I wrote this three years ago, when I read a book by Stephen King and wondered if I could recreate a rape scene. To think that I wrote this in elementary school, thirteen years old, well, it suggests that I have very disturbed mind. I had always wanted to write a macabre adult novel before I turned eighteen, just because I thought it would be cool. The result is what you see below.
She awakens to the slow screeching sound of grinding metal.
Her head throbs painfully, and she knows that she is bleeding.
She feels a soft mattress beneath her warm, frail body, and the cold steel underlining it. She tries, but fails, to focus her vision; her eyes are cross – eyed and blurry. She can't make out the outlines of the shapes before her, can only comprehend the terrible screeching noise plaguing her ears.
Metal against cold metal, the scraping of the objects composing a cacophony of music.
And now she hears another sound, a mournful, saddening melody, caressing her body in waves of sweet harmony. Low, pitiable music fusing with the harsh, high sounds of the scraping.
She realizes there is a ringing in her ears, almost as hurtful as the screeching of the metal. It seizes her mind and brings forth an agonizing, crawling pain that sends her spine into a spasm of sick pleasure.
The pitiable music is her voice.
Her mind focuses on piecing itself together, and she swings her head back and forth, emitting short, painful moans. The pain in her head is throbbing maddeningly, and she feels a trickle of wetness flow down her head. She twists her body to wipe the wet off, and immediately a serenade of calming, confusing pain sends her sailing back over the waves of unconsciousness.
Again she is lost, in the foggy depths of bewilderment, only to break once more to the surface, gasping for air, grasping for reality.
Everything comes slamming back down into place. She opens her eyes and truly sees for the first time in 8 hours. She sweeps her head in a panicky motion, and takes in everything before even realizing what is before her.
The moaning, pitiable sound is the music of her voice, and she realizes that she has been moaning and flailing in her sleep. She can feel tear streaks zig zagging down her cheeks, over her moist lips and down to her unprotected, smooth shoulders.
Pain flares briefly, and a torrent of hot knives slash across her wrists, pounding relentlessly until she screams, begs for it to stop, for the hurt to stop, no, no, go away, come again another day. Her wrists are on fire. They are burning, searing in a hellish flame of undying torture. She can feel blistered rashes dotting the bottoms of her palms, ruining am otherwise unblemished, perfect body.
And still the screeching continues; slower, now, more gentle and beckoning.
She looks up, and realizes she is on her back, laying down horizontally, on a dirty, filthy bed. She sees that her arms have been forced up, spread vulnerable and unprotected. And attached to these delicate, pale limbs are chains.
Rusty, putrid chains, rapped around her wrists so tightly that blisters and blood mix together to for a concoction of bodily fluid, completing it perfectly with angry red rashes spread up and down her arms.
She twists her wrists and again pain rises, bringing her vision to a dull, blurry fight for consciousness. She gasps as the chains scrape against the dirty overhead of the bed, creating the screeching, scratching sound.
She licks her lips, and instead tastes a bitter, nasty cloth. Her chapped lips curl in an expression of disgust, hidden by the rag tied around her mouth.
She hears a slow thumping sound, and down at the far end of the empty room she sees a figure appears from the depths of the dank mist. A soft, crunching sound enters her ears as this Figure moves closer. The feet of the Figure step down slowly, almost cautiously, and the gravel beneath presses closer to the soil.
Her eyes widen in terror, for she knows nothing about the Figure, comprehends nothing about it or the room, where she is, who she is. All she knows is that something is very, very wrong here.
This should not be happening.
She thinks she hears the Figure lick its lips, but she is not sure. She thinks she smells the Figure's pungent sweat roll off it in invisible waves, excitement pouring off this creature in a downpour of ecstasy.
She thinks all this, but what she knows, what she sees, what she understands is that a small glint of steel is clutched in the Figure's hands, that even from here she can see her own, petrified expression reflecting off the shine of the knife the Figure holds.
And still the figure creeps forward.
And still it creeps forward.
Ever so slowly, step by step, it approaches her and now she is certain the Figure is grinning down at her, taking in her body in one glance, relishing in her terror and beauty.
