Jane Doe

— Do you like them? — the sadist asks with a grin, noticing how you look at his scars. — You will have the same ones. Even better.   And pulls your tense body into an embrace, forcing you to grimace and clench your teeth from the pain.   Lies, lies, lies. To you. To himself.   Everything he says and does is a complete lie of an unhealthy, fixated mind.   You're in pain. Not so much physically as mentally. And you break down again, starting to cry.   Why does everything have to be this way?   — Hush, hush, — you ignore the persuasions.   Because you can't be quieter. Not when every part of your mutilated body and mind is in pain.   He strokes your hair again and reminds you that he hates your tears.   And he really does. But not at all because it's hard for him to see you suffer.   But because it reminds him of how things really are. You don't love him. And will never do.   And when he realizes that you are not going to stop wetting his T-shirt, then he gets under the bandages and finds fresh wounds with his sharp nails, digging into them, pressing you closer.   And you whine, biting your tongue, finally ceasing to cry.   — That's better, — the tormentor says almost in a whisper, with hot breath over your head, hinting at his true intentions.   He finally leaves your cuts and then kisses the top of your head, putting you back down, and gets out of bed.   Lights go off, and you hear the slam of the door, followed by the rustle of the lock in the well.   There will be no other chance.   You wait a couple of minutes to make sure you're left alone. For now.   Your eyes get used to the thick darkness, illuminated only by the dim light of the moon. Meaning there is a window. How rash of him.   You gather your strength and sit down quickly, clenching your teeth — because if you move slowly, you will not be able to restrain painful moans.   You turn your heavy head, looking around the room. Your chamber consists only of a bed, a bedside table and a window without curtains. He even managed to take your torn and bloody clothes away. You don't want to think for what exactly.   You get up, barely able to stand on your wounded, numb legs, and on tiptoe you step to the door to listen to what is happening behind it. The ominous silence promises nothing — neither good nor bad.   Who knows if you're being eavesdropped on from the other side right now?   However, you are not going to obediently wait for your fate. And you step quietly to the window, skirting the bed.   And when you look outside, you find answers to some of your questions.   No one hears you because you are not in the apartment, but in the house. In the middle of the forest. For the same reason, his deeds go unnoticed.   Your heart stops as soon as muffled approaching sounds come from behind the door and you hurriedly reach for the window handle, surprised that it is not removed. You almost sob with happiness when the frosty night air hits your face.   The second you climb onto the windowsill, a key is inserted into the lock, turning it with a distinctive sound. And when you hang your legs out on the street, the door swings open, and you hear a hollow chuckle that breaks from his lips.   Without turning around, you jump from the height of the second floor, crying out deafly from an unsuccessful landing. You rise, resisting the signals of your own body, realizing that you will not have another gift from fate.   You begin to move your disobedient legs as fast as you can, trying to hide among the trees while there is a rapidly disappearing opportunity to escape.   You slide behind one of the wide trunks, holding your breath, closing your eyes, realizing that you could hardly overtake him even in full health, not talking about your current state.   The deathly silence is even more stressful, because it seems that even your own heartbeat gives away your location.   And it seems that it really is. Or he, like a predator, just feels your presence.   Because you hear the branches crunching when it's too late.   When his silhouette already emerges from the shadows. With just one punch in the stomach he folds you in half, making you fall to the cold ground.   And you whine when you hear a characteristic metallic sound, guessing with horror about its source.   And you whine when he brings a collar to your throat — one with spikes pointing inward — and snap it, adding an additional lock.   — Don't make it worse on yourself, — the man says reproachfully, getting up, immediately pulling the chain up, choking you on suffocation and pain, forcing you to stand up, overcoming dizziness and nausea.   And when you do succeed, he suddenly lifts you up in his arms, picking you up behind your back and under your knees, and carries you back to the lair. You shudder in silent sobs, giving up and clinging to his chest in search of protection.