The Call Of The Void Ch 01

Chapter One

The soapy water circles my kitchen drain as I stare down at it, my eyes fixed on its circular motion while my brain goes completely blank. A moment of pure zoned out bliss passes before something snaps me out of it. Something... peculiar. I can't quite put my finger on it. A sensation spreads across the back of my neck like pin pricks and fire, my body in sudden awareness of the fact that I am being watched. My mind struggles to catch up to what my bones already know to be true. I dart my eyes around the empty room, half expecting to make eye contact with some beast in the shadows that the furniture casts. I am tempted to breathe a sigh of relief when that isn't the case, but I don't because the feeling doesn't abate.

I stand in front of my half open blinds that face the field next door. The soft glow of my kitchen light emanates only slightly past the perimeter of the house. I squint as I try to make sense of the darkness beyond it. I don't know why, but I'm holding as still as my breath, heart racing. What feels like an eternity passes before I start feeling like maybe I'm being paranoid. Still the sensation of eyes on me doesn't go away until I shut the blinds. A part of me is certain that I saw a blur of motion out of the corner of my eye as I did. A sane person could probably convince themselves that it was the movement of wind in the trees along the fields edge that caught my attention. My bones seem to know better.

I groan, knowing I'm only feeling this way because I'm home alone tonight. I stretch and when I do, I can feel the silky fabric of my pyjama set slide across my hardened nipples. I shiver a bit, almost instinctively, as I shut off the kitchen lights and climb the ten steps to my bedroom. One of the perks of sleeping alone was being able to sleep with the window wide open, the way that my bedmate hates. I strip from my clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor before crawling into bed. The potential mystery voyeur a long-forgotten memory by the time sleep claims me.

I am awakened suddenly by something cold and sharp pressing into my throat. When my eyes snap open and meet yours, I scream as loud as I can for all of one second before a gloved hand slaps over my mouth with so much force it rattles my teeth. Your eyes taunt me as they shine through the balaclava you have covering your face.

"Shut the fuck up bitch." You spit at me so sharply it threatens to cut me deeper than any knife.

I recognize your voice. My breath hitches in my chest as the recognition works its way through my body.

"Good girls suffer." You hiss while straddling my naked body.

Suddenly I am aware of my blanket that has been pulled off my bed and of all my exposed flesh.

"Scream and I cut you." You say it so matter of fact that I would be a fool to not believe you.

I can only manage a slight nod between the pressure of your hand and your blade, but this seems to placate you. You take your hand away from my face but push the knife in harder. You push the blade into my skin until it is on the cusp of cutting into my flesh, daring me to struggle against its steel. When I don't, you take matters into your own hands. You explore my body with the roughness of someone who hates me. Digging your fingertips into my soft bits until they redden, almost as if to beg for your mercy. Mercy that my bones know won't come.

I whimper when you take my nipple between your teeth, and you punish me for it. The slap of your leather clad hand across my face is my reward for my transgression. Your hand slides into my tangled hair and fists it until my neck is uncomfortably flexed. You take the opportunity to drag the now warm blade across my tensed throat. There is a certain and ever so slight sharp ripping sensation that accompanies it, I don't need to see it to know that the stroke drew tiny droplets of blood in a pretty little line. I almost scream until I think better of it. Fear builds with every inch that you explore.

You bring the hand that was pulling my hair around to the front of my throat and squeeze, hard. I can feel the small line of blood that I wear like a necklace smearing onto your glove. The knife descends lower and lower on my body as the pressure builds on my neck until I am gasping for air. You bring me to the brink of passing out before you allow me to breathe, greedily sucking backing oxygen in loud rasps. When the blade reaches my thigh you waste no time. You hold the tip to my skin, loosening your grip on my throat.

"Eyes on me Princess." You command before I realize that your loosened grip is no kindness.

In this moment I know it's the best chance I will get to run, to scream, to grab my phone and lock myself in my bathroom, but I don't do any of those things. Instead, I just watch you like you demand of me. You apply pressure onto the tip of the knife until the tension indents my skin. It builds so slow that I want to scream, the anticipation of suffering always worse than the actual act. Or so I thought, until you swiftly break the seal of my skin and carve your initials into it. You slide the blade horizontally against my flesh to finish a sloppily carved T. I can't help but cry out in pain as you butcher my thigh, I thrash against you, but it only makes the bleeding worse.

"The better you are, the prettier your branding will be." You say without stopping or even flinching.

For some reason this calms me slightly and you finish the J relatively cleanly.

"Good girl." You coo at me.

