ruined.
i saw, i smelled what he did to you girl.
and to be frank, the thought makes my innards curl:
how he preyed on your ripe insecurities, that thorn in your side is alive
and it's killing me.
obscure records entombed in his room with mechanical lust.
diapered, desolate, middle-aged doom.
on your knees in his downtrodden, shit eating, grin of a room
if only you'd meet me here soon.
She screamed into the darkness as she awoke with a start. It took a few moments to realize she was alone...and while she was never truly safe, at least she was in less danger than she felt she has been a moment ago. As she sat up, she tried to tell herself not to cry. Tears flooded her eyes, but she bit her knuckle to prevent sobs from accompanying them. She wiped her sweaty forehead with the edge of her blanket and just kept repeating in her head that she was safe, that it wasn't real.
But it was real wasn't it? Everything she'd just dreamt was the sick sad truth of everything that had passed. It might not bother her as much if she didn't dream it almost every night: a nightmare that had wormed its way into her dreams, leaching from her real life. Her breathing had returned to normal, so she got up and started walking around, stretching her sleepy muscles as she did so. The sky was still dark and a look to her alarm clock told her 3:58. This had to stop. Fearful adrenaline kept her feeling awake now, but she knew she'd be close to passing out by noon. She turned again towards the window, her focus on the dream catcher hanging from the curtain rod. She felt so silly for buying it; she'd found it in a store a few weeks ago and bought it, figuring she'd hang it and see if it helped with her nightmares. But it didn't. Probably because she didn't believe in it.
But then again, what did she have to believe in anymore? The stupid dream catcher: string beads and feathers could not cure her fears. Police couldn't find her. God couldn't save her and pry his knife away from her neck on that night which gives her still so many nightmares. Her dreams would not let her forget even a single venomous detail. She still felt his blade tracing circles on her hips and arms, teasing her, and making her wait for the cuts that still scarred her body. She still felt his body on hers; he had the coldest heat she would ever feel. She still felt her own tears rolling down her face as she wondered why no one was looking for her, why God wasn't listening to her. She still remembered her own blood dripping down her body. But worst of all, she still remembered his face. She could dismiss her nightmares as nothing more than nightmares if it were not for his face: the face of a man whom she had trusted with everything, even her life.
The man who she had trusted with her life...had ruined it completely, destroyed her very being. She'd loved him, and always thought he was so handsome. But she hated him now, and now thought his face was ugly, because she knew what sickness that pretty face concealed. Her parents taught her not to talk to strangers when she was little, but they never taught her that sometimes the closest friends can be the most sinister strangers. She thought about going back to bed, but dismissed the thought immediately; knowing her sleep would not be peaceful. It would never be peaceful. He would never leave her alone. She walked into her kitchen and poured water into the coffee machine, the red light turning on in time with her finger flicking the switch. The red light reminded her of her prison's illumination. A dark orange light casting a doom onto the stone walls of his basement. The floor littered with nothing but her, and stains from her own blood. She cringed at the memory of the pain he caused her on a hunt for his own pleasure. The fact that even now she couldn't keep a boyfriend, and could barely keep her friends. She had no idea where her life could possibly go from here, she felt so trapped by her own terror of a man who was no longer a threat. She remembered the last morning she spent in captivity: the morning she woke up and decided that it was all over. He walked in, always armed with that sick smile on his face, and she pounced. She remembered the satisfaction of puncturing his skin with his own filthy knife. Tearing muscle and puncturing veins, the thought made her sick, but the deed set her free. Her first breath of fresh air was accompanied by water as it dripped from the sky onto her bloody face. And she ran. She ran to the people who didn't look for her, to the police who couldn't find her, and away from the God who couldn't save her. They kept her in the hospital for a week, probably only because she refused to say a word. Wouldn't tell them where she had been, who had done this to her, or how she'd gotten out. She'd killed a man, and she would take that with her to the grave. Her grip on the edge of the counter had gotten painfully tight. She turned around and leaned against the counter, squinting her eyes shut to try to block out what she knew. With a squeal of anguish she let out a backwards kick to the counter, which she regretted immedietly as her ankle compacted against her shinbone. She hissed a few obscenities before walking back to her room, putting very little weight on her right foot. She began to slowly get dressed in the semidarkness, the smell of fresh coffee beginning to permeate her brain cells. She wouldn't be going back to sleep, she might never go back to sleep. She was alone in her room, and alone in the world. And while the thoughts of her past never let her be truly safe, at least she felt no danger when she was awake.
paraded you around like a second place prize,
hair done up black holes painted on your eyes.
held a book burning in your back yard,
while your parents looked on from their window, slightly scarred.
and I watched with my shovel in hand,
I have faith in you child. from his nightmares I plucked a plan:
where this pr*ck is revealed to the world as a wicked man.
this is a prayer from your biggest fan.
for the little victim inside everyone
and to be frank, the thought makes my innards curl:
how he preyed on your ripe insecurities, that thorn in your side is alive
and it's killing me.
obscure records entombed in his room with mechanical lust.
diapered, desolate, middle-aged doom.
on your knees in his downtrodden, shit eating, grin of a room
if only you'd meet me here soon.
