easily as I think my tormentor hopes I will, because if I’m faltering, that means we both are.

  Hopefully I still have a few tricks up my sleeve to use, but I’m becoming tired. The dizziness has not subsided and the feelings of illness are only getting stronger, which means my pills have been tampered with.

  I don’t understand how it’s possible when I’ve had them tucked so neatly away in what I thought was a safe place. Things aren’t what they seem in this fucking hell hole, and the sooner I come to terms with that, the easier this game will be to win―or at the very least, see the end of.

  Winning isn’t exactly what I have in mind. I know my tormentor won’t allow such a thing, but I can score my own personal victory if I stop looking at things through the eyes of a victim and instead through the eyes of a survivor.

  But how does one survive something they’ve never done before? It’s so much simpler said than done, and I know if I can just stop the walls from shaking, I can gather myself and regroup before it starts all over again.

  Two nights is what we have left, and I’m not sure I’m fit to see another sunrise in this condition. The blood flowing like a warm, steady river down my arms tells me as much. Maybe I can convince my tormentor to help me before beginning our next session? After all, this game would receive much better engagement from both of us if the playing field were even.

  I’ll have to convince my opponent that I mean them no harm, and then I’ll be able to at least have assistance in fashioning tourniquets. There’s no challenge in facing a weakened enemy, and I have to be on my best behavior to get the help I know I so desperately need.

  But how does one stop blood flowing from open wounds? I don’t have hands anymore―nothing that resembles them, anyway. The skin on my right arm is stripped from my fingers up to my elbows, and on my left, I have most of my flesh save for my hand.

  I wonder …

  Would it be wrong of me? Will my tormentor know if I … Just a taste wouldn’t be so bad.

  As I hold my hands up to the dim light in the room, I’m almost mesmerized by the way they look. The muscle, the bone, the sinew; all sitting so prominently in view when they should be hidden away from the elements. And yet, I find myself fascinated by what the body looks like underneath the skin. I find myself wanting to know what it tastes like, and that’s something I’ve never even dared to wonder before.

  I move my right hand closer to my bruised lips and suddenly grunt when I remember I’ve been robbed of the ability to taste. My tongue is sitting in a fucking freezer somewhere, but I still have to find a way to stop the bleeding and maybe if I just …

  Parting my lips slightly, I gingerly slide what’s left of my forefinger into my mouth and begin to suckle, ignoring the rush of blood that falls from behind the dam that held it all back.

  Blood begets blood and maybe it’ll help heal me in a way. Closing my eyes tightly, I stick the remnants of my middle finger into my mouth and suckle both fingers quietly. I hate to admit it but it’s filling me as well as helping with the sting in my mouth.

  “And to think I almost missed this,” the voice says quietly, coyly, from the doorway.

  My eyes fly open and as I move to pull my ragged hand out of my mouth, my tormentor is already on me, baring teeth in a grin of insanity, and shoving my fingers further down my throat.

  10

  I hope I’ll be forgiven for being so far away. I usually don’t take the time to be alone, but I think we’ve both earned a quiet moment. Of course, I’ll make my way back sooner than expected because I can’t afford to waste time so close to the end, but I want to be able to unwind right now. The grand finale always takes so much out of me and I know she’ll put up a fight even though she signed herself over to me.

  She’s a bitch, and that’s what bitches do. They go back on their word and think it’s best to save their loudest bark for the end, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve I can’t wait to show her.

  I prefer the fight, if I’m being honest. Seeing the semblance of what was once a person of flesh and blood turn into a ravenous animal of bone and muscle tells me I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve broken the body as well as the soul, and all that’s left then is for me to decide when to strike a merciful blow to release the bitter spirit.

  However, the further away I get, the more I feel I should turn around and go back. I have the oddest sensation deep inside me and I can’t help but feel that she needs me right now.

  I hate these connections I sometimes form with the animals, but if I’m right, she could potentially be in danger.

  It worries me more that I’m willing to be her knight in shining armor instead of her destroyer soaked in blood. I’ll earn my title when the moment comes, which will be soon enough, but for now, I’ll play the part of dutiful savior and make my way back to the room we’ve spent so many intimate moments in together.

  I’ll save her life this one time and then she’ll be bound to me even more than her signature on a piece of paper. Her spirit―her very soul—will be mine to barter with, and I plan to enjoy her being fooled by the hero she’ll assume me to be.

  11

  Oh God, it’s not him. How many of them are there, and when will this fucking end?

  This new monster I didn’t even know existed is trying his damnedest to cram my entire hand down my throat, and I’m gagging on my skinned fingers.

  My head is pushed back at such an odd angle that if he pushes any farther, my neck will snap and I’ll die. Maybe I shouldn’t put up such a fight, but the human instinct to survive is far too strong for either of us, and I bring my teeth down as hard as I can.

