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ʙᴀᴅ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ

You'd decided on making a Sandwich, and so here you were, leaned against the kitchen counter, and buttering the bread with a knife. Back and forth and back and forth-

Just then you felt the knife press into your skin, hard enough to cause real pain and a nasty cut.
He was getting impatient-

You snapped out. You'd stopped buttering the bread. You took a deep breath, slowly and steadily, composing yourself and pushing away the memory before starting to move the knife again slowly over the bread.

He dragged still, a longer line heading down towards the base of your neck-

You gasped, and stopped once more, seeing the memory clear in your head, the room, the feeling of the knife against your skin. The feeling of wanting to scream but biting down hard on your lip to stop yourself from giving him the satisfaction-

WEAK

A voice, all of a sudden.

The doctors voice, as clear as day sounded in the room, making you jump.

You gasped again, turning round quickly on your crutches holding the knife and looking all around the room, scanning every corner of it, pure fear on your face.
But there was no one.

No doctor.

You held the knife out still at the empty room, waiting for someone to jump out of a shadow, of a dark corner, someone to come at you, to hurt you.

WEAK!

The voice sounded again, shouting. Shouting loud. It was coming from everywhere in the room, every corner of your brain.

Every inch of your body shook with the sound.

WEAK!!!

It shouted again, deafeningly loud, the Russian accent making your guts curdle.

WEAK!!

WEAK!!

Sick rose in the back of your throat and this time you couldn't stop it.

You dropped to your knees on the floor, crutches falling with a loud clatter, the knife still in your hand, screaming out in pain as your leg was bent, tears falling down your face. You were sick on the floor in front of you, your throat raw like it was that day in the water tank, when you couldn't breathe.

Your breathing had gotten quicker now, you were still screaming out, hearing the voice louder every time.

WEAK!

WEAK!

WEAK!

You were sobbing now, on the floor surrounded in sick, the voice in your head excruciatingly loud. You clutched at the sides of your head, the knife in one hand, your fingers closing tighter around it. You could feel it press into your hand, and you could feel blood, welling up and trickling down your arm.

"Y/N!" Someone, someone new, shouted.

Then the doctors voice stopped.

You let go of your head abruptly, your hands still hovering in the air either side of it, the knife clattering to the floor loudly.
You were still crying on your knees, remembering the doctor, the torture, your leg still burning in pain.

"Y/N!" The new voice, again, sounded from somewhere in the room.

Then you heard loud and quick footsteps, like running. Someone was coming close to you, you just saw a pair of feet, in black boots.