Freya
I was going to die.
I had always anticipated that day—not merely because everyone eventually faces mortality, but because with my unyielding sickness (leukemia was really a bitch), I had long since accepted the improbability of reaching my 15th birthday. Yet that milestone was celebrated in the sterile, white confines of my hospital room just as the previous five had been. My only companions were my mother, whose weary eyes mirrored years of unspoken worry, and the nurses, each of whom would offer me a brief smile before departing once I had blown out the flickering candles on my cake— only a small, single slice I was allowed to savor, the rest out of reach.
In the absence of friends, the loneliness felt acute. By that point, all the classmates with whom I had forged connections in elementary school had moved on, swept away by the currents of growing up and forgotten me entirely. I felt like a ghost, trapped in a world that had continued to turn without me, longing for the vibrant life I once imagined but could no longer reach. It was as if I was fixed in place while everyone around me was racing forward, leaving me behind in a haze of memories and solitude.
Eventually, it was my family that followed suit. My mom, once a steadfast source of support, started coming less and less frequently. Each time we spoke, she would mention her recent promotion at work, "You know how busy I am, Freya..." her voice tinged with a mixture of pride and guilt. I could hear the exhaustion in Mom's voice, laced with a detached cheerfulness that felt increasingly hollow alongside the empty promises, assuring me that she would do her best to carve out some time in her busy schedule for a visit.
As the weeks turned into months, I could feel the sting of abandonment but how could I blame her, though ? She had a thriving career, a social life bustling with activity, and other children who required her attention. In contrast, my own existence felt like a desolate struggle, marked by feelings of worthlessness and despair. I often found myself wondering why Mom would want to invest time in what she perceived as the broken and hopeless daughter, when there were so many brighter paths open to her and two other children to care for.
I wasn't as lonely as you might expect after all these years. The walls of the ward felt less daunting because I had formed genuine bonds with the nurses who took care of me despite my obvious lack of social skills, they tried to meet me in the middle. We shared laughter and stories during their shifts, creating a warm atmosphere that brightened my days. The other patients, too, became a part of my life, even though most were transient, coming in to heal and then leaving—some returning, while others lost their battles.
A utterly worthless and shitty life.
"Daydreaming again?" My gaze drifted from the narrow view offered by the window—a patch of cloudy sky and the distant, unremarkable rooftops—to the entrance of the room. There, I briefly met Dr. Adams's penetrating stare; it was a gaze that felt too invasive, so I quickly averted my eyes before the moment became unbearable.
I chose not to respond, a vain act of defiance. Dr. Adams, however, seemed unfazed by my reticence. He strolled toward me with an air of practiced detachment, his focus shifting to the blood IV drip that delivered life-sustaining nourishment into my veins. It was already the second time this week I needed such a transfusion, a necessary remedy after a particularly tenacious fever had escalated beyond the body's natural defenses, necessitating a white cell transplant to regain my health.
"How do you feel ?" Dr. Adams asked, his voice a blend of professional concern and casual familiarity as he placed a tentative hand on my shoulder.
I fought hard to suppress the instinctive flinch that accompanied his touch, redirecting my gaze towards my hands, which lay limply in my lap. I had to hold it in, the instinctual revulsion towards the man was something I could not afford to project openly.
"Fine…" I replied, the word escaping my lips despite the nausea churning violently in my stomach and the dull ache radiating through my weary limbs, a forthright reminder of my exhaustion.
"You are never fine," Dr. Adams remarked with a knowing chuckle, shaking his head in slight disbelief.
This time, I couldn't help but glare at him, irritation flaring beneath my skin. He might have been right—my sickness was ever-present—but it grated on me to be so bluntly called out for lying.
"Well, I'm used to it, aren't I?" I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest in a defensive posture. "I absolutely refuse to be pumped full of painkillers again; you know how much I hate it."
Dr. Adams raised an inquisitive brow, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as he turned to retrieve the medical report nestled at the foot of my bed. The rustling papers seemed to echo the weight of our unaddressed tension.