Subconsciously, she began to sweat. Not from the heat, nor from the pain, but from the absolute terror of being in the utter unknown. Where was she? Who, and what was this figure? How did this happen? Why did this happen? Why, why, why.
"Mmm. This is very, very good."
The voice struck her like a slap in the face, locking her muscles and preventing her from crying out. She felt her eyes bulge from their sockets instinctively. She began to hyperventilate, very quietly and very rapidly, her breasts slowly rising and falling.
Ba – bump. Ba – bump. Ba – bump.
The Figure was standing right in front of her now, and she saw that the Figure was covered up in an enormous, moth –eaten trench coat. The Figure's hands, or what ever they were, had been tucked deep into the pockets of the Figure's coat, revealing only a small bit of white flesh every time it moved. She could not see past its knees, for the edge of the bed blocked her view. The Figure's face was covered up in a black ski mask, and she could make out the gleen of small, rounded, mirrored sunglasses settled on the bridge of the Figure's nose. There was a damp spot on the mask where a person's mouth would normally be, as if the Figure had been licking its lips or breathing heavily. A stank, unpleasant odour filled the air.
Ba-bump Ba – bump Ba- bump
Through the dark shadows of the confines of her room, the Figure slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, springs protesting lazily. It carefully pulled its hands out of its pockets, and she could see for once that they were indeed human hands. The Figure rubbed the tips of its fingers with its thumb, without moving. Then, the Figure placed its hand on her bare, naked leg.
She felt a crazy impulse to scream, to yell, but the rag around her mouth shushed her panicking tongue. Her heartbeat increased by a twostep. (Babump Babump Babump) as it traced the outside of her calf with its index finger. Up, and down. Up, and down.
"Oh, yes. Stay right there. Right there," the Figure said roughly. "Don't talk, just stay." She noticed his voice beginning to diminish and grow husky. The tracing was going faster and faster. Up, down. Up, down.
He suddenly smacked his palm onto her quivering thigh
Grinning ever so subtly, under the mask
Rubbing her inner thigh now
She saw his own bump in between the folds of his pants his crotch protruding pushing the cloth out
Oh God no no no help help no help I don't want to
And now he's moving in jerky strides no now he's pulling himself on top of her she realizes she is wearing only bra and panties no now they are gone scream or something find help no now he's ripping his clothes off quickly excited but the mask stays on now he's in his underwear too HELP HELP ME his GOD NO penis is erect and upright NO he places his head on the nape of her neck she is crying she is moaning she is tortured breathing so softly so softly
He forces himself in and a huge wave of hurt flows over her she can't breathe she is suffocating and there is pain take it out, out, OUT
And it, whatever it is, the Figure jerks out by accident, and he moans in delight (oh yes very nice) Oh she can't move, these damn shackles are here on my hands no no not back inside take it out
A molten mass of heavy, hot flesh rams into her and she gasps in pain. She feels something move inside her and she screams, through the rag and bites down on her lip. Blood gushes out, not only from her lip but from where he is defiling her and she feels raw flesh tear open. Pulsing, inside her, he pulls back and rams again.
I am floating above
Push, extend, pull, force it back in (Oh yeah baby)
The pain is not so bad now
He slaps her breasts, jiggling them playfully, all the while still moving back and forth, back and forth before he rips her bra off and she is completely naked, completely exposed, completely ashamed, totally dirty.
Licks her neck (oh oh yeah)
She is bleeding bad (am I going to die)
Rubs himself against her
Too much PAIN
Its going in and out take it out its ripping her insides apart
(Oh, OH YES)
NO NOT INSIDE
A hot gush of warmth flows through her, and she feels that something reach her stomach and she wants to throw up, Oh god no she is dirty, filthy,
He groans in relief and pleasure, delight and joy
Blood from her mixed with him, they are united
She feels so sick, so nauseated. She s hurting in many places and her breasts had been squeezed in his climax, mashed between his hands (not a Figure, a Man), the nipples have been twisted -
I ended it right there, because I started to feel nauseated. I haven't come back to look at it since, until I found it a week ago.