  I have to swallow the scream that’s mixed with pain, blood, and bile, as I continue to bite down harder still. The exposed flesh tears easily and the bones are beginning to snap underneath the weight of my resolve.

  A human mouth can exude one hundred and twenty pounds of pressure per bite and I will sever my own fucking fingers to get him off me. I will not die like this―fooled and taken advantage of by a villain that hasn’t earned the right to take my life.

  I take as deep a breath as I can and, with every ounce of strength I can muster, bite down so swiftly and viciously that it takes only grating my teeth once or twice to snap the already brittle bones in my fingers.

  The new villain backs away from me, skittering away on all fours like a nightmare come to life, as I quickly jerk forward and spit the top halves of my fingers out of my mouth and fall over, desperately trying to gasp in as much air as my lungs will allow.

  A laugh escapes me.

  I feel a small victory is claimable right now, because I’ve managed to fend off one of the worst I’m assuming this place has to offer, and I’ve shown how far I’m willing to go to save myself.

  But will it ever be enough? How much more of myself must I willingly destroy to win the only victory that counts?

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” a voice says softly from the door.

  I turn my face slightly on the dirty ground and look to see my true monster standing in the door, watching the scene before him.

  “Leave,” the villain hisses at the pretender sitting on the floor. “I’ll deal with you later, and if you enter this room again without my consent, I’ll cut your fucking dick off and shove
it up your ass.”

  It’s a stern, quiet warning, but one taken very seriously. Moving up to the palms of his hands and the flat of his feet, he quickly moves backwards out of the room, his eyes never leaving my tormentor. It should be something to unnerve me, but I don’t think I have any nerves left.

  “Poor little girl. What did he make you do?” he asks softly, as he shuts the door and locks it tightly.

  Another laugh escapes me―this one is much shorter, much less full of insanity as I hold up my hand and show that I’m less of a person than when I was left alone.

  I take another deep breath, attempting to push myself up to a seated position, and everything that I’ve held inside me comes out in a cascade of vomit and blood. I put the only semi-good hand I have left now up against the wall to steel myself as I retch again, another torrent wave spewing from my mouth before I fall over and land in it.

  I don’t care anymore.

  I give up.

  Let this be the last of it, because I don’t know how much more I can take.

  12

  I apologize for what happened to you while I left to collect myself. I promise it won’t happen again, and he will be dealt with. You’re clean now and even though you’re unconscious from the pain of what you put yourself through, I’ll leave you here in this tub of ice and warm water.

  The warmth will keep you from spiraling into hypothermia, and the ice will restrict your blood flow. You’ll understand when you wake up alone in this cold, dark room that I’m doing this to save your life. It belongs to me and I will not let anyone else claim it. Not even you, little girl.

  Even the bitch of the mother that bore you has no claim on your life―only I do, and you’ll do well to remember that the next time you try to move the schedule forward on your finale.

  What’s the point? You can’t hear me right now, and if you can, I’d suspect you of acting, but once I laid your body on these cubes of ice, you would have reacted with extreme shock.

  That is, if you can react to anything anymore. I’m sorry for letting out such a disconcerting sigh. I just wish you could hear me speaking to you.

  It’s okay. You rest for now, because I have other matters to attend to, and in my actions, a declaration to make.

  I’ll come back to check on you when my work is done. Sleep well, little girl.

  The utter and complete destruction of another like me is against the rules, unless set forth by the tormented, but I must maintain some order in this fucking place.

  I am the overseer of the others and to think that one would show such a lack of common sense bothers me greatly. It means they don’t respect or fear me as much as they should.

  To be honest, I thought I had already taken care of this particular vulture, but apparently, I hadn’t done enough of a job to keep him at bay. I intend to rectify that misstep as soon as I enter his room.

  His actions are more monstrous than his d, yet I feel that the outside should reflect the beast within. He’s fond of hammers and mallets and I suppose it’s about time I find out why.

  I’m standing in front of his door now, and I can’t help the smile that slips so slowly across my lips. As I’ve said, I enjoy my work, and now another of my colleagues will see just how much, and stand as a warning to the others.

  Motherfucker.

  The door is locked. He’s a coward, this one, and I hate that in a colleague. Once you decide to show yourself, to step into this line of torment, you should hold your head high and make your intentions clear and bold.

  Surely a well-placed kick in the right spot will―ah! It worked; I’ve always wanted to kick a door off the hinges, I just never had a reason to before today.

  Just inside the door is a large, rubber mallet, and I grip the handle firmly as I enter the room and look around. He’s in here. I know he is, because I can smell him―he’s pissed himself with fear but it’s too late for “I’m sorry”s.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I say softly, tapping my left thigh with my free hand. The sound of the mallet head dragging on the floor behind me as I begin to case the room is enough to put fear in the strongest of hearts, because every last colleague here knows I tend to be on the psychotic side.