"You know you need them to rest properly," he replied matter-of-factly, as he opened the case file and began to flip through the pages, his brow furrowing in concentration as the light flickered overhead, casting fleeting shadows across his face.
Dr. Adams towered over my bed, an imposing figure whose very presence seemed to fill the sterile room with an air of authority. Dressed in a crisp white lab coat, despite the lines that grew on his face since then, he looked the same as when I got introduced to him 13 years ago. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead reflected off his glasses, casting a gleam that heightened my sense of unease. Memories of my childhood flooded back, where he had once appeared to me as a giant, a figure who commanded respect within his colleagues and trust with his patients. Now, as he loomed over me, that old impression merged with the weight of my own vulnerability, amplifying the feeling that I was just a fragile entity amidst an unforgiving sea of medical expertise.
My heart raced, a rapid drumbeat of dread resonating in my chest as I clung to the sheets, acutely aware of every detail around me, the crisp air from the AC, the steady beeping of the heart monitor that used to be unbearable at first but now part of my daily life. I watched him closely, my senses hyper-tuned to his movements. The air felt thick, charged with an anxious energy that left me on edge. A part of me wanted to command the power to fight or flee, but the reality of my situation kept me tethered to the bed, my body bound by tubes and wires as if I was a marionette with severed strings.
Why won't he just leave ?, I thought, a swell of bitter frustration clawing at my insides. The room felt like a cage, every tick of the clock echoing in the stillness, marking time that felt interminable.
With a practiced motion, Dr. Adams closed the case file with a sharp snap, the sound reverberating in the antiseptic air. He turned his attention to me, his expression a mask of professionalism that did nothing to soothe my rising anxiety.
"The transplant is nearing completion," he said, his voice steady and laced with clinical detachment. "Once that's done, we will need to get you something to eat and ensure you rest adequately. Your body has endured a significant ordeal and requires time to recuperate."
I felt a chill run down my spine. The mere mention of rest came with the impending reality of sedation. I fought against the wave of panic that washed over me at the thought of relinquishing control once again. The notion of losing myself to the effects of medication sent a shudder through me; it felt like accepting defeat in a battle I'd already fought too hard to win.
Insomnia had taunted me for years, a relentless thief that robbed me of precious hours. Some nights were tormented by sharp, intrusive pain that flared unpredictably, leaving me wide awake and hyper aware of every twitch and ache coursing through my tired body. Other nights, I wrestled with an inexplicable refusal to succumb to fatigue, my mind racing with thoughts that spiraled into a chaotic frenzy. Now, as I lay in this hospital bed, I faced the uncomfortable truth that in order to heal, I would have to surrender myself to drugs designed to pull me into a deep sleep.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself for what was about to happen. The idea of being sedated felt like letting go of the last thread of my autonomy, a dizzying fall into an inky darkness. What terrified me even more was that haunting moment in between—when I was still somewhat aware, a flicker of consciousness remaining while my body surrendered to an oppressive heaviness. It felt like being trapped in a glass box, my mind racing but my body refusing to comply. As someone who often grappled with a sense of helplessness, those moments were the worst. I couldn't even move a finger, my head locked in place, my gaze fixed wherever I had last looked before everything went dark.
I still remember the first time it happened. I woke up unexpectedly, jolted from sleep, my mind thrumming with confusion. I blinked rapidly in the dark, trying to adjust to the absence of light, and the silence was almost unbearable—thick enough to feel like a weight pressing down on my chest. It was only when I heard the faint click of a door closing that my mind really registered I was no longer asleep.
I could hear footsteps padding softly across the floor, but my body remained stubbornly still, as if anchored by invisible chains. My head lay flat against the cool pillow, so all I could do was strain to catch a glimpse of the intruder from the corners of my eyes. That's when I saw it: a shadowy figure gliding towards me, the contours indistinct but the presence undeniably real.
