Page 34 of Stream & Scream
But instead of killing me, he'd... what? Taken care of me? Fixed my blanket?
He could have done to me what he did to Max. Forced me to my knees, used my body for his pleasure, snapped my neck whenhe was finished. But he chose not to. He let me sleep peacefully while he went hunting other prey.
Why am I different?
Maybe he spared me because he has plans. Maybe he's saving me for something worse than a quick death in the darkness. Maybe I'm not prey to be killed but prey to be played with, broken down slowly, reduced to something that exists purely for his entertainment.
I think about the footage again, about the way he moved with such confidence, such certainty. There was no hesitation, no doubt, no moment where he seemed anything other than completely in control of the situation. He knew exactly what he wanted and took it without apology or explanation.
There's something sexy about that level of certainty, that complete absence of the doubt and anxiety that has defined most of my life. To be so sure of your place in the world, so confident in your ability to take what you want, so utterly without fear or hesitation.
The thought disgusts me even as it fascinates me.
What kind of person finds something attractive in watching someone else's rape and murder? What kind of sick psychology allows me to see dominance and control in what should be nothing but horror and revulsion?
I hate myself for it. I hate the way my body reacted to watching him claim her so completely.
But hating it doesn't make it go away.
I need sleep and rest while I can, because tonight will bring new horrors and challenges, new opportunities for The Hunter to demonstrate his control over life and death.
But sleep feels impossible when every time I close my eyes, I see his hands on Max's body.
I wrap my blanket around myself and try to find a comfortable position against the stone wall. The camera continues its silent recording, capturing my restless movements.
Eventually, exhaustion wins out over anxiety, and I drift into uneasy sleep filled with dreams that disturb me more than any nightmare ever has.
In the dreams, I'm not the one running through the forest in panic. I'm not the one hiding in caves and jumping at every sound. I'm not the prey at all.
I'm standing in darkness, watching someone else stumble through the trees with the desperate, clumsy movements of an animal being hunted.
And I'm not alone.
There's a presence beside me in the darkness, solid and warm and radiating the kind of absolute confidence that I felt watching the footage. Strong hands rest on my shoulders, gentle but possessive, claiming me as surely as he claimed Max but without the violence, without the brutality.
In the dream, I don't fight. I don't run. And I definitely don't resist when those hands guide me closer to the hunt, positioning me where I can see everything, experience everything, understand exactly what it means to have that kind of power over life and death.
"Watch," a voice whispers in my ear, low and rough and intimate. "See how easy it is when you stop pretending to be something you're not."
In the dream, I watch. I see the prey stumble and fall, see the predator emerge from the shadows, and the moment when hunter and hunted come together.
And I'm not horrified or disgusted. I’m not repelled by the violence and the dominance and the absolute certainty of the outcome.
I'm aroused.
I wake with a gasp that echoes off the stone walls, my body drenched in sweat and trembling. The blanket is tangled around my legs, twisted by movements I don't remember making, and there's a heat between my thighs that makes me hate myself more than I thought possible.
Fuck.
I'm sick. Broken. I feel like I’m no better than the monster stalking these woods. What kind of person has erotic dreams about watching people get hunted like animals?
But even as I hate myself for it, I can't deny the lingering effects of the dream.
The wrist camera blinks steadily, recording my shame and confusion for people who have no idea what they're witnessing. They probably think I'm having nightmares about being killed.
They have no idea that my nightmares are about wanting to be caught.
Maybe that's why he spared me. Maybe predators recognize their own kind, even when that recognition is buried under layers of self-denial and desperate attempts to be normal
