Jane Doe

...you draw back from the stinking mess, wrinkling your nose in disgust. Before leaving for work, you have left the meat to defrost, but why is it... on the floor? You look into the freezer and frown. Because it contains the very piece that you wanted to get out, but forgot in the end. — What are you cooking? ...You closed the door. You definitely closed the front door. To avoid exactly what happened. You slam the refrigerator shut and turn around, staggering aside in a frenzy. — How did you get here? — your voice breaks treacherously, not allowing the question to sound confident. Don't get him angry, don't provoke, play along. — ... you let me in, silly! — in horror, you take one step back, plunging into a fetid pile, and then he takes two steps forward. Towering over you. Forcing to lift your head, just not to feel his gaze on the top of your head. To not feel like a victim. But isn't that so? His clothes stink... with iron. And now you understand why he's dressed all in black. — You're so cute when you're afraid, — the madman says, cupping your face with his palms, touching your delicate skin with his long nails, making every cell of your body tense, leaning unacceptably close, as if intending to kiss. And you lean back a little to avoid it. Noticing how, in response to this careless gesture, his eyebrows twitched to the bridge of his nose. You want to close your eyes. Hide from the devouring gaze, full of unhealthy adoration. And now the subtle discontent. From a non-disappearing smile, resembling an animal grin. But you're afraid that then teeth will really bite into your flesh. Too sharp for a human. And it doesn't look like there are only thirty-two of them. He lets you go, touching your lips with feigned carelessness before taking a step back. And immediately brings his palm to his own, lightly swiping at them, as if tasting you. Without taking his hungry, unblinking gaze off you. — That's enough, it's time for you to go home, — you give up, no longer able to tolerate confrontation, and you look away, nervously taking off from your place and heading to the table, starting to clean up the mess. To distract yourself. Pretend he doesn't exist. All he needs is your attention. You can't be shy in front of a beast. You can't show fear. But it's easier said than done. Especially when he comes up from behind, catching you between himself and the table, leaning on it with his lanky hands, cutting off escape routes on both sides. And leans towards your ear, snuggling so close that you feel the heat of his body even through layers of fabric: — I'm already home. And you abruptly sink to the floor, diving under the table and just as quickly jumping out from under it - already on the other side, and run, without turning around, to the exit, knowing with your mind that you won't even have time to turn the lock. And you're right. Because he grabs you by the hair at the very moment when you're already reaching for the damn latch. And with all his might he hits your forehead against the door, lifts your head up, exposing your neck, placing the blade of the knife on sensitive flesh, pressing enough so that you feel the painful tension of the skin. And he holds you even closer than last time. You prefer not to pay attention to the fact that now you feel not only someone else's warmth, but also the obvious pleasure of what is happening. You feel dizzy. Nauseous. And you don't know if it's due to overexertion or injury. It's hard for you to breathe — because of your neck position. But at least this problem will be solved. One way or another. — Why are you trying to escape again, my love? — the sadist says hoarsely, blowing hot breath on your neck. — Have you forgotten how it ended last time? Last time? He does not allow you to think about what has been said — and abruptly removes the knife, only to immediately take the released throat in a grip, pushing you towards the door, roughly pressing into it, leaning on you with all his weight. And he lets go of your hair, almost gently running his palm over your head, as if apologizing. And then he blocks you the oxygen with a suffocating grip, forcing you to choke in a muffled cough, and you kick, throwing up your hands — in an unsuccessful attempt to reach his face, in the end clinging to his forearms hidden by the sleeves. And when you weaken, settling in his hands, almost losing consciousness, then he lets you go, letting you fall to the floor like a sack. And then you breathe heavily, trying to at least get up, and raise a pitiful look at the tormentor. Through the veil, you watch how he reaches somewhere into the bosom of his jacket, taking out an ampoule and a sealed disposable syringe, which he immediately opens and fills with whatever it is. You try to crawl away on unruly, shaky hands, squeezing out silent, hoarse pleas while burning tears flow down your cheeks. Like a mortally wounded animal, you fall as soon as you get up. You shake, sobbing violently, pressing into the door, when the torturer comes closer and squats, grabbing you hard by the forearm. And with amazing ease, he finds your vein with a needle, as if he had done this hundreds of times before. And when the last drop of an unknown substance enters your bloodstream, he takes out the syringe, throws it somewhere to the side, and falls to his knees, wrapping your weakening body in his arms, pressing you to his chest, stroking your hair. And you remotely feel his breath on them, realizing that he is not trying to calm you down at all, he does not regret what he has done, but only indulges in his sick interests. You hear a soothing murmur, but you can't make out the words, and you realize that your strength is finally leaving you, plunging your exhausted mind into darkness.