If I had been capable of moving, I might have screamed or thrashed against the sheets in panic. But in that moment of paralysis, all I could do was watch, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. The figure climbed onto my bed, their knees pressing into the mattress, sending ripples of unease coursing through me. It was a mix of dread and disbelief, lying there wide awake yet completely trapped in my own reality.
The shadowy figure loomed over me, their silhouette barely discernible in the oppressive darkness. I felt the whisper of their breath, hot and damp, ghosting across my neck as they inhaled, drawing in my scent. The rasp of unshaven stubble brushed my skin, and I knew then, with a jolt of dread - it was a man. A low, approving growl rumbled through his chest, pressed tight against mine, the vibrations sending a shudder down my spine. Rough, calloused hands came to rest on my thighs. His thumbs dipped into the hem of my nightgown, the flimsy fabric already feeling far too thin, an inadequate barrier between us. As someone who recoiled at the mere thought of physical contact, this invasion was sheer agony. My traitorous mind finally letting panic kick in, despite how useless it was in this situation. Thanks to the darkness, he seemed unaware of my awakened state, his hands now sliding deliberately under the hem of my gown, the rough skin grazing my bare thighs, inching ever higher.
My slight frame trembled as calloused hands roughly yanked up my dress, bunched fabric exposing more skin than I ever cared to show in such an intimate setting. I could feel the cool air kiss my protruding ribs, the humid atmosphere amplifying my discomfort. Oh god, I wanted nothing more than to curl myself into a tight, invisible ball, to disappear from this mortifying predicament. But my body remained rooted in place, pointless to resist the man's lustful advance.
His gaze, so foreign yet achingly familiar now, raked over my exposed undergarments and the modest swell of my breasts, now barely concealed beneath the hem of the dress. It was a gaze filled with a raw, unbridled hunger I'd never witnessed in any exam room. Here, it felt like a violation, a perverse appreciation that made my skin prickle with unease. I squirmed internally, my body screaming to evade the intense scrutiny, yet my limbs remained sluggish and heavy, bound by the sedative induced lethargy.
Who was this man, and why was he inflicting this on me ? I was accustomed to nude examinations, to the sterile detachment of white-walled rooms and gloved hands. But here, in this charged atmosphere, my feelings tangled and writhed, a painful contrast to the placid indifference I associated with medical scrutiny.
The large fingers continued their brazen exploration, each ridge and valley of my ribcage traced like an anatomical map. A shiver ran through me as a warm palm crept northwards, spanning the concave plane of my belly before boldly cupping the meager swell of my breast. In a body as gaunt and sickeningly bony as mine, such intimate touches felt foreign, undeserved. Compared to the lush, womanly curves I'd seen on others, my scrawny frame was a grotesque mockery of femininity. I'd long since abandoned any foolish hopes of experiencing such base, carnal pleasures.
My breath caught sharply in my throat, betraying my wakefulness. I froze, muscles locking tight as a coiled spring, bracing myself for his panicked retreat or, gods forbid, a second round of forceful unconsciousness. Wide-eyed and heart pounding, I waited for his reaction.
But his voice, low and unmistakably pleased yet achingly familiar, shattered my fearful anticipation.
"Freya, my dear, you're awake after all."
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The water cascaded down my body, steam billowing around me in the confined space of the tiled bathroom. I stood motionless, eyes glazed over as I stared at the blank, moisture-beaded wall before me, the constant patter of the shower filling my ears.
It happened again, as it so often does - I lost myself in the labyrinth of my own memories, the present slipping away until I found myself standing here, the hot water long since having turned tepid and then cold against my skin. Dr. Adams' parting words echoed in my mind, the pinch of the needle as the IV drip was removed, a distant, fleeting discomfort. Somewhere between the white of my hospital room and this moment, I had mechanically consumed the tasteless meal provided, my appetite still elusive.
