'Bitch! Whore! Slut! Cunt!' He screamed, a kick or a punch accompanying every word. I felt like I was being conditioned; Of course I was a bitch, or why would he be hurting me? I kept still, not wanting it to be over, knowing I deserved every last beating. I wasn't good enough for my dad, why should I be good enough for the most popular boy in school? So I did what I always did. Endured. Everyday I endure this routine beating. Every week. Every month. Every year. For the past nine years I have endured, and for the past nine years I have hated myself for not feeling more scared, or pained. I deserve the fear. I need the pain. The person that stands over me has been in my dreams for years, now, as both my punishment and my saviour. My nightmare. My Knight. Mondrago James Michaelis. The popular. The douche. The boy that everyone but me fawns over and dreams about. Well, I guess I dream about him. He lives in my nightmares. I hate him with every fibre in my body, yet I need him. He is my constant, the one thing that, however bad things get, however bad he makes them, will always be there. There is an attraction between us, not a love, but a physical pull. We need each other.
I snap out of my thoughts, wincing as the last of the punches hits my nose, bruising and bloodying it. I don't cry though. It's a challenge, for me, as much as a punishment. I haven't cried in six years. And I'm not about to start now.
'I'll see you tomorrow.' He smirks and walks away. He didn't hit me for as long today. He must think I'm weak. On the outside I may be fragile, an ugly glass sculpture. But inside, I am stone, and I will not be weathered by the storm that is Mondrago Michaelis. He will not hurt me. My bones may hurt, my body, But he will not intrude my mind. I do hurt, though, every fibre in my body, even after years of the same thing. There is a long gash against my arm, where his nails have struck me. I groan, even as I stand up, every muscle in my body aching. Sometimes I wish I could just die. I've been so close to killing myself so many times. But that would be too easy. I need to survive, to win. To show the world that I will not be brought down by any adversary, regardless of strength or repetition. I have some spirit left in me. And I will not give up.
'Bitch! Whore! Slut! Cunt!' I'm screaming the words, the hatred raw in my voice, while my fists and feet keep colliding with her face and stomach. How could she know the hatred isn't aimed at her? Every day I do this, and every day I scream. I scream at her. And I scream inside. I'm popular. It's in the job description. I have to do this. Don't I? Each time I punch her, I wish I could stop. I wish I could take it all back. I wish I wasn't screaming at her, and instead talking to her, lightly teasing her. I wish I didn't have to call her names but rather tell her what I want her to know. 'Beautiful. Wonderful. Cute. Spectacular.' The words run through my head like water through a river, both part of my thoughts and all that I am thinking about. In my mind, I am not punching her. I am gazing at her, just looking. I don't need anything else. But no, I am hurting her. And I am tearing myself apart as I do so. She doesn't even fight back, just lies there letting me attack her, hurt her even. Why? Is she so assured of my hatred that she doesn't even try to convince me to stop? I must be a monster to her. Worse. But there is defiance in her eyes. Maybe she knows that letting me do this is destroying me inside. Maybe she hates me so much, she would ravage herself to rip me to shreds. I can't stop now. I have to keep rank. No. I can't. Enough! I spit on her and force a quick, fleeting grin.
'I'll see you tomorrow.' I smirk. I am the picture of calm, but inside I am in turmoil. I want to run, run far away from this girl, who I hurt with every word, with every punch. And yet, I get the impression that she will not be hurt. That it will take more than me to truly pain her. On the outide, she is the strongest metal, made of more than skin and bone and flesh. Made of the ability to stand tall and to take what life throws at her. I have seen men double her size lie down and cry from the type of beating she takes every day. On the outside she is stone. But maybe, if I just talk to her, on the inside she will be fragile. Will need someone like me to care for her. But no. As much as I want to, I will never "just talk to her" There will only be hatred, and the only time I'll tell her I'll see her tomorrow is when I'm referring to causing her more pain. And then, there will be more hatred. God. Why am i like this?
Sooooo? How do you like it?
Is it good? Anyways, the question is: Do you think we should continue this story?
Luv yew all our lovely Murderers
<3 ~Kai Nightclaw & Rodrigo.R.R.