Page 33 of Deviant

I expect him to come back, my ears are pricked, poised, ready to hear those awful footsteps but they don’t come. Instead, it’s like a phantom is in my head, like he’s possessed my mind. Every time I blink, I can see his face, every time I breath in, I can taste him.

I wretch, trying to throw up the contents of my stomach, but my body refuses to cooperate.

Maybe I am mad. Maybe they put something in my food. Drugged me, even, but there’s little I can do about it now.

So I lay there, face down in the dirt, with the icy stone-cold feeling almost therapeutic and for the first time, I truly give in. I fall apart. I weep every last tear and I let myself feel every moment of my terror, every moment of my fear.

I let it all out, telling myself that it’s okay, that in the darkness it’s safe to give in, but by the time he comes back I’ll need to bestrong again. I’ll need to pretend. I’ll need to put that stoic mask back on and prove that I’m not as easily broken as all that.

It’s late when I hear those tell-tale footsteps. At least, I think it is.

My head feels fuzzy, my body feels pathetically weak. I didn’t have the strength to even sit up and instead lapped from my water bowl like I really was a dog.

But as those sounds continue, I realise something is off. The weight, the strut, it’s not Magnus.

I guess I’ve grown so used to the monster now, that I’ve learnt those little details. Things a lover would know, the sound of his breathing, his taunting laughter, the way he groans when he comes. I curl my face up, feeling every bit of disgust at that notion.

And then the door sweeps open, bright light pours in, invading every part of my cell, and I have to throw my hands up to protect my eyes from what feels like the very heavens coming down on me.

“Fuck.”

That word, it’s not said in shock or sympathy. It’s gasped the way someone does when they’ve just found an unexpected prize. I can almost hear the smile behind it and my body quivers, already predicting how this is going to go.

Whoever it is, takes a step, then another.

And instinct has me springing up, moving away, only a hand latches around my ankle, anchoring me in place.

I scream out, using my other leg to kick at them and the laugh he gives me, the laugh is just as cruel as Magnus’s. I squint back, staring through the awful brightness at the man before me and with a shudder I realise I know who it is.

It’s the man from the alleyway, the man whose nose I broke, and who I stabbed when I was still trying to convince myself that I could run from this, that I could escape my fate.

Did Magnus let him in here? Is that what’s happening? I can barely form that thought before he’s lunging at me, dragging my body, clawing at it.

“Fucking whore,” he spits.

I’m too weak to fight. As much as I lash out and try to get away, I don’t stand a chance.

He pins me down, wedges his knee right up between my thighs, and he wraps one hand around my throat while he slaps my breasts for the sheer fun of it.

I scream out, choking on the little air he grants me.

With his nails, he claws at my skin, grazing it like he’s trying to tear it off piece by piece. My eyes feel like they’re going to pop right out of my skull, a high-pitched scream is filling my ears, and I can’t tell if it’s me actually screaming or it’s all the blood rushing up to my brain.

I jerk my head back and in a desperate attempt to get him off I headbutt him, slamming my face into his.

My nose explodes, blood pours down, filling my mouth, but it has the desired effect; the bastard lets go.

And then his fist slams into my face. Stars erupt in my vision. White hot pain shoots along my cheek. He hits me again, harder, and it feels like he’s trying to crush my very skull in.

I can’t fight him. I can’t do anything. I’m too broken from what Magnus did to me before to even stand a chance of defending myself now.

When he realises it, he yanks my body, drags me by my legs until I’m laid out how he wants me.

I hear the sound of his zipper, I see him get his cock out, but it’s like I’m not really here.

Oh, I can feel it, I can feel the pain, and the fear, and everything that is happening but I’m also floating. I’m also above this, witnessing it as if I’ve already died. As if God has finally granted me some mercy.

He lines himself up, one hand holds my left leg up so I’m wide open, and he says something disgusting as he works himself inside me. Clearly, I’m too battered and bruised because he has to spit on his cock, trying to create some lubrication as he pushes himself inside me.

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