I read somewhere once that fear was a powerful aphrodisiac, trust me, whoever said that is an incredible liar. I know what fear is, and I know what it can instill in a person. Lust was never one of those things. Fear is powerful and I used to pride myself on the fact that I never had any. No, I'm lying. I pride myself on the fact that I never showed it. I had two rules, never let anyone see that I was afraid and never let anyone see me cry. In the past six months those rules have been broken so many times that I lost count. That's one of the things that hurts the most. They broke my cardinal rules.
Cardinal, red. I never noticed that before I saw one of those birds through those god damn windows, well the crack between the boards. They are so red. Red as my blood is. So red, and so thick. I hate those birds. I hate what they represent in my mind. The association game was always a great laugh before, now I represent everything with those two months of my capture. Of the two months of hell that I suffered through.
Dante is also a liar. There is no seven different layers of heaven and hell. Paradise doesn't exist except in a small corner of my mind where no one but me has access. Hell is no depths of fire. There is pain and despair. Not for long anyway, after a while the two feelings become so overpowering that you soon can't feel them. Hell, looks nothing like you see in your minds when you close your eyes. You see I've seen it up close and personal. Hell is a six by ten room with a boarded over window letting nothing but a sliver of light through so you can see those birds. Letting you know life goes on even though you don't exist anymore.
In hell there are a set of chains in the middle of the room that hold you and never let you dream of escape. Escape, a six letter word some asshole stuck in a dictionary to take up space. It's a bigger tease than any female could be. In hell there is a cot in the corner, with a thin blanket on it so you can try so valiantly, yet so helplessly go hide your naked body from the cold wind that manages to break into your prison though the damn crack. There is a bucket that lies in another corner that holds all of your waste. Not that you have much to offer it. No, because Satan gives little food. Enough to keep you alive and available but not enough to make a fight. Not after you mistakenly did that first day. Yes, you learned your lesson after that time.
And that door. That fucking door. You don't know what's on the other side of that door, you aren't supposed to. It's wrong. You only know what that door has to offer. Every ounce of pain and suffering that you can imagine. All that and ten times more than that.
That door also offers freedom, freedom to escape the hell that was built around me broken body. Freedom is right there after escape in the dictionary. Freedom isn't something that was granted to the slaves or any other trapped people, it is achieved. A prize that waits for you at the finish line of a race that last so long that you feel that you have no choice but to give up hope.
And loneliness, there is always loneliness. But in my hell, that is something that you relish in. When you are alone, nothing can harm you. When you are alone, you have the time to convince your self that you may actually survive. That tomorrow you may actually feel the warmth the sun provides, that the pain will stop and you might actually feel whole, even if it's only for a moment. When you live in my hell, moments like those make life worth living. Even if you are long dead inside.
He's coming through that door again, I can't see him, I never can, but I can feel him. His presence is so over powering. It's like he has this overwhelming power to take you and hold your soul hostage along with your body. He's only a shadow, a being of darkness, composed of darkness, living in darkness. I'm nothing but a toy to him. A being of light that he feels deserves nothing but annihilation.
Am I really though? A being of light that is. I was never perfect growing up. Attended church every Sunday, but I never really paid attention. I was never a bully, but I got in fights. I have walked that precipice of good and evil all of my life that there is no line anymore. It's one big blur. Blacks and whites mixing to make a shade of gray so solid, I fear God himself can't separate the two. So am I a being of light? I don't know, but he is one solid streak of black that mars the gray. Maybe he's the line. He's what will pull me towards good are evil. And I am so scared that it'll be to the wrong one. The problem is I can't tell right from wrong anymore.
He's hitting me now. My eyes are blurred with tears and I can smell the blood that's running down my back. The smell of blood is intoxicating. He's has said that to me dozens of times, and he is right. The smell can dull the senses but it can heighten them at the same time. He loves to taste my blood. He'll lap it from my skin until there is no more there. The noises he makes, the guttural sounds that bounce around the room, they make me crave the blood myself. It takes all my will power some days not to rip my skin and drink my own blood. I'm as much of a monster as he is. The only difference is, I feel shame.
I feel shame that a part of me likes what he does to me. I feel shame that in the back of my mind I hear a voice calling for him. Calling for him to hurt me, to make me cry out in pain, to feel this blood lust. To feel his hand teasing my cock like he is now. To feel the rush of the sexuality that seems to act as a tidal wave.
He's whispering in my ears, caressing my body, it's almost like he cares for me. I'm not stupid. I'm just a plaything. He's like a rich spoiled kid and I'm the flavor of the week. I feel shame that I don't want these meaningless episodes to end. Before him I was nothing when he's done with me, I'll be nothing again. Everyday he whispers in my ear that I am nothing, I am just his plaything. What he fails to realize is, that's what makes me something.
I'm nothing special, I'm just human that some god or another decided to play a game with. They gave me to a demon for him to play with, now they are sitting back on their thrones with martinis in one hand and the whips that tear my skin in the other. I am just one of their many amusements. But when he's with me, I'm am all there is, even for that little bit of time. I'm his entertainment, I'm his pleasure station, I am here for him to take his anger out on, and I'll always be here.
See, he hurt me too bad the other day. He almost killed me. And he did. But he also let me live. He was so angry. He hit me over and over. My tears wouldn't stop and they made him even more angry. I begged for him to stop, and he hit me in the temple. The world was so bright then, no more black and my last look at colors.
His cock tore into me. Over and over again. Dry at first, but then the blood acted as a lube. I didn't have enough air in my lungs to cry anymore and all that came from my mouth was dry gasps and the strangled cries of my pain.
He tore me up and destroyed me. Then it was time to rebuild. It was time to let me heal. But there wasn't enough of me left. I was fading, seconds from being gone. That's when I felt him bite me. And I felt hope that my shame was ending. That there would be no more lies in my head or out in the open. But, of course, hope is another in a long line of liars. When the blackness closed over me from the inside, I felt the relief flow down my throat.
I woke later to a new darkness. Now though I could see though it. I could see my captor now, my sire. And he spoke the first real words that I had ever heard in my entire time as a being. "Welcome to eternity, William."
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