PSYCHOTIC. (A Jeff the Killer P.O.V and Romance)

{11} - Torture (part one)

hi there are two parts. the next one will be updated tonight as well so yeh c:

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Humans are constantly running. Running towards something, in an effort to acomplish a goal of some sort. Running away from things, in order to be free of the past. No matter how hard we run, or how quickly our feet hit the pavement, the road to self destruction and liberation, the past has feet of fire, and catches itself on the wind, soaring above us. It's constantly behing you during the race. The race you run to get away from it, to reach the finish line to ban you of this awful past, the finish line of happiness. And when you're almost there, so close you can taste the sweet victory over that of your own sweat, the sweet taste of being free of your hauntings, the past runs up to you, right beside your shoulder. You trip. You fall faster than the speed of light, tumbling to the harsh ground of society and selfmutalation. You look up slowly, the seering pain in your scrapped knees and pink palms tearing at your insides. You think maybe you have a chance. So you crawl. Closer, and closer, the finish line right infront of you and you smile at how great you feel. The past is behind you, so far away that it is only a distant whisper. But that is not the case. It is never the case. Because it takes its black shoes, insulated with all the worry and hate and anxiety this world and your choices have given you, and steps on your quivering back, pinning you down into your failure. There is no fighting back. The voices inside your head scream at you. All who doubted you nod in their success. The mirror is ashamed to display your reflection, and you are ashamed to bear it. The race is done.

Your past has won.

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The pumping in my vein was an imense one. Stinging ran up my arm like a cheetah on steroids and I questioned why I was feeling this way. The blackness that aclouded my eyes faded, but was met by a muffled darkness which is when I felt something over my eyes. My mouth felt dull but I could taste the blood on my tongue. I felt bothered with the stiff dried sweat feeling on my rough skin, my shirtless body warm and stinging lightly with anxiousness. Where was I? I could feel ties binding me to what I presumed to be a bed and the scent ridding around the room was stail and stained with cigarette trail. It came as a comfort to me strangley. The ringing in my ears muffled out most sound, including those of a telivision in another room. By how clear the muffled sound actually was, I could tell the door to the room I was housed in was open. There was no breeze at all, only a slow circulation of old air.

In an attempt to sit up, I groaned -almost yelped- out in pain. Cursing my actions I quickly laid back down. I huffed up some of the recycled air and quivered at the pain.

"Oh, so you're up?"

Ugh no.

Not him

Anyone but him.

"Fuck you."

He breathed out offened, yet sarcastic air, "That's not very nice considering I saved your life."

"You saved nothing."

"I guess I should've just left you on the side of the road to rot huh?" He snickered, "But that would be too easy." His tone turned serious in a snap of the finger and it made me uncomfortable. Normaly, it wouldn't have bothered me much, but seeing as I was unable to do much of anything right now, his threating tone worried me.

I groaned at my pounding head, "Whatever. Take this thing off."

He came over to my side but stopped next to me. I could feel him staring down at my tired face.

"You're facsinating." He muttered to himself but me being who I am heard it.

I crinkled up my nose at the strangly complimenting comment in confusion.