The Dawn of Darkness (Part 14)

When I awoke, there was a minor sense of relief that washed over me. I could feel the fullness of my bladder pressing heavily in my abdomen, and it seemed a signal that the nightmare was over, that I could get up, use the bathroom and crawl back into bed with the warmth of her.

I attempted to stand and every muscle in my body hollered at me. I was still dreaming, still in the hole. My body throbbed in every place that it had been punctured. My muscles were set in the place that they had fallen into, and would not cooperate in moving. I reeked of urine. Above my head, the square filtered in light around its edges. It was daytime.

I took a deep breath and gathered what strength I could to try and stand. I had to shift my weight from side to side and lift myself up in a wiggling motion to achieve it, but I managed to stand. My arms were caked with dried blood. My hair was matted and tacky and surrounded my face in a cloud of odor. With my fingers trembling, I pulled it as far back as I could and tucked it into the back of my shirt, keeping it as far away from my face as possible.

The daylight shining through gave me a modicum of hope. I opened my mouth and tried to yell out, but the voice that immerged was cracked. I hadn't had anything to drink in what I could only assume was close to 24 hours. I licked my lips. My tongue felt like sandpaper dragging over them. My lips themselves were dry and I could feel a large crack down the center of my bottom lip.

My bladder was pounding now, urging me to release its contents. I locked my knees together and pushed the heel of my palm on my stomach, trying to quell the need to urinate. I doubted I would be able to get out of this place in time to use a toilet. The thought of standing here in this narrow spot, drenched in the smell of someone else's urine, and being forced to piss myself was unbearable. I began to cry tears that I didn't think I would have the moisture in my body for. As they came down my cheeks, my tongue darted out and licked them up, trying to wet itself. The gesture was so pathetic it made me cry even harder and sadly, I licked all of those tears up too.

I tried to speak again. "Huh...huh.... huh-lo?" The voice was tiny. My throat creaked open like a rusty gate. "Someone please help me. I'm trapped in here, in the ground. And I'm hurt."

The words echoed around me. The only person who was going to hear them was me. I tried again, sucking in my gut and forcing out some weight behind my call. "HELLO? Someone please! I'm trapped in a hole, underground. I'm hurt and I need help! Someone?"

There was a distinct sensation at my urethra. My bladder was not going to allow me to hold back my pee any longer. I sighed grievously and let my forehead fall forward and rest on the wall in front of me. I wept bitterly in a flow that almost paralleled the steadiness of my urine. I spread my feet as wide as possible, trying not to soak my shoes. The pee coursed out of me for a solid 3 minutes. It was the most that I had ever gone in my life, and I was releasing it on myself.

The hole began to stink anew. When I shifted my foot again, I heard a small splashing sound, like the kind when you step into a shallow puddle. I'd flooded my prison. I couldn't sit down now unless I wanted to sit in my own piss. Anger boiled up in me and my voice found the resonance that it needed.

"HEY YOU!" I screamed. I could feel the vein in the side of my neck pulsing. I started to try and pull myself up, scraping my fingers at the sides of the hole, scrambling for anything to get a hold of. "You lousy fuck!! Let me out of here you crazy asshole!!" I felt a fingernail break. Pain shot through my hand from my fingertip. It had broken down far.

I kicked and yowled like a wild animal. I started to sweat beads of pure desperation. "GODDAMMIT FUCKER!!! Get the hell out here!! Let me out of this fucking hole!!" My fingers were streaming with blood. I was tearing the skin on them to shreds.

There was noise coming from above my head now. I stopped yelling and stood still. My fingertips were throbbing. I held my breath as I could hear him approach overhead. There was a fumbling with metal and suddenly I was blinded with sunlight streaming down into my eyes. I snapped them shut and blinked away tears. There were dark spots behind my eyelids. As I was standing, blinking hard, I felt a hand at my head. He was yanking me up by my hair. I heard strands pop out by the dozens. The pain was sharp.

I was thrown onto the grass and straddled by his body before I had any chance to react. When I opened my mouth to scream, he shoved a sock it in, cramming it full. The air burned in my nostrils as I breathed through them. I never could get enough air to satisfy my lungs when I breathed that way, but this was even worse. I heard the ripping of duct tape and watched wide-eyed as he taped the sock firmly in place. I struggled, but was still weak from the blood loss and his weight had me pinned. I bucked under him as much as I could. He looked down at me with a sick smile. I could feel the hardness of him against my stomach. I cringed in disgust.

I remembered how he had somewhat reacted to my eyes and stopped moving, opening them up as far as they could go. I pleaded with him in my stare. He tilted his head and looked into my eyes, transfixed. He let one of his hands go to my forehead and stroke it. I wanted to close my eyes, wanted to cry, wanted to avoid looking into the face of a lunatic, but I compelled myself not to. I attempted to speak mercy to him with the soft furrowing of my brow. He leaned further forward and just looked deeply into my eyes. He was very close to my face now. His breath was on my cheek, hot and humid. He leaned all the way into me and placed a soft kiss on the tip of my nose. I could no longer hold in the tears and let them come.

He helped me to my feet and walked me toward the house, pulling open the sliding glass door in a zombie-like trance. He seemed to understand that I was wet, that my shoes were spattered with my piss, and stopped me before allowing me to cross over the threshold into the house. He bent down and untied my shoes, helping me to step out of them. I continued to sob. I wanted to run, but my legs felt like a combination of rubber and cement, heavy and yet unstable. When he was through removing my shoes, he motioned for me to enter.