The water coursed down my slender frame, tracing the delicate lines of my bones and scars. I blinked once, twice, my vision coming back into focus as the reality of the present crashed back over me like a wave. I was here, I was alive, and I was lost, all at the same time. With a sigh, I reached for the soap, the mundane action grounding me back in the here and now.
Exhausted, I finally dragged myself out of the shower, my frame trembling slightly as the chilly bathroom air hit my damp skin. I had scrubbed myself raw, until my almond-shaped eyes stung with soap and the weight of what I knew I had to do. Yet, no matter how vigorously I scoured my body, I couldn't wash away the sickening, leaden feel of those wretched nights that clung to me like a second skin.
Dizzy and lightheaded from the prolonged heat and steam, I stumbled towards the door. As I reached for the towel hook, I caught sight of my reflection in the foggy mirror out of the corner of my eye. Normally, I would have quickly looked away, nauseated by the sight of my own body. But today, with the specter of my impending decision looming over me, I found myself pausing, almost curious to see myself... perhaps for the last time.
My hair was a disheveled tangle, the first thing I noticed. What was once my mother's pride and joy—my glossy, tightly coiled curls—had transformed into a lifeless, matted mass. The vibrant bounce and shine had given way to a dull, frizzy cluster that seemed impervious to the world around it. I met my own gaze, dull brown eyes heavy with dark circles, for a split second before I trailed my slender fingertips along the sharp, pronounced ridges of my collarbones, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. The collection of ghostly lines etched into the brown skin of my forearms caught my gaze, like a macabre tally of all the meltdowns I desperately used pain to get myself out of. I blinked hard, desperately trying to banish the sudden sting of tears that threatens to cloud my vision. It's been months since they agreed to keep anything remotely sharp out of my reach, a misguided attempt at protection. I suppose they meant well, but I don't think it's helping very much. I was left now with no outlet to ground me and it made everything so much worse.
Well, it doesn't matter anymore. I'm going to get it all over with tonight.
Damp fingers fumbled with the soft cotton robe, hastily draping it over my body, heedless of the puddles still clinging to my soles―it was hard to muster attention for anything that wasn't surviving these days― as short strides carried me to the door. An irrational impulse driving me to double-check the lock, as if the act itself could somehow banish the ever-present unease gnawing at my insides. Twice already, I had ensured the latch was secure, yet here I was, compelled by a paranoia that had become as much a part of me as my scars.
Locking my door was a rare privilege since the staff should be able to access patients at all times in case of emergency. But as a perk of being one of the hospital's permanent residents, I was trusted enough to be allowed this small blessing. I still remember when Nurse Collins first handed me the small, brass key, her eyes filled with a mix of caution and compassion. "Only for short periods, alright Freya ? Just long enough to shower and collect yourself." I nodded eagerly, promising to use it responsibly.
Once the door knob gave a satisfying resistance against my pull, I let out a sigh of relief before going to the small dresser next to the window to retrieve my pyjamas. After careful consideration, I settled on a silky pastel pink set, the fabric like heavens on my skin when I slipped it on. Like a lot of other girls, I used to despise pink as a growing teen but when you realize how short life could be, things like rebelling against stereotypes just to look different seemed insignificant now. It didn't matter if I liked cute and girly things, what mattered is they made me feel good, those things were hard to come by in this place. I grasped and held on to everything that could comfort me, my bed was filled with the plushies that I had owned since I was a kid, I wore comfortable pyjamas all day because I had nowhere to go and no guests to entertain anyway.
Reluctantly, I found myself standing before the door again, my hand hovering over the lock. For a moment, the thought of retreating instead of unlocking it crept into my mind—an impulse I had entertained before but swiftly dismissed each time.
I need the door open for this to work.
Taking a deep breath, I approached the dresser again, my heart pounding in my chest. I rummaged through a haphazard pile of clothes, my fingers finally brushing against the cold metal of a scalpel hidden beneath a crumpled shirt. The overhead fluorescent light casted a harsh glow that made the blade glint sharply as I held it aloft. Cautiously and entranced, I traced my fingertip along the edge, careful not to apply too much pressure. The sharpness was exhilarating, a potent reminder of the risks I was taking.
