Page 74 of Shattered In Darkness

“Hungry?” I say nothing. He stands, arms folded, waiting. I feel his stare, invisible through the bone-white mask. “Say it,” he says. “Tell me what you are. What you want.”

“Please…” I can barely force it out.

He tilts his head. “Please what?”

I stare at the bowl, at the slop inside. Oatmeal maybe. My pride is slowly melting. “Please, can I eat?” I whisper.

He steps closer. “Not enough. Beg. Beg like a whore. Beg like the thing you are.”

My stomach caves. I feel my cheeks flush, but I do it. “Please—I’m nothing, I’m just a hole, I’ll do anything, just let me eat, please⁠—”

He nods, satisfied. “That’s better.”

He pushes the bowl toward me with the toe of his boot. I crawl to it. That’s the rule. No hands. Lips to metal, like an animal. My mouth fills with bitter, salty shame. The food is cold, tasteless. I eat anyway, because hunger always wins.

Cold splatters up my chin, drips down my neck. He watches in silence. I try to hate him, but there’s too much of me missing now, stripped away by days of this.

When I’m done, he tosses a bottle of water after me. It rolls, clattering, but at least he lets me use my hands for that. Small mercies that he’ll probably take back tomorrow.

He circles as if waiting for me to break again. I can feel his eyes, the heat of his body. I want to curl up, disappear, become the nothing he keeps telling me I am.

“What do you say?” he asks.

I swallow. “Thank you.”

He laughs. “Good girl. You’re learning.” The gloved hand cups my chin, tilting my face up. The mask is inches from my mouth. “You want a reward?”

The cold in his tone is familiar now. “No,” I whisper.

He laughs again. “Wrong answer.”

He’s on me before I can blink, hauling me to my feet, his grip bruising and cruel. He drags me to the center of the room, where he left the bucket. The reminder that I’m not even worth a toilet. He yanks my hands behind my back, tightens thick zip-ties around my wrists. The plastic bites deep. I freeze as he pushes me to my knees.

“Open your mouth.”

I shake my head, earning a slap. Not hard enough to knock me over, but enough to send lightning through my jaw. “Open it, whore.” I open my mouth begrudgingly. He shoves two fingers down my throat until I gag, then lets me go. “That’s better.”

He stands, looking down at me, breathing hard behind the mask. I stare at the floor, waiting, waiting. The next sound is the scrape of something metal, knife, I think, but the blade never faces me. Instead, I feel the hard, cold handle pressed to my lips.

“Show me how good you can be,” he says. “Suck it.”

The steel is freezing, making my teeth ache, but I suck the handle like it’s him, like it’s what he wants. He moves it in and out, slow. My lips burn, my tongue numbs.

“You only exist to be ruined,” he whispers. “Say it.”

My throat trembles around the metal. “I only exist to be ruined.”

He pulls the knife back, dragging it down my neck. I flinch away, and he laughs cruelly. “You’re afraid. You should be.”

He steps behind me, one hand twisting in my hair, forcing my head back. With the other, he presses the cold handle against my cunt, through the thin cotton of my pants first, then inside, tearing the cloth aside. The hardness splits me, frigid, merciless. I whimper. My body tries to close, but he holds me wide, the zip-ties cutting my wrists behind my back.

“Look at you. Nothing but a hole.” He fucks me with the knife handle, slow, twisting, spreading me open. Each thrust is cold and brutal. “Not until you beg like a whore,” he says. “Beg for more. Tell me you want it.” Tears burn down my cheeks. I shake my head, but he twists my nipple, pinching until I gasp. “Say it.”

“Please, more. I want it. I want to be ruined.”

He keeps going, faster now, the cold searing into my core, the shame drowning me. I can’t tell where pain ends and need begins. I hate myself for the heat that pools between my legs. I hate him for knowing. It burns, but in a way that makes me crave more.

Am I deranged like him?