He stepped through the door, directly behind me, the flat of his hand on the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the house. As we passed by the table that I'd seen the picture on, it caught my glance once more. Except this time, there were no twins. Just one boy, holding up a large fish that he'd caught, a big hat flopping over his brow, nearly obscuring his eyes.

That picture was of the waking world me, 8 years old and taken fresh after my first fishing trip with my grandfather.

Fear gripped me, this person that I was in the dream state. This scared girl. This innocent, harmless girl. This girl who had liked the waking world me, had just wanted to flirt with and perhaps have a minor fling with. A deliciously deviant secret to keep from her friend, my girlfriend. She hadn't asked for this. She hadn't any indication that this would happen. Because my waking life self had been a nice boy. My waking life self had appeared just as innocent as this girl.

How appearances deceived.

He led me to the bathroom where he closed and locked the door behind me. He motioned for me to step into the tub and I did. I was still crying, although it was becoming a normal reflex and I wasn't paying it as much attention anymore. He turned on the faucet and let the water run for awhile, then flipped the switch to shower mode. The water poured over me, soaking through my clothes and rinsing away some of the stench.

He stood watching as I become more drenched. His mouth quivered. Dear Jesus, I thought, suddenly horrified worse than before. He's going to speak.

"Will you.... would you... can you..." His words were fumbling out of his mouth. He stopped talking and pursed his lips tightly. He banged his fist into his temple. He sighed and then stood up straight and looked directly at me, coldly.

"Take off your clothes." The demand was hard. The look in my eye told me that if I didn't, there would be shit to pay for. My head fell forward. I closed my eyes and felt my heart sink to my feet. I needed to do what he said. If I was going to have any hope of getting out of here with my life, I was going to have to strip in front of this monster.

My fingers slowly went to the zipper at my skirt. It came undone easily. I unbuttoned the waistband and then slowly pushed it down over my hips. It was wet, making it difficult to wrangle off. When I'd finally pried it free, it hit the bottom of the tub with a thump.

He was watching me intently. He licked his lips when he saw the skirt fall. His eyes were glued to my wet panties, simple cotton bikini briefs. I tried to cover my crotch with my hands and his expression snapped into one of infuriation. He shook his head and pointed. I sobbed wildly as I slowly hooked my thumbs into my underwear and worked them down. My mound was covered in a fine light brown down, never shaved. There wasn't even a trimming of the bikini line evident. There really wasn't a need to. The hair was sparse. You could make out the slit of my pussy lips from behind the fine rug of hair. The air was dense with my humiliation.

He stared hard at me but did not motion to touch me. My shirt was stained with the blood from my wounds. The muscles in my arms screamed and refused to go higher than shoulder level when I attempted to pull the shirt off. I whimpered and shook my head, letting my chin fall to my chest. His head whipped around from side to side, eyes searching. He pulled open on of the drawers in the cabinet and found a pair of scissors. They were thin and narrow, the type that come with a beard trimming kit. He advanced toward me and started to cut through my T-shirt. My tears flowed as if they would never stop.

He had to saw at the material when he came to the neck line. The scissors weren't meant for something so thick. Once through it, he yanked it free of my shoulders. He stopped moving. He was looking at my back. Looking at the damage that he had caused. My breath hitched in my throat. Please, my mind seized, take pity. See what you've done and take pity.

Instead pain flared up in my back. He was jabbing at the holes with the tips of the scissors, digging around in them. I fell forward onto all fours, arching my back in pain and holding myself up with my palms. My screams were muffled against the sock buried in my mouth. I felt him unhook my bra. My breasts popped loose from it and it hung wetly from the straps at my shoulders. He snipped them off with the scissors. I was now completely naked. I could see strains of blood rinsing down the drain. It was fresh blood from the reopened wounds.

He placed the scissors on the side of the tub and picked up a washcloth that was sitting on the back of the toilet. He wet it under the flow of water from the shower head and then began to softly and slowly bathe my back and shoulders. The skin was stinging. When he ran it over my bare ass, I felt my elbows dip. I couldn't take it. He was kind one moment and vicious the next. My head pounded. Out of the corner of my eye, the scissors glinted.

Deep inside of me a fury balled up and charged my system. In a flash I'd grabbed the scissors and brought my hand back in a wild swinging arc. It connected with his right side and plunged down deep. A high-pitched scream escaped him and he fell backwards. The scissors were buried up to their handles. He stared at them, dumbfounded.

I pounced out of the shower, grabbing the small plastic handles and yanking them through the muscle and fat running along the side of his torso. When they wouldn't slide any more, I yanked them out and began to stab wildly. The blood was rushing in my ears. The world had gone silent in my head. I closed my eyes and swung over and over again, sometimes feeling myself connect, sometimes not. His body writhed under mine.

I was on an upswing when his fist caught the bottom of my jaw, rocking my head back. The blow was so intense, I flew up and back into the tub, my legs dangling from the edge. Sound seeped back into my ears. He was shouting, swearing, calling me a "looney bitch." There was blood everywhere, splattered on the wall, pooling on the bathroom tiles. His shirt was saturated with his blood. He bent over at the waist and bellowed.

He raised his shirt and inspected the wounds. There was so much blood, it was hard to determine exactly how much damage I'd done. The only mark that stood out was the deep ragged line in his side, steadily producing a flow of blood.

"I was trying to help you!" he whined. "What the fuck??? I was trying to help you!!" His voice was strained. He was crying now. "Now what do I have to do?"

I knew what he was going to do. I could feel my body go limp and my veins fill with ice as I saw him pick up the porcelain top off the back of the toilet. I knew what he was going to do as he lifted it high over his head. I knew what he felt he had to do as I saw it come down on my head.

And that was the very last thing that I knew.