It had been surprisingly simple to procure the scalpel. Convincing Nurse Collins that I was well enough to eat in the cafeteria had required little more than a carefully constructed façade of normalcy. I had flashed a weak smile and mentioned the benefits of getting some fresh air and a change of scenery. She had bought it readily, perhaps too readily, and I sensed that the prospect of my recovery loomed larger in her mind than the potential for any mischief.
As I had made my way through the bustling hallways, noisy with chatter of patients and staff alike and distant machine beeping, I had kept my gaze downcast, acting as though I was merely lost in thought. It was during one such moment that I spotted the cart wheeling toward the operating room, laden with gleaming instruments. The nurse pushing it was engrossed in conversation with her colleague, their voices loud as they tried to make each other heard above the noise masked my movements. I seized the opportunity, my heart racing as I discreetly slipped the scalpel into the pocket of my linen pants.
Thank God for their chatter, I thought, a sense of urgency mingled with a thrill of triumph coursing through me. But now as I stood next to my bed, gripping the scalpel tightly, I realized that with each choice came consequences. And there would be no turning back.
My heart raced as I covertly palmed the hidden scalpel under my pillow, sinking into the plush embrace of my bed. The clock's ticking sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the hospital room. In exactly 600 seconds, Nurse Collins would be here, I was terrified that she would somehow notice something was amiss by the look on my face, she knew me well enough after all. I took a shaky breath, trying to calm the adrenaline surging through my veins.
Needing a distraction, I reached for the drawer's handle, pulling it open with a soft creak. There, amidst the clutter of years old get-well-soon cards and empty pill bottles, lay my trusty copy of Little Women. Its faded blue cover and dog-eared pages bore testament to the countless times I'd sought solace within its pages, despite knowing I could get any other book if I asked for it, I preferred the grounding and comforting familiarity of knowing what to expect inside.
I flipped open to a random page, the musty scent of the aged paper filling my nostrils. My finger traced the faded text, but my eyes struggled to focus on the words. The letters swam before me, as jumbled and chaotic as my thoughts. I blinked rapidly, trying to force my mind to concentrate, but all I could focus on was the pounding of my own heartbeat and the scalpel hidden beneath my pillow, a secret weight that both terrified and empowered me
As the minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly, I gripped the book tighter. I was a small, anxious creature caught in a trap of its own making, desperately trying to appear normal even as I trembled on the precipice of a life-altering decision.
My heart skipped a beat as the door creaked open, despite my best efforts to steel myself for Collins' arrival. I watched as she wheeled her cart in, her warm smile a beacon of comfort in the sterile room.
"Ready to call it a night, little one ?" she asked, even as her eyes took in my restless form on the too-big bed. Normally, I bristled at such obvious questions, but for Collins, I made an exception, giving her a nod with a small smile.
She hummed a soft tune, her deft fingers making quick work of prepping the Midazolam drip. I was so used to the process that it was over before I knew it, the press of the needle only a distant discomfort that was over as soon as it started. I watched her turn on the heart monitor, then check the flow of the drip. Collins squeezed my small hand, her grip a mix of strength and gentleness, a silent promise that she was there.
"Good night, Freya, I will see you in the morning." I think she knew how anxious being sedated made me feel and was trying to be as reassuring as she could. My throat constricted, emotions I couldn't quite name bubbling up inside me. I knew I was just another patient to her, one in a long line of countless others in her thirty-year career. But to me, she had become a lifeline, a maternal presence when my own mother remained frustratingly absent.
I truly hoped she wouldn't miss me too much and felt guilty for my selfish decision.
I knew I was supposed to act normal but just as she was about to leave, I tightened my grip on her hand.
"Thank you," I whispered, trying to convey all the gratitude towards her, for how much she tried to make my stay here bearable, in those two simple words.