She screamed into the darkness as she awoke with a start. It took a few moments to realize she was alone...and while she was never truly safe, at least she was in less danger than she felt she has been a moment ago. As she sat up, she tried to tell herself not to cry. Tears flooded her eyes, but she bit her knuckle to prevent sobs from accompanying them. She wiped her sweaty forehead with the edge of her blanket and just kept repeating in her head that she was safe, that it wasn't real.
But it was real wasn't it? Everything she'd just dreamt was the sick sad truth of everything that had passed. It might not bother her as much if she didn't dream it almost every night: a nightmare that had wormed its way into her dreams, leaching from her real life. Her breathing had returned to normal, so she got up and started walking around, stretching her sleepy muscles as she did so. The sky was still dark and a look to her alarm clock told her 3:58. This had to stop. Fearful adrenaline kept her feeling awake now, but she knew she'd be close to passing out by noon. She turned again towards the window, her focus on the dream catcher hanging from the curtain rod. She felt so silly for buying it; she'd found it in a store a few weeks ago and bought it, figuring she'd hang it and see if it helped with her nightmares. But it didn't. Probably because she didn't believe in it.
But then again, what did she have to believe in anymore? The stupid dream catcher: string beads and feathers could not cure her fears. Police couldn't find her. God couldn't save her and pry his knife away from her neck on that night which gives her still so many nightmares. Her dreams would not let her forget even a single venomous detail. She still felt his blade tracing circles on her hips and arms, teasing her, and making her wait for the cuts that still scarred her body. She still felt his body on hers; he had the coldest heat she would ever feel. She still felt her own tears rolling down her face as she wondered why no one was looking for her, why God wasn't listening to her. She still remembered her own blood dripping down her body. But worst of all, she still remembered his face. She could dismiss her nightmares as nothing more than nightmares if it were not for his face: the face of a man whom she had trusted with everything, even her life.
The man who she had trusted with her life...had ruined it completely, destroyed her very being. She'd loved him, and always thought he was so handsome. But she hated him now, and now thought his face was ugly, because she knew what sickness that pretty face concealed. Her parents taught her not to talk to strangers when she was little, but they never taught her that sometimes the closest friends can be the most sinister strangers. She thought about going back to bed, but dismissed the thought immediately; knowing her sleep would not be peaceful. It would never be peaceful. He would never leave her alone. She walked into her kitchen and poured water into the coffee machine, the red light turning on in time with her finger flicking the switch. The red light reminded her of her prison's illumination. A dark orange light casting a doom onto the stone walls of his basement. The floor littered with nothing but her, and stains from her own blood. She cringed at the memory of the pain he caused her on a hunt for his own pleasure. The fact that even now she couldn't keep a boyfriend, and could barely keep her friends. She had no idea where her life could possibly go from here, she felt so trapped by her own terror of a man who was no longer a threat. She remembered the last morning she spent in captivity: the morning she woke up and decided that it was all over. He walked in, always armed with that sick smile on his face, and she pounced. She remembered the satisfaction of puncturing his skin with his own filthy knife. Tearing muscle and puncturing veins, the thought made her sick, but the deed set her free. Her first breath of fresh air was accompanied by water as it dripped from the sky onto her bloody face. And she ran. She ran to the people who didn't look for her, to the police who couldn't find her, and away from the God who couldn't save her. They kept her in the hospital for a week, probably only because she refused to say a word. Wouldn't tell them where she had been, who had done this to her, or how she'd gotten out. She'd killed a man, and she would take that with her to the grave. Her grip on the edge of the counter had gotten painfully tight. She turned around and leaned against the counter, squinting her eyes shut to try to block out what she knew. With a squeal of anguish she let out a backwards kick to the counter, which she regretted immedietly as her ankle compacted against her shinbone. She hissed a few obscenities before walking back to her room, putting very little weight on her right foot. She began to slowly get dressed in the semidarkness, the smell of fresh coffee beginning to permeate her brain cells. She wouldn't be going back to sleep, she might never go back to sleep. She was alone in her room, and alone in the world. And while the thoughts of her past never let her be truly safe, at least she felt no danger when she was awake.
paraded you around like a second place prize,
hair done up black holes painted on your eyes.
held a book burning in your back yard,
while your parents looked on from their window, slightly scarred.
and I watched with my shovel in hand,
I have faith in you child. from his nightmares I plucked a plan:
where this pr*ck is revealed to the world as a wicked man.
this is a prayer from your biggest fan.
for the little victim inside everyone