Author's Note:
I would like to thank
DeducibleBabeMester
for offering her editing expertise on the series, working with her has truly been a pleasure.
The following Chapter, and this Series overall, exists in a dark vein of a Post-Apocalyptic world overshadowed by fragmented morality, violence, survival and psychologically compelling scenes that may be unsuitable for sensitive audiences. I ask that you please read no further if you are triggered by these topics as described or simply find them unappealing. All scenes depicted are entirely fictional and penned for mature audiences, for the purpose of dark entertainment with erotic horror in mind.
Reader discretion is advised.
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Charlie spent the entire ill-fated night in the shower, scrubbing herself until her skin was red and tender. Her body was sore and bruised, but worse than that, he left a raw, carnal throbbing between her legs in her most intimate places. It was a sinister sort of erotic twinge, a pleasurable pain that forced her to think of him taking her so intensely with every step she took.
She cried, and broke things, and paced the suite, letting her mind wander to violently dark places. Over and over she couldn't help but envision herself shoving the heavy pistol into his smirking mouth and pulling the trigger... the way he promised to kill Dog. There was no ridding herself of the disgust and feeling of utter defilement. There wasn't such a thing as peace for Charlie... Not anymore...
When she wasn't fantasizing about killing him, her thoughts tormented her over her lack of reaction. She could have fought harder, instead of giving into her terror... instead of
begging him
to stop. He seemed to particularly enjoy that, her desperate pleas and her panic, perhaps only a little less than forcing wanton moans and breathless pants from her lips while he raped her. She had no one to help her as she spiraled down into that dark, dark place...
It felt like it had been weeks ago, now, and yet when she drifted off into sleep she found herself dragged back to that sinister point in time, and woke with renewed hatred, and replenished fear. She paid little mind to the bleeding wound that Skully had torn open as she struggled and fought him.
She hardly felt the pain, as her thoughts were consumed with tumultuous malice. She didn't care as the throbbing ache intensified and angry streaks of red spider-webbed out from the irritated wound.
After the first few days of hastily snatching the plates and clean gauze Diablo left for her and darting back inside, she finally fell prey to her paranoia and fear and pushed the furniture against the door to barricade herself within. She rationed the bag of produce she'd taken from the greenhouse, but as the days dragged on, her appetite faded into nothing. By the end of the week, she felt weaker than she ever had.
Her skin felt like it was on fire, not only the cauterized knife wound but every inch of her body. The next few days, she couldn't deny that she had fallen ill. She laid in her bed, listening to the buoys ringing out past the surf line in the ocean, and prayed quietly to herself that if she didn't wake up the next day, whatever waited for her after would be a sweet, welcomed relief from the cruelty of this dying world.
Oh... it would have been glorious to kill that demonic man, but some part of her found contentment in the thought that by expiring, she deprived him of whatever unspeakably evil things he had yet to do to her.
She stared at the clouds as they pillowed on the horizon in shades of magenta and gold. Dawn was just over the line where the sky met the sea, the scent of the ocean was sweet, the air frigid as it swept through the opened balcony doors.
A slow, ragged breath drew in, invoking a violent fit of coughing as the petite woman lay there, her usually warm brown eyes void... empty. She closed her eyes and drew another strained breath through her plush lips, and made a weak attempt to rise from the bed and shut the balcony doors. She didn't feel it but noticed by watching gentle streams of her breath in pillowy crystalline clouds hanging in the air. It was far too cold in her room.
How long had she laid here?
It felt like months.
There had been knocks on her door that went unanswered. Oz... then Slash, and then Diablo. Several times, the medic had come. She couldn't remember the last time now.
He
hadn't come back, but the fear that he would, drove her to total isolation. She didn't quite know it, but she had been in this room for nearly a week and a half.
Her brow furrowed together as each breath seemed to bring new suffering. She was bare beneath the blankets, having discarded the tattered bits of clothing Skully had torn from her body over the railing long ago.
She tucked herself at first into one of Matt's old band shirts but as time went on the fabric felt like sandpaper against her skin, and she removed the shirt and curled into a ball beneath the sheets with her arms wrapped around herself as a means of comfort.
It felt so hot in the room now.
She pushed the blankets away with weak irritation as sweat glistened upon her forehead, her hair a haphazard mess and her youthful face frightfully pale. She just wanted to sleep now, unaware or uncaring that the wound at her shoulder wasn't faring well at all anymore...
A week and a half... how was she not dead yet?
When her eyes reopened to the balcony, she supposed she should have been shocked to see someone standing there in the doorway. Her eyes narrowed venomously.
She reached out for the lamp on the nightstand, wanting to throw it at the figure standing there on the balcony, but only succeeded in knocking it to the floor as another violent fit of coughing consumed her... and slowly... he stepped into the room.
He was worse for the wear, that much was visible. Beneath the shadow of the hood, he was weak and tired. His lip was healing, slowly, the black and blue bruises at the right side of his face and jawline yellowing and fading.
The lanky youth was thinner after being locked in the isolation room, if that was even possible. Hungry, but very much alive. The second Dog stepped into the room, he knew something was very wrong...
His eyes swept the space. There was blood dried upon the floor and the sheets. The furniture was overturned, and from her place there on the bed, she glared at him as if she wanted to rip his soul out through her hazy, reddened gaze. She struggled to sit. Dog hastily crossed the room, pressing his thin fingers against her head despite her weak attempts to push him away.