Her brow furrowed, surprise etched on her kind face, before she shook her head and smiled gently. "You know I'm just doing my job, sweetie. Now, you need to rest."
I released her hand, already missing the warmth of her touch. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her after she turned off the light, I counted to sixty before yanking out the needle, hissing at the sharp sting. I hoped there was little enough to still leave me awake for what was about to happen.
Carefully, I peeled off the tape that clung to my skin, wincing as tiny hairs were tugged out with it. Droplets of blood welled up before dripping onto the crisp white sheets, staining them a stark crimson. But there was no time to worry about the mess; my heart pounded in my ears, drowning out all other sounds.
I slid under the heavy comforter, the thick fabric enveloping me like a cocoon. It was a struggle to keep my breathing steady as I tucked my arm beneath it, hiding the glaring lack of an IV line. I couldn't keep my eyes away from the door even though I knew he wouldn't come this soon, the hospital was still too lively despite the late hour for him to risk it.
For once, the anticipation of his arrival didn't fill me with dread, so I forced my body to relax and let my lids succumb to the heaviness weighting them down, despite not being actually sedated, I wasn't less tired. Turns out, even healing could take a toll on my body.
I flitted in and out of consciousness for god knows how long, experiencing small bouts of nonsensical dreams which the recollections were elusive upon waking up. By the time I finally heard the door creak open, the light from the hall had already been turned off and the noise of the otherwise busy hospital had fallen quiet. I watched the familiar figure appear in the doorway, the sight which before would have made my skin crawl and my chest constrict, today only brought me an overwhelming sense of relief and calm.
He strode towards my bed, silent and careful, as if trying not to wake me up. I snapped my eyes shut when he stood by my head and leaned close to me, willing my breath to steady, I tried to look deeply asleep as much as I could, hoping the darkness of the room would help. Whatever he must have found on my face must have satisfied him because he put his palm against my cheek, his thumb grazing the opposite cheekbone, then my lower lip.
"Beautiful…" I heard him mutter before he started climbing on the bed again.
Just like that first time he was above me again, 5 long years have passed by now and he had not failed to show every single time I got hooked to that damn IV drip.
I felt his hands do their ritual on my body, mapping the sharp, bony curves and dips, making shudders.
"I know you're awake… You can't hide from me." He crooned, lips against my skin as he nosed my jaw. Of course, He always wanted me awake for this. Touching a girl without her consent since she was 16 was fine but unconscious ? No, that would be going too far, even for him. He needed to see the revulsion in my eyes, that was his sick brand of intimacy, I guess. My awake, unwilling participation in his twisted rituals.
Sighing in resignation, I blinked open weary eyes to stare up at the cracked, off-white ceiling. My body felt weightless unlike all the previous times, numb compliance already setting in as his nimble fingers crept beneath the elastic of my pyjama shorts. I could only lie there, heart pounding in my throat, as he mistook my stillness for helplessness. The realization of his impending transgression sent a shiver down my spine, but I remained motionless, like a defenceless creature surrendering to the whims of a predator.
God, I felt so dirty, so used. I desperately longed for a shower again, but I knew it'd never wash away the filth I felt, seeping into my bones, my very soul. This has been my life for so long now, I would never be clean again. I hated him. I hated myself for being weak. I hated the world that let this happen to me. I just... I just wanted it to be over. I wanted him to be over. I wanted all of this to be nothing more than a distant, fading nightmare.
My breath hitched, teeth sinking into my lower lip hard enough to leave indents as his fingers invaded the flimsy barrier of my panties. I refused to grant him the satisfaction of even a shuddered gasp, even as revulsion coiled like a serpent in my gut. Gods, how I loathed his touch, abhorred the way his calloused digits brazenly mapped the contours of my most intimate flesh. Acidic bile surged in my throat as I swallowed hard against the rising nausea. My fingers trembled with the urge to dart beneath the lumpy pillow, seeking the cool steel of the scalpel concealed there. But not now, he wasn't distracted enough.
