Page 8 of Corrupted Torment

“Not too loud. I’m just trying to help. I know a place, and a fair few of us guys stay there. We look out for one another.” His voice is quiet, soothing. He rubs a hand through his blonde waves, shaking some of the water free. It’s in need of a cut, like he’s been here a while.

My eyes narrow; I take another step back, trying to work out what game he is playing—if he’s playing one at all. I eye the trees surrounding me to be positive that no others are watching and that they aren’t hunting in a pack.

“I’m not going to hurt you, but others out there might. Please. Just come with me.” He sounds so sincere. His face is so open and full of honesty that my resolve almost breaks. Something inside me is screaming at me to trust him; he’s just a boy too. It’s not possible for him to be the one to have taken me. He’s not one of the older boys who bullied me back home, but the fear inside me as he takes a step towards me overrides all logical thought.

I run.

His shouts follow from behind me, but his words don’t register as the world flashes past me. I don’t know if he gives chase. My fear insisting I need to move and get away. It’s a purely instinctual flight away from potential danger. I run until the breath leaves my lungs, and I hunch over with my hands on my knees, panting from the exertion.

“Hello there, little one.”

My body goes tense. The voice is not the boy’s. It’s older, that of a man’s. I fear I’ve jumped out of the frying pan directly into the fire without the energy to fight. Looking up, I can’t see him in the clearing I’ve stopped in. The trees bathed in darkness and leaves shelter the trunks from the moon's glow.

Ice floods my veins at my unknown threat. I try to remember some techniques that I have been taught to calm the emotions down, but at the moment, they vanish. Like a roaring sea has ripped through my head, washing away its contents and leaving nothing but chaos in its wake.

“You’re new here, right?” The man creeps out towards me from the shadows with a small smile on his face. He looks younger than I’d thought. I eye him wearily but nod my response, stepping back from him to maintain my distance. His dark eyes shine, a glint of something I don’t trust. I may be young, but I still trust my instincts on this.

“It’s okay. I work here. Come closer and let me get a look at you.”

I don’t want him to look. In fact, I want to run again. His eyes and hair are both impossibly black, blending him into the surrounding darkness. I don’t care if he works here or not; I don’t want any answers from this man.

This man screams violence.

Pain.

Hunger.

“Come now, I won’t hurt you. Not really. In fact, you might enjoy what I’ve got planned.”

Bile rises. I’ve heard of the birds and the bees. Pretty sure every twelve-year-old has had some sort of fantasy, but what this man is insinuating, I will not be enjoying one bit. My pulse pounds in an erratic beat as anxiety completely takes over. My body freezes.

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” The man circles me, inching ever closer as I try to move away. I’m a fly caught in a web I’ve unknowingly run straight into.

The other boy had been right to warn me.

I shudder as this man’s stare invades my body on an uncomfortable level. My sodden pyjamas cling to my skin, not shrouding me from his inspection. I know what’s coming, know I’m too small and too weak to fight him, and that I’m too exhausted to run. The determination is radiating off him in waves, his muscular frame intimidating with each stalking step he takes.

Warmth trails down my leg as the panic fully takes control, my breathing harsh and uneven. I’m like a deer in headlights—unable to move. The man slowly sniffs with a feral grin. I don’t understand how he can smell me from where he is.

“Aw, how precious. You pissed yourself. That’s alright. I don’t mind it being a little bit dirty as long as it’s rough. Here, let me show you,” he sneers, licking his lips.

He prowls forward, and I still can’t find it in myself to move. My mind is screaming at me to run, to fight, but I’m stock still. Why can’t I move? His hand grips the back of my neck tightly, and I gasp in pain as he manoeuvres a leg in front of mine. His leg trips me to the floor and I land painfully on my knees.

Forcefully, he pushes my face into the mud. The bitter taste of dirt fills my mouth as I try to scream in protest. As his body climbs over mine, I start that impossible fight to escape. It’s like a switch; my body finally catches up with my mind. The storm rages above, uncaring as I twist and writhe, trying to escape his grasp to no avail. As I buck, I feel the hardness of him digging into my backside, and I squeak out my fright.

“That’s it. Fight me, little one. You seem to know exactly what I want from you,” he groans, grinding his erection against me. This time, I am sick. Right into the mud in front of me.

He laughs coldly. Like a naughty dog, he thrusts my nose into my vomit. He removes most of his weight from my back while keeping a firm hand on my neck to keep me in place. He’s trapped my hands beneath my body, and I can do nothing as he shoves my PJ bottoms down to my ankles. I whimper as he shifts my knees through the slick mud beneath me, pushing my arse into the air while my head is to the ground. Briefly, the motion frees my hands and I try to use my new position to gain purchase to run, but he’s too fast. He grips my wrists and roughly tugs them together behind my back. Holding them with one of his own, he shoves me forward once more.

“That’s it, you little bitch.” The stinging crack of his palm on my behind brings tears to my eyes. The hopelessness of the situation overcomes me, and I try to shut down what’s happening as his hand assaults me over and over. His words become a tirade of madness that I don’t want to invade my mind. Rain drips down my hair, my lashes, and my cheeks. I try to concentrate on everything surrounding me and not on my reality. Trees watch on and a buzz of insects call out in the night in this hellish world I’m now a part of.

A shadow lurks in the periphery of my vision, watching my humiliating position. As the shape moves forward, I recognise the boy I ran from earlier—the one who offered to help me. I should have listened to him instead of running, but he’s older, and my scared brain couldn’t fathom that he would actually help me.

The zipper is like a shotgun in the night, silencing everything in the surrounding area. My eyes widen. I look up in terrified horror to seek out the boy. I pray he will still want to save me, but I can no longer see him.

“Let him go,” the teen’s voice speaks out.

A dull thud sounds before the hand gripping me releases my wrists. The weight over my body moves and I scramble away, tripping slightly on the pyjamas wrapped around my ankles. But I don’t care; I just rush to my saviour, hiding behind him, like a child behind their mother’s skirts. Then, and only then, do I pull them up to cover myself. I look back to where I’d come from and catch sight of the rock on the floor. Blood is now pouring from my tormentor's head. Should we run? Would he come after us?

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