Oh how I wish a bead of sweat could stop a bullet.

With a gun to your temple, your life flashes before your eyes. Though, it wasn’t quite as I had imagined. It was like a movie. Then as my eyes adjust to the light, I see the edges of the tv. It was a movie.

My hands and feet are bound. My clothes are scattered on the floor. My skirt is wrapped around my ankles, keeping my feet warm. The Room is cold. My bare exposed nipples were standing erect, and goose bumps crawled down the length of my arms and up my legs. But, I was sweating.

A funny taste hung in my throat. It tasted familiar. Salt and vinegar, or more commonly: fear.

I sat strapped in shame, bound to a splintered, wooden chair. Every time I twisted and turned, the splinters would dig into my flesh.

He was gone for the moment. Not sure where he had retreated to, but I knew he would be back, probably to add a fresh coat to my already semen painted breasts. A scream was my only weapon. He loved to hear me scream, as it echoed lifelessly off the dusty walls. With each reverberation, his wry grin extended further up his cheeks. My hope fell to the floor and stained the ropes around my wrists a scarlet red.

I face the truth; the cold, hard truth that my screams will not be heard by anyone; anyone except for---him. He doesn’t seem to mind.

I close my eyes, trying to escape the room. I closed them as tight as I could, but schism from this morbid captivity was not behind my eyelids. Slowly, as they lifted, reality flooded back to me.

I cursed my wooden prison. I cursed the dust-covered walls. I cursed the paint chipping from below the dust. I cursed it all.

As reality was rushing back into my existence through my eyes, tears fought it off; trying to drown it with salty water, not knowing that fear loves the taste of salt. Flashes emanating from the screen refocused my attention to the tv. Clips of me, undressing or taking a shower. He must have been filming me for a while. Poorly shot video from a handheld camera tainted the screen for nearly an hour, with no signs of stopping. My paranoia had eaten at me this past year. Everyone had told me I was crazy or delusional. But now, my incessant obsession had been justified. All the moments I had felt like someone was following me now illuminated the screen before me.

A revolver glistened in the light of the tv and sat menacingly on the nightstand.

Oh, how I wish the end would come and greet me. The anticipation gripped my heart and spilled bane into my constricting veins. The salty taste arose again from my chest and festered in the back of my throat.

A rustle in the other room, followed by stagnant footsteps, grasped my heart even tighter. I closed my eyes. He stumbled into the room carrying a grimy, plastic box. He stumbled yet even closer to me and dropped the box next to the gun haphazardly spilling its contents onto the nightstand.

I opened my eyes to foresee the instruments of my demise: two eye pencils; three shades of red lipstick; a palette of pale foundation; blue mascara; and pink nail paint.

He mercilessly opened the nail paint and the strong, sharp scent creeped to my nose as he pulled up an office chair and inched in next to me, my knee in between his legs. The fumes made me even weaker. He picked up my lifeless hand and gingerly brought color to my flesh that now resembled the plastic of a Barbie. My vocal cords were tied by the hands of indifference. I couldn’t mutter a single word.

Finishing with one hand, he rolled around and locked my left knee in his groin, and proceeded to paint my remaining nails. As he completed, he dropped the container on the floor taking no notice to the cap rolling away under the tv. The polish slowly ran from its container releasing its fumes into the small prison.

Oh, how I wish I felt nothing.

I wished for euphoria, an acceptance of my fate, but the inhaling toxicity only heightened my perturbation. My trembling and shaking grew more intense, reminding me of the splintering wood piercing my flesh.

With all my strength, I forced a wince and squeezed a tear from my eye. A large, but gentle hand wiped the tear from my cheek and in its place, painted a cream-white cover, gently applying it to every inch of my face.

After tossing the palette, he then stood dejectedly over the remaining cosmetics. He carefully selected dark gray eyeliner, the blue mascara, and a scarlet lipstick. He pried my eyelids open with his thumb and forefinger, but lined my eyes with an elegant tenderness. He then moved to the mascara. After letting my eyelids fall, with the same thumb and finger, he pinched my cheeks right above my jaw line. Instinctively, I puckered my lips and he probed them with lipstick: quickly. Precisely.

A Sharp pain shot up my arm, followed by a warm sensation.

A blood stained razorblade fell from desperate fingers, followed by a drop of red.

The cut was not deep, but I was so bemused, it didn’t even phase me. He dabbled his fingers in the small puddle of blood, rubbing it thoroughly through his palm to his fingertips. Ever so softly, his fingers pressed onto my cheeks. I swallowed. He rubbed the blood in to accent my rosy dimples.

My eyes welled up, but before a tear could fall, he swabbed my eyes dry with a tissue so as not to ruin my makeup.

A camera withdrew from his pocket. He centered me in his crosshairs, and continually flashed away my weakest moments. My shame immortalized on a flimsy Polaroid: never to be forgotten.

As he was rewinding the film, he unbuttoned his pants and set the camera on the nightstand.

I closed my eyes.

“This will all be over soon.”

The first time I had heard his voice. Sincerity and compassion seemed out of place in a room like this. His pants fell to the ground. Slowly, he inched in between my legs. His hands brushed up my thighs. Chills followed in the wake of his hands, and like ripples in water, reached the extremity of my toes and the tips of my fingers---Barbwire on cold skin.

He forced himself into me counter to no resistance. Tears streamed from my half-opened eyes.

I stared at the nightstand to evade my discernment from my present tarnishing disgrace.

Blood, sweat, and cum, fell to the floor, filling the room with the essence of indignity.

Defiled.

Demeaned.

My attention reverted to the tv, now littered with static.

I’m drawn to cogitate, to reflect on the nightstand: a collage of misery.

Lipstick.

Eyeliner.

A camera stained by my vulnerability.

A gaping void clawed at my constricting heart.

Palpitation ceased.

At what is called the climax of the experience, the silence was torn like paper. An explosion echoed as effortlessly as my screams had off the envelope of my prison.

Blood, sweat, and cum dance in unison: a slight glaze over my bare skin.

An empty casing cascaded before my eyes, as my head fell to rest on my chest. I don’t remember a window, but a chilling breeze blew so majestically through the room.

It became so cold.

It became so dark.