{short story} Quasso (Break)
Covered in silk blindfold, there was nothing there but faint sounds of droplets emanated from above you. You could feel your heartbeat, battered against your chest.
You fought for breath, making an effort to at least palliate the agony upon your chest which was bereft of oxygen. Your hands were both moored behind the wooden chair, and you - moved heaven and earth to struggle, hoping leastwise to be able to diminish the secured rope around your wrists.
It was to no avail though, you were against -
Who were you against with?
There were footsteps, ponderous boots taking every step towards you. Instinctively, you recoiled in fear. Why? You had no time to think as your hazel coloured hair was tugged harshly and you fleetingly could feel those scabrous hands. They were tightening around your hair and you whimpered.
It hurts. It fucking hurts.
The man, whose rough hands had somehow dissolved from your brown locks, was drawn downwards to your cervix,
And suddenly, one gentle hand rested upon his gorge and started to asphyxiate you.
You retched, and gagged. The man had no repentance after all.
You felt impotent and helpless, you were.
You recalled then, these rough hands, those pliant lips, that breathtaking smile.
You hated it. Loathed it. With every fiber in you.
Every touch ached. Wonderful, wonderful aches which you had desired to be rougher, more painful.
Pain, pain, pain.
He abruptly stopped then, you must have whimpered. He looses his tainted hand and you slid down the wall, fighting for breath once more. You could feel his smirk before you, for you were at his mercy. It was a sick enjoyment of his, peering at you fighting for survival, to fight with your own self.
Fucking bastard, you spat at him, your faculty of sight fainting in and out, and he helped you stand up then.
Your eyes searched his once more, a deep longing lingered on yours. He nodded knowingly, he understood.
Hurt me.
The man went for the table, dragging you with him, he then smashed your head against the table and held you there. There's a sound of click, and you understood what was going to happen.
It was his Beretta PX4 pistol, the one he used for his job.
You laughed, you fucking laughed, just to his satisfactory. It was hollow, empty, but the muzzle hat was pressed against your head, it was somehow hilarious.
He was going to pull the trigger, and you were still smiling against the table.
Yes, let's put an end to this, once and for all.
He was the the only one who made you feel real.
The man whispered to your ear as you smiled,
It made everything so - realistic.
He kissed your head, saying shit about how he loved you.
It was real. And he wanted it to be real.
"I love you too", you answered, the sincerity brought him to tears.
Reality, as fucked as it meant to be, made this worth while.
Pull the trigger,
You loved it.
BANG!
Then on that last day he breaks
And he stood tall
And he yelled... and he takes his life
Poetic Tragedy - The USED