As his rough fingers violated my tender entrance, the searing pain of dry friction had me biting back a sob and I couldn't hold back anymore, my thin arm shot up to around his neck in a desperate grip. For a heartbeat, he stilled, likely stunned by my sudden show of defiance when I wasn't even supposed to be able to move. But I didn't relent, pouring every ounce of strength in my small body into anchoring him against me, face pressed into the curve of my neck.
Leveraging the scant advantage, I palmed frantically under the pillow, breath coming in sharp, fearful gasps. The cool steel of the hilt met my fingertips, and I closed my hand around it like a lifeline, nails digging into my palm as I withdrew the blade.
"You said you loved me, right ? How about we die together ?" I breathed into his ear before plunging the scalpel into his side.
Dr. Adams let out a guttural, agonized groan that echoed through the dimly lit room as I strained with all my might, finally wrenching the blade free from his spasming flesh. The cool, sticky sensation of his blood, so much more viscous than I had imagined, coated my hand, dripping down my slender wrist. I suppressed a wave of nausea at the coppery scent that filled my nostrils. Luckily for me, he might have been bigger than me, but he was more of the scholarly type than a fit guy, so seizing the opportunity before he could regain his bearings, I stabbed him in the belly, pushing the blade deeper as I pushed him off my body.
"F-Freya…!" He croaked, his hands rushing to his wound to desperately stop the bleeding.
I straddled him, my knees pinning either sides of him before leaning and cupping his stubbled cheeks in my hands, his blood on my fingers smearing crimson on his skin.
Woah… Even in pain, he is handsome.
From what I used to hear when the nurses gossiped about him, he could have had anyone he ever wanted just by glancing at them. I often wondered why a man as attractive and admired as him would stoop so low as to abuse a plain girl like me.
The irony of the situation wasn't lost on me, it felt like our roles were reversed now. I was now the one inflicting him pain while he was under me, hurting too much to fight back. I could feel his shallow breaths, hear his pained grunts, and with each labored exhale, a foreign surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins. This was what he felt, wasn't it ? This dark, delicious thrill of control, of domination. No wonder he kept coming back for more, no wonder he kept telling me he loved me.
My fingers trembled but it was not from fear or revulsion. No, it was from the sheer, visceral pleasure of it all. I had never known such raw power, such unbridled euphoria. As I gazed down at his broken form, I realized that this was the twisted ecstasy he had been chasing all along. In this moment of inversion, I understood him in a way I never could before.
It felt surreal, almost dreamlike, to witness my greatest nightmare reduced to such a pitiful state. Behind that stern façade, the authority that had once instilled such terror in my heart, he was... just a man. A flawed, mortal being, susceptible to the same base human emotions he had long tormented me with.
"Does it hurt ?" I asked, needing to know, to hear from his own mouth that I caused him pain.
He nodded frantically, panicking when he realized his hands couldn't do much to abate the blood. He gripped my arms, his blunt nails digging into my skin.
"You need to call someone," he gasped out, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hurry..."
I couldn't help but let out a harsh, incredulous laugh as I threw my head back, my eyes squeezing shut momentarily. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit me like a freight train, and I shook my head in disbelief. Did he truly believe that I, of all people, was the solution to his current predicament ? The one who had driven a blade into his flesh, no less ?
I raised the blood-soaked scalpel with trembling hands. Each plunge of the blade into soft flesh unleashed a fresh burst of anguished, hysterical laughter that swiftly warped into raw, animalistic screams. Tears streamed down my face, smearing the crimson spatters painting my skin.
I hated him...I hated him so much. He took everything from me - my naive dreams, my innocence, the very essence of trust I once held dear. This...this monster...this pathetic, wretched excuse of a man… I couldn't believe I had used to love him and believed he did too. I was so starved for affection, I had let myself excuse his cruel, selfish desires for love.