I can tell by the crinkle at the corners of your eyes that you're smirking under your mask. The sight fascinates me for a moment before your hand slapping me in the face brings me back to my harsh reality. You took your glove off while I was distracted, the skin-on-skin contact stings worse than its worn fabric. You take my face between your hand, propping up my head from under my chin and squeezing my cheeks until they hurt. You never break eye contact, and something tells me that if I do, I'll be punished. I'm afraid to even blink as you stare into me. I can see in the periphery of my vision that your free hand has dropped the knife beside me in bed. I think I see you rummaging in your pocket, but I do not dare to pull my gaze away from yours.

In one swift movement you force something into my mouth and slap your gloved hand tightly over my lips. The hand you used to squeeze my cheeks shoots to the back of my head. I try to pry you away as I tongue the bitter pills you practically shoved down my throat. You eye me with amusement, your grip ironclad despite my clawing. I can feel your skin collecting under my fingernails, but it doesn't even phase you.

"Sweetheart, I can do this all day. Swallow." The tone of your voice conveying an arrogant authority.

I do as I'm told, partly because I can't stand the taste of the chemicals dissolving in my mouth anymore and partly because I can hardly breathe through just my nose ever since my septum deviated. When you finally remove your hand from my mouth, I am in a full-blown panic for air. You stick your fingers in my mouth and rummage around, presumably to make sure that I'm not hiding any stray pills.

"Good girl." You sing again, when your search comes up empty.

"We have thirty minutes before that kicks in." You say before lightly slapping my cheek twice.

I have no idea what I've just taken, the beginnings of a panic attack crush my chest as I struggle to breathe. This does not soften you, if anything, it makes you more aggressive. I notice for the first time the unfamiliar backpack that sits in the corner of my room. You walk over to it and remove a handful of black zip ties from it before sauntering back over to me. I could run, but your body is between me and the door, and I fawn instead. I could scream, if only I could bring myself to. Instead, I scramble up the mattress as you draw near. You grab my ankles and pull me back towards you, clearly unamused. As punishment, you force me to watch as you wrap a zip tie around my wrists, tightening the hard plastic so much that you give it teeth, only satisfied when it is biting into my flesh.

I feel the whine leave my lips before I hear it, immediately understanding that I've made a mistake. You practically growl when you hear it, pulling me to my feet harshly by my bound wrists. You take the opportunity to spin me around, using one hand you forcefully bend me at the waist until my face is pushed into the mattress. You grip my naked hips so hard I'm sure they will bruise under your hands. With one hand on the back of my head, pushing my face into the mattress, you explore the pulsing between my thighs with the other. I am ashamed when your fingers brush me and I can feel how silky wet I am. You are thrilled.

"Such a good little wet slut." You lean down as close to my ear as you can when you say it.

The sensation of your hot breath snakes its way down my neck as you practically whisper. I feel a flash of embarrassment and shame streak across my face and settle in my cheeks, giving them a pinkish hue. You straighten and suddenly I can feel your fingers driving into me, instruments of torture not pleasure. This goes on for what feels like forever, long enough for me to disassociate from my body and the pain you are causing me.

When you finally allow me to stand upright, I can hardly stop myself from swaying, whatever you gave me finally kicking in to full swing. My lips feel like molasses, and I seem to trip over my own toes as you nudge me towards the bedroom door. You walk behind me, never touching me and yet I still know there is no escape. You stop to scoop up your backpack and swing it over your shoulder before directing me the rest of the way through my house to the front door.

"Stop." You direct sternly right as we walk up to the door.

A moment of silence, followed by the sounds of rummaging, and then finally, the cool barrel of a 9mm pistol pressed between my shoulder blades.

"If you try anything, I'll pull the trigger." You threaten me with sharpened syllables.

Before I even have time to respond you are opening the door and pushing me out into the cool night. The wind caresses large swaths of my skin before I remember that I am as naked as the day I was born. I almost hesitate, afraid that one of my neighbors in this suburban hellscape would see far more of my flesh than I would like. The thought only lasts a split second before I'm praying for someone to look out their bedroom window into the street. You guide me to a street parked gold truck right as whatever sedative you gave me starts weighing me down. You open the door and practically push me in, forcing me to lie on the little bucket bench behind the front seats. As my head hits upholstery, my eyes suddenly start feeling heavy, so fucking heavy.

"Stay here." You request of me knowing full well that I cannot get up.

I manage to prop my head and watch you saunter so casually it should be a crime to the front of my house. There's a ladder propped up against the garage that you used to climb into my window. You gracefully unlock the rungs and lower it. The last thing I remember is the thud of the ladder being thrown into the bed of the truck, the drivers door opening and slamming shut, and you, adjusting the review mirror so that my eyes reflect into yours. You don't look away as you take off your balaclava.

"I knew you would come for me." I say, motivated half by fear and half by arousal.

My voice is raspy, and I realize they are the first words I've spoken all night. If you give me some kind of response, I don't get to hear it before the blackness that lingers on the periphery of my vision takes over and I am plunged into a never-ending night.