  That’s why I’m considered the highest level of hierarchy in this place. I’m the fucking King of the Crazies and I like to think the title suits me just fine.

  I clear my throat as I stand in the middle of the room. It’s filthy in here, and I’ll have to make sure he cleans the fucking place up once he’s healed afterwards. If I decide to leave anything of him left, anyway.

  I turn my head sharply to the left when I hear the slight, unmistakable sound of a shoe grazing the wooden floor, and raise an eyebrow.

  Cretin.

  I can see the heel of his boot sticking out somewhat from underneath the bed, and I choke back a laugh. A monster hiding under the bed…such a fucking cliché.

  Turning quickly, I stalk toward the bed on the other side of the room, nestled safely against the wall, and drop down to one knee.

  “Boo,” I whisper as I whip the drop ruffle up from the floor and lock eyes with him.

  A sinister smile sits prominently on my face and a burning insanity begins blaring in my eyes as I reach underneath the bed and drag him out.

  13

  It’s cold.

  I’m not entirely sure why, because I’ve never felt cold in this place before, but my body is shivering as I fight to open my eyes.

  Each breath I attempt to take into my body stings, and I can’t seem to find the light anywhere. I’m afraid something new is starting to take over me―something I’ve never had to deal with before. I don’t know if I’ll be able to cope with it.

  My eyes are slowly starting to part and as my vision starts to come back into play, I can see I’m no longer in the room I had started to think of as my home. I’m in a darker room, a dirtier room, one where the air turns my breath to smoke in front of my eyes. One I’ll need help to get out of.

  I’m of no use to myself anymore. While I have given more of my body to my tormentor than I have to anyone else, I’ve also taken from myself, too. But when faced with the option of death or survival, we all become monsters in one way or another, I suppose.

  I don’t … I don’t really feel the pain of what I’ve done anymore, nor do I feel the agony of what’s been done to me so far, and I think it has to do with the bitter cold feeling that’s gripped my entire body.

  I won’t worry about it for now if it means a break from the brutality I’ve handed myself over to. I’ll just wait here until it’s time to begin again, because attempting to leave on my own will only make things worse.

  I don’t have the strength for it, but even if I did, there are so many doors here I wouldn’t know which would lead to freedom and which to a torturer worse than the one I’ve already been contracted to.

  No, I’ll just close my eyes again and try to dream of a happier place. A place where I’m not a prisoner. A place where the air doesn’t hurt me so much. A place where my body is still mine, and as pretty as my grandmother always told me it was.

  Eventually, it will all come to an end, so I will lose myself in this peaceful moment of frost and intoxication of not feeling pain and wait.

  My tormentor will come for me again soon, and when he finds me being the good little girl he’s been so desperately trying to mold, things will get better.

  14

  Would you like to know a secret about me? I was given the opportunity to be an angel once, instead of a being in this business, but I never could find solace in the days of worship and constant praise. I found no joy in helping those who refused to help themselves, you know? I believe that being what I am―what I chose to be when I was presented with the opportunity―suits me much better than anything I could have ever hoped for.

  It’s why we’re here, all of us, isn’t it? To punish the ones who know they deserve it, and to sort the weak from the willing. We do a service no one else
can provide, and for that, we’re well rewarded.

  At least one of us will still be when I leave this room.

  Oh, don’t look at me like that. My subject gives me those eyes as well, and if you had the chance to speak to her instead of using her own fingers to try and throat fuck her to death, she could have told you that it doesn’t work.

  Well, that’s not entirely true. She can’t say much of anything at the moment, but I did make her a promise and I intend to follow through, which is why I’m here. You’re far too dangerous of a vile creature to be allowed to roam these halls so freely.

  Do you enjoy human marvels, perchance? I happen to be quite fond of them. What so many others paid money to see―what they deemed to be freaks—I found to be so beautiful and more deserving than those who feel that they are owed the world.

  One of my personal favorites was Ella Harper. Do you know what she was known for?

  Stop trying to kick me or I’ll smash your fucking ankles to dust. Don’t interrupt my story again with your whimpering either, or I’ll crush your throat underneath my heel.

  Now, Ella Harper was billed as Camel Girl. She was born with a rare condition that allowed her to bend her knees backwards and she would walk on all fours―much like you tend to do.

  As the story goes, even though she was quite capable of walking upright like a “normal” person, she rather enjoyed walking on her hands and feet instead.

  Forgive my smile, but I can see in your eyes that you know where I’m going with this. Up on all your hands and feet, please; let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.

  The difference between you and Ella is that she knew how to walk with her knees turned inside out, and you don’t, do you? Well, perhaps it’s because you’ve never been given the opportunity to do so.