Dr. Adams thrashed wildly, the metal bed frame rattling against the wall with each desperate, futile attempt to buck off my unrelenting onslaught. His nails raked angry red welts down my forearms, stinging like the lashes of a whip. I could see the panic rising in his wild, bloodshot eyes.
His ragged breaths grew more labored by the second, mingling with the wet, punching sounds each time the blade found its mark. The once crisp, starched collar of his shirt now hung limp and askew, splattered with crimson that matched the growing pool beneath him. I felt his struggles weaken, his body growing heavy and still, like a marionette with its strings cut.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, Dr. Adams slumped against the mattress. The fight drained from him as his own blood drained onto the bed sheets, staining them a sickening rust. His eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open against the fog of pain that clouded his mind. I watched his pupils dilated and glaze over as he stared off to the empty distance. At that moment, he knew he was gone for good.
As the final blow struck, a shuddering sob tore through my slender frame. The crushing weight of fear and desperation lifted, replaced by an overwhelming flood of relief. He couldn't touch me, couldn't hurt me anymore. Tears streamed down my flushed cheeks as the room's once chaos faded into a profound, almost deafening silence.
My heart raced, adrenaline still surging through my veins as the initial surge of euphoria began to ebb. A bone-deep weariness crept in, filling the hollow spaces left behind by the terror and tension.The nightmare was finally, truly over - but in its wake, an aching emptiness yawned wide, threatening to swallow me whole.
What now ?
The weary, exhausted weight of the inevitable pressed down upon me as I stared into the gloom of the night. I had been tormented by this single-minded focus for interminable months, a ceaseless inferno of thought and obsessive planning consuming my every waking moment. There was no respite, no reprieve from the inescapable conclusion that this was the only path left open to me. What would happen when morning came and they found the corpse in my bed ? I didn't want to be around to find out. I was too tired, too jaded to witness the consequences of my actions. All I yearned for was the sweet embrace of oblivion. To lay down my burden, to surrender myself to the callous indifference of the void - that was the only solace I sought.
My heart pounded in my chest as my gaze wandered to the blood-stained scalpel protruding obscenely from Mr. Adams' motionless form, with trembling hands, I reached out and grasped the still warm metal handle.
Holding the scalpel, I found my eyes drawn to the glinting blade, I felt the sharp edge press against the delicate skin of my inner left wrist, the lines of my veins visible beneath the surface. How many times had I done this before, carved the skin of my arms and thighs open ? Too many to count, yet this time... this time I hesitated.
My breath hitched in my throat, chest tightening with a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread. I took a shuddering breath as I grappled with the terrible, aching decision. The room spun around me, the dark red of the blood blurring with the pristine white of the room's sterile walls. So much blood... so much pain… If I didn't do it, would there truly be no end to it ?
The answer was I didn't know; I would never know and I was too tired of hoping things would get better someday.
I gritted my teeth, steeling myself as I dragged the razor's edge across my wrist. A sharp, searing pain exploded through my forearm, and I couldn't help but let out a choked cry, my small body convulsing. Crimson blood welled up instantly, spilling in thick drops down my slender arm and splattering onto my bare thighs. It mingled obscenely with the already cooling crimson stains on the rumpled sheets, Dr. Adams' lifeblood congealing before my very eyes. I watched, detached and numb, as my lifeblood dripped in syncopated rhythm, painting abstract patterns on my thighs and mixing with his blood on the linen. I don't know how much time passed before my vision started to swim and I became lightheaded. The strength to hold myself up left me so I laid down next to Dr. Adams' body, staring at his slack face.
He looks so peaceful…
I caressed his rugged cheek with a trembling hand before letting it rest between us. I closed my eyes and drifted in the void, awaiting the merciful embrace of oblivion. Silently, I pleaded with fate, with God, with anyone listening - take me, I was ready. Let me join him, lost in an endless, dreamless slumber where pain and grief held no sway. I yearned for the abyss, craving the final, blissful ignorance of the grave.