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| Bargain [In Progress] |
Yves called the man who kidnapped her” the Faceless Man”. When he snuck up behind her and stuck the needle to her neck he was just a shadow, not unlike the boogey men who came and went through all her memories. She never blacked out, but simply swam in the drug-induced pool of half-consciousness, where she could sense his binding her limbs, carrying her and throwing her around like a sack, but couldn’t vocalize more than a weak grunt and her muscles would not even let her cry.
He carried her through woods, endless and boundless. Trees and greenery farther than she could see (which wasn’t all that far when hanging upside down and doped to heaven) with entire families of deer prancing by without taking a moment to care about the Faceless Man and his luggage. She was hog tied and slung over his shoulder so she had a good view of the seat of his pants, faded blue jeans with a white indent where he always kept something in his back pocket. Something rectangular.
In the heart of the woods, having navigated dozens of overgrown trails, the Man came to the side of a cliff. Yves couldn’t see it, but dug into the cliff face was a stone door, carved from the same rock as it lived in, but with precision and detail as to not move without being moved. The Faceless Man fiddled with some loud metal contraption and the door slid easily to the side, revealing nothing but a dark hallway with no welcome lights or torches, only a steady drip of water somewhere nearby.
“You like muh bunker?” The Man said in his garbled voice, the sound of it waving up and down as her awareness flared and receded. “Well, too bad.” His drawl sounded as if his lips were on too tight, or his teeth were too big for his mouth.
The hallways became shafts, the shafts became stairs and at the end of the dark passages Yves was thrown onto a bed, complete with blankets and comforter that was drowned in a miraculously working overhead electrical light. If the Faceless Man could turn on the lights, he was much more clever than she had given him credit for – being that he had to jump her from behind and this seemed contrary to the wit required to work Old One electronics. In the flat white light he untied her one limb at a time only to ensure she was then secured to the four corners of the bed, the rope most likely running underneath so if she pulled she would be yanking on her own ankles and wrists. As he grappled with her flailing feet and hands, Yves desperately tried to emerge from the druggy haze, kicking and wriggling against his icy grip.
With both hands tied he finally brought his face to bear against her, and god was it a sight. It reminded Yves of the smiley face she would see painted on cars or buildings, a giant flat circle with black holes for eyes and lacking a nose. The Faceless Man’s skin was pulled tight across his skull, like a fleshy mask that squished and pulled his features. Instead of eye sockets or a mouth, the Man only had crude incisions to mark where his eyes and teeth once were. He had no eyebrows, hair, lips, nostrils or eyelids. The sad remnants of his ears were simply pinkish lumps that sat dully on the sides of his perfectly round head. He was a sadistic horror face, nothing smiley about it.
“Quit yer wrigglin’, bitch.”
He went to work on her feet and she gave him no leniency. Her writhing form was like a bucking bull and she threw him off at least once, but could still not escape and was beginning to doubt that she would ever get the chance.
With her four limbs firmly tied to the bed, the Faceless Man reached to his back pocket, into the faded mark on his pants and produced a dull box-cutter, a sliding razor. Yves’ blood ran cold as she thought what he might do with the razor, Oh mother fuck.
He throttled her neck and dragged the razor across her chest, tearing more than cutting her ever-thinning shirt off of her. She still never stopped struggling.
He’s going to hurt me, he’s going to rape me, he’s going to kill me. Only these things kept circling in her head. Her shirt lie on the floor, shredded remains of its former self and he slammed the side of the box cutter against her crotch, “Listen, whore, quit her wrigglin’ like I tol ya, or I’ll slice ya up so yer cunt runs from yer tits to your shoulder blades.” Yves thought she heard him mumble “fucking bitch” at the end, but it seemed unimportant. Her floundering stopped.
He freed the rest of her tangled clothes from her prone and lifeless body and stood over his handiwork.
Now he smiles, all his prep work finished.
Yves tried to find her lips as the rest of his drugs flush out of her body through her pouring sweat, “Please! Please, please, don’t do it.” Her naked body was so exposed, spread eagle on this plush bed deep in the heart of a stony bunker, out in the middle of nowhere. “Please, God, don’t hurt me.”
The awkward way his skin bunched around his smile became so grotesque as his mouth flips to a snarl, “There ain’t no God, missy, only me.”
His falls onto her like a body-slamming wrestler and she can hear his belt jingle as his icy fingers manipulate his paints. Her screams die on the flat grey walls, the words and cries of anyone in peril, but this time there is no one to hear them.
He rapes her, forcing his way in and staining the blankets with a crimson pool. He hunched over her and thrusts like a mechanical bunny, or a mongrel that just found its first bitch in heat. Her screams leave her throat raw, like the side of a matchbox that’s seen too many campfires and she is left to whimper and beg.
He doesn’t hear any of it. He rises up, still managing to keep a break-neck speed in his hips and softly punches her in the chest, like a hesitant jab to a friend’s shoulder. Then a harder swing to her breasts. And a full set of knuckles to her face. He’s worked up courage and he continues to beat her.
Please, God! Make this stop! Her vision goes a murky red-grey as his fists find her eyes. The few snapping sounds are a clear indication that he’s broken her nose and one or two ribs. Blood runs from every part of her face and her mumbled cries sound more like a dry leaf caught in the wind. The tiny world of the bunker bedroom shrinks even further as Yves remembers what its like to feel such pain. The Faceless Man has found his sweet spot, he hammers on the side of her ribs with his right fist over and over and over, most assuredly puncturing her stomach with a bone shard. His hammering blows pick up speed as he cries out with a noise that he must associate with pleasure, but was truly a blood curdling scream, like a small child being stabbed or a teenage girl being dragged by the hair.
With one final jab to her ribs the Faceless Man climbs off of her, spitting on her.
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