Jane Doe

Pain. The first thing you feel after an unwanted awakening is pain. Sharp. Cutting. Vision refuses to focus, and you twitch when you feel another divergence of the flesh. — Already awake, my love, — the tormentor asserts rather than asks, as if he is busy with something important. And you moan plaintively, turning your heavy head to the side. Realizing with horror that you are lying on the bed. In someone else's room. With numb, handcuffed hands behind your back. You shift your gaze lower, shuddering, noticing how John is sitting between your legs, one of them over his shoulder. Whereas the second one is bare and already covered with countless cuts oozing with blood. And the second your eyes meet, he rests the tip of the knife just above of your trouser's belt, and abruptly plunges the blade under the skin, in one movement tracing all the way to the inside of one of your thighs. And you scream heart-rendingly, choking first in screams, and then in tears, leaning back, arching, trying to kick the sadist. He only tightens his grip on your limb, continuing what he started, cutting you, undressing you, ignoring any blows — they seem to be too weak to cause significant harm. Why can't anyone hear? Doesn't he have any neighbours? Where did you end up even? And how his actions go unnoticed?! Through the veil, you notice how tattered rags stained with your blood are thrown to the floor. And you tremble, whining, pressing into the hard mattress, resting your watery gaze on the ceiling, feeling how he strokes your hot cuts, covering them with fleeting kisses — as if in a hurry to taste each one. The man suddenly pulls away, only to lift your hips, moving closer, and puts them on his own, spreading his knees to the sides, and bends down again, exploring you, studying you, sliding his palms higher over your sweaty, exhausted body, casually diving under your T-shirt, until finally he hangs over your face. Curls of his long hair stick to your wet skin, blocking the already dim light, leaving you alone with a crazy smile stained with scarlet liquid. His eyebrows bend pityingly, and he brings his bloody palm to your face, stroking your cheek. — I don't like it when you cry. Stop it, — he says, wiping the salty moisture from your skin, replacing it with ferrous one. Actions don't fit with words at all, which is why you don't understand how to behave so as not to provoke the psychopath even more. But he doesn't seem to need your signals. Everything has already been decided. He pulls back again and puts the blade just above your pubis, his other hand resting on your sternum, pressing into a hard bed. And presses the knife into the yielding flesh. Forcing you to clench your teeth, squeeze your palms into fists, digging into them with your nails to the point of pain, so as not to make a sound, so as not to give way to tears again, when the knife slides steadily upwards, cutting the skin and tissue, skirting the navel, and stops only when it reaches the clavicle. Just to make the final touch — from one shoulder to the other, skirting the collarbones from below. With a shudder, you realize that a sectional incision has just been made on you. The true motives speak for themselves. The executioner suddenly grabs you under the back, lifting you up, and takes a key out of his pocket, freeing your wrists from the handcuffs, and almost gently puts you back, pulling away and hiding the shackles in the bedside table, locking it. And then he grabs you by the forearm, covering your hand with notches — from the wrist and up to the shoulder — bypassing places that can lead to bleeding to death. And does the same with your second limb. You breathe heavily, suffocating from injuries, from nerves, from awareness of the situation in which you ended up. And you decide to play along. At least to try. And you raise your blurry gaze at the tormentor, who pulls off the remaining shreds of clothes from you. — I love you, — a disgusting lie sounds fake, especially when combined with a broken voice. The maniac frowns, tearing down the last barrier, leaving you completely naked, and his grin becomes... even more bloodthirsty. He doesn't believe what you said. He knows perfectly well that you're lying. But he still plays along with your little performance, turning a carnivorous gaze on you: — I know. And you can't stand it, twisting your face in grimace, starting to sob soundlessly, closing your eyes, turning away, not knowing what you're trying to achieve. You hear an exasperated sigh and feel John leaning towards you again, closing the grip on your throat, blocking access to oxygen, forcing you to throw up numb hands to his wrist and lift your eyelids, only to meet the blade centimeters from one of your eyes. — Stop it, — a cold voice commands, pressure increasing on your throat. And you nod, obediently removing your hands, and close your eyes again, trying to calm your raging heart. And then he lets you go. And, it seems, he even leaves you all alone — you feel the mattress straightening up. You sob, opening your eyes a little, staring at the white ceiling. After just a couple of minutes, you timidly turn your head in the direction of the rustle, meeting John who has returned. He crawls back onto the bed and sits down between your legs. And puts a roll of bandages, an armful of cotton pads and several glass bottles with an unknown liquid to the side. You laugh in a strangled way, with a pained smile, not believing what you see. And the corners of his lips creep down. The man abruptly reaches for the bottle and opens it and grabs you by one of the ankles, forcing you to stretch out a limb. Laughter is replaced by a heart-rending scream and painful whimpering when the wounds begin to be abundantly watered with a solution, apparently alcoholic one. Forcing you to squeeze the sheets and frantically beg for forgiveness — you don't know what for exactly. Burning trickles flow down your body, mixing with blood, soaking into the bed, filling the room with the acrid smell of alcohol and iron. Mixed with the thick stench of animal fear on your part and primal desire on his. And when it seems that you are on the verge of passing out again, the nightmare suddenly ends, and the cauterized wounds begin to be wrapped in bandages. And when he finishes with your legs, starting to take care of your hands, you notice that his are no longer hidden behind a layer of clothes — the offender pulled off his jacket, remaining in a T-shirt. Exposing pale skin covered with old and new, deep and superficial scars. In the image and likeness.