Page 14 of Sweet Torture (Torture Games #1)

ELEVEN

NAZ

T he hard floor is hell on the bruises on my knees. I fall to the side, limp and lifeless. I grimace when the cold tiles touch my bare skin, but still when the relief spreads.

I loved this dress so much, and now it is ruined, torn to threads in the ‘heat of the moment,’ as he calls it.

A sense of grief overwhelms me.

So many things I have lost.

“What are you still doing on the floor? Did I not tell you to get yourself cleaned up?” a voice demands somewhere in the distance.

The light in the room is faint, but the blood oozing from my nose leaves an obscene obsidian mark on the floor. The knowledge that I will have to clean that up later burns like fire in my core.

I gingerly touch the side of my face where liquid warmth spreads like a mark of shame. Lying on my side, it dribbles and drips into my gasping mouth. The cut in the corner of my lips stings with regret. That will definitely take some time to heal.

The cathartic release that I used to experience escapes me. My good intentions and naivety lead the charge of the guilt parade that fills my heart with self-loathing every time he utters those dreaded words – but you signed the contract .

The weight of my broken body pins my arm underneath me to the ground, along with my will to exist.

I experience the ebb and flow of pain radiating from the swelling welts on my back and the back of my legs.

The rope burns on my wrists, leaving a watery residue behind as my body attempts to assess the damage done.

An anguished cry rips through my impaired vocal cords, and I convulse in pain. The cry fills the space with unbearable suffering.

I hear the footsteps march closer, and I try to make myself small. Well, smaller.

A painful groan leaves my lips when he hauls me up by the arms and shoves me in the direction of the room I barely survived.

“Looks like you can’t get enough of this dick. I can only assume those moans are from pleasure because you know better than to act as if you didn’t want it. But if that is the case, don’t you worry, my sweets. Daddy can always pump more cum into you. On your knees,” he growls.

My body begs me to retaliate. I sense urgency in my feet, and I back away from his grabbing hands.

“Oh, so you want to disobey me? You know what that gets you, sweets. Are you sure you can handle it after all the fun we already had?” His arms are folded, and he is tapping his shoe right next to my puddle of blood.

I know what he wants from me, but my body revolts at the very notion that I need to submit.

“No.” It comes out as a hesitant whisper, but it carries more power than a scream.

“No, you say? Well, isn’t that interesting? I guess you feel like testing the boundaries today. Okay, sweets, let’s do this.” He steps closer.

I retreat. “No.” This time, it comes out louder.

“Don’t waste my time now. You asked for this, didn’t you? And besides, there is always that pesky little contract that you…”

“No!” My whole body is trembling. Exhilaration courses through me, and I absentmindedly press my hand to the still-bleeding cut on my forehead. He is staring at me, mouth agape, frozen in shock.

“I said no. You will never touch me again.” I try to act strong, but we both hear the slight quiver in my voice.

He regains his faculties, and his tone turns into that of a demented demon .

“There is no escape from me, sweet. You signed a contract, and you belong to me.”

I thrust my finger in his face, but feel my strength start to fade as my body sways to and fro.

“We both know this is not in the contract, and you can consider that agreement nullified. You will never put your hands on me again, you sick psycho. And that is final.”

I recognize the signs too late. The gleam in his eyes when he reaches for the fire poker next to the fireplace. He takes measured steps toward me, like the final descent of a hunter toward his prey. And, of course, the corner that he had backed me into when he finally launched his assault.

With every hit, I feel my will to live shrivel away. Uncoherent words are flung in my face, and by the time he kneels behind me and forces my legs open, nothing can hurt me anymore. Still, I feel the breeze of the fist flying toward my face and welcome the sweet oblivion it promises…

I always jerk awake before the blow lands on my face. My hands fly up to inspect my face and search the covers frantically for any signs of blood.

The doctors suspected losing consciousness was my body’s way of protecting me. After a decade of night terrors, I wish my body had chosen amnesia.

It would eliminate a lot of hesitation to spend the night with anyone.

I lean back, resting my head on the sweat-soaked pillow.

My breathing is shallow, and my heart is racing.

I wipe my clammy hands on the covers and attempt to relax my muscles.

It is the only way to get rid of the cold sweat spasms that rip through me after a nightmare.

It is always the same dream. And it is always so disturbingly graphic. Every millisecond has been recorded in my mind for dexterity and efficiency.

And if I have to say so myself, the dream manages to effectively scare the crap out of me every time.

I throw the covers aside and tiptoe to my art studio.

There is no way I am going back to sleep. I have found that the only way to salve my injured psyche is to memorialize my demons on canvas.

I switch on the lamp attached to my easel and scan the room for a discarded canvas.

Putting my terrorist on display always makes me feel uneasy. The lines are jagged and show clear signs of hesitation. I refuse to use any other colors other than black and white. Seeing him in monochrome keeps him from coming to life.

The vicious swishing of my brush spills grey water everywhere. Some drops splatter onto the canvas and run long lines below the eyeline.

His eyes are the worst. Out of all the visuals that taunt me, the still image of his eyes flashing his insidious spitefulness stays with me.

Malice beams from the protruding eyes. Any glimmer of humanity is replaced by sadistic possessiveness .

I start blending the paint in the outer corner of the cornea, and my mind wanders, as it always does.

The mundane action of mixing the colors and perfecting the lines overwhelms the poisonous fear in the pit of my stomach.

My hand surrenders control to the brush, and what was once precise and detailed turns distorted and faded at the edges.

These paintings never see the light of the new dawn and will be turned to ash as soon as the paint dries enough for me to pick the canvas up and deposit it into the barrel I keep out back specifically for this reason.

I move into the darkness of the room and stare at my nightmare staring back at me. In the darkness, his eyes can’t find me. Here, the safety that surrounds me is fragile, like cracked glass.

But still, I find myself exhaling the fear that knotted my insides, and my heart rate returns to normal. I place my hand on my chest to ensure I am not fooling myself.

Some black paint smudges on my skin, and I rush to the bathroom to get rid of the stain. While scrubbing my skin raw, I need to admit the undeniable truth to myself.

His viciousness has irreparably stained my soul.