Time... His Script is You and Me (A David Bowie Fanfic)

Scars That Can Be Seen

*Florence's perspective*

I didn't want to look at the bullet coming towards me, so I squeezed my eyes shut. And when the bang rung in my ears, I waited for the sharp pain. For the instant of agony before the eternity of nothingness.

But it never came.

It was maybe 5 seconds since I had heard the gun shot, but no bullet had come to cut my life short. Hesitantly, I squinted open my eyes, to see Karl with the gun by his side, a hideous smirk across his face.

He promptly burst into laughter.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! You actually thought I'd shoot you then! Oh, what good fun," He said, using the end of the gun barrel to wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes.

"Its called a blank darling. Always gives them a good scare, though. I wouldn't go through all this trouble just to shoot you now. No - I've got plenty more in store. And when I'm done, you'll be begging for a real bullet."

I didn't know what was worse: thinking you were about to be shot, or thinking about all the things that could be worse than being shot. Probably the latter. And, honestly, I was beyond scared by now. I had entered a realm of fear so unmistakably clear I almost already wished for the death that so surely waited at the end of this man's torture.

I began to cry. All my wit, quick-thinking, and attempts to break out were feeble. I was destined for a slow and painful death by whatever heinous means this man had planned. And I was so so terrified. All I wanted was David's sweet caress, my mother's warm smile, and even my brother's taunting seemed welcome in the situation I was in.

But they couldn't save me now. I was in 1972, and David probably didn't even know I was missing.

Karl strode up to me, and with one of his grubby fingers, lifted my chin up, wet from tears. He stared at my frightened countenance. It was as if he was a butcher: his eyes sizing up a piece of meat for him to carve up and use as he wished.

As he spoke to me, I could feel his disgusting breath yet again on my face, "Don't cry, Sugar. Don't you worry. I have lots of fun in store for us!" And he gestured with one of his hands around to the other side of the room.

It was only then when he pointed to it that I noticed what the furnishings in the room were. And as soon as I realised, I really wished I didn't know. There was a musty double-mattress in the corner, yellowed and stained (I tried not to think what of). There was no bed-frame, only the bed-head: a rusty iron thing, with what looked like ropes tied to it. A small lamp stood beside the bed, and one blanket was furled in a ball on the floor as well.

Only a rollable separator divided the 'bedroom' from the room we were in, whatever that would be called.

"Heres the plan: I'll untie you. You go over there, and get rid of this nasty excuse for clothing-" He said, his two fingers pinching my shirt, "-and you can call me in when you are... ready."

No. No. No. I couldn't do this.

"Please, no." Was all I was able to whisper in reply.

"Well, if not, I'm going to have to find other ways inside your skin," He snarled, grabbing a knife from his pocket and placing it against my cheek.

There was nothing I could do, so I simply stayed still and didn't respond. He took that as an ascent, and smiled. He used the knife to cut my bindings, and pushed me into the other room, behind the screen.

"I like the surprise," was all he said about that.

I was doomed. I was sobbing wholeheartedly. And I was wondering, clinging to some impossible hope that David could help me.