Tribulation [h.s]

11

"I just need a taste
I don't need to erase
You're probably so afraid
It's not the final phase
I've got too much to process
You just cut your losses
I'm so fucking manic
Turned it to a profit."

-

The first thing I see are green eyes.

I don't know what to do or where to go, but I know I shouldn't be here, especially with how he's looking at me. For eyes so pretty, it's so strange to see murder, a thing so dark, so wicked, engraved into them. My heart rate jolts when he starts sauntering over to me with long legs.

He's drawing in quickly. There's only one thing that will give me enough time to get away—a distraction. So, I desperately wrap my fingers along the shelf, and with all of my strength, I knock it down. Glass shatters everywhere, and the next thing I know is that I'm walking through a puddle of red wine and other spilled liquors.

The shelf puts enough space in between us for me to get away but-

He looks amused.

Why does he look so thrilled?

I burst out from the door and ran. Looking over my shoulder, I see that he's right on my heels, but he's not running. He's taking his time now with slow steps and his hands in his pockets. This time when I see him, he smirks.

With a wide grin, he mouths the word "run" and reaches for something in the waistline of his slacks. I end up tripping when my feet start moving again. My heart starts beating so hard, so fast that it's starting to hurt. If I stop, I'm dead. If I stop-

He's going to get me.

I run up the stairs taking two steps at a time. Even though I've made it out of The Red Room, I know I'm still not safe.

I push on and run as fast as I can through the mass of sticky, sweaty people mindlessly dancing in the club. I don't want to die — not like this. Not by somebody who's so ready, so excited to inflict pain and draw blood.

Only a little further, and I'll be at the front doors. I could lose him on the streets. I know them better than the back of my hands. I know all of the nooks and grooves and the best hiding places.

The bouncers' step before the doors with their arms crossed when I'm only a few feet away. My steps slow to a stop.

I'm trapped.

All I can do is run in this situation. So, that's what I do. I run.

I should have kept my head down. I should have heeded all the warning signs I was given but, no. I went looking where I shouldn't have; I saw things, things I shouldn't have seen, and look where it fucking got me.

I barge into another backroom, one I've never been into before. I go to slam the door shut behind me, but that doesn't work. It swings open fiercely and slams on the wall so hard it nearly falls off the hinges when he kicks it open. I stumble back and scream. He lets out a loud, cold laugh that makes me shiver and plead for him, in jumbled sentences, not to hurt me.

I don't know if people heard me or if the music drowned out my screams. Regardless if someone heard me or not, he doesn't seem too worried about that.

When I see those green eyes again, I know there's no one coming to save me, and he knows it too.

My feet fall out from underneath me when he yanks my arm so fucking hard that he's able to drag me across the room. It hurts. It fucking hurts so much that my screams get jumbled and mixed up with my crying and begging. My struggling doesn't slow him down, not one bit.

He's going to kill me.

Suddenly, he yanks me up to my feet and slams me up against a wall. He's so rough, he knocks the air from my lungs, and it leaves me gasping.

He smirks again, and the curl of his lips is sinister. He seems quite delighted, quite excited by my fear. Looking away from him must have been another mistake. He doesn't like it, not one bit. He grunts and yanks roughly at my hair again. He forces me to see his eyes in the dim lighting.

"P-please," I'm shaking. "Please, d-don't hurt me."

Then, his grip on me eases.

Ringed, calloused fingers run slowly, tauntingly down one of my cheeks, and make their way down to the collum of my neck. I shudder as he renders me useless. Helplessness and utter terror completely consume me. It isn't enjoyable, but it's a familiar feeling.

He hums, looking down at me, his eyes scanning my face.

This is it. He caught me. He's going to kill me. I try not to think about all of the horrible ways he could bring me to my untimely demise but, with those eyes and that smirk, I'm sure he's far more creative than I ever could be.

Hopefully, it's quick, I think to myself. But, he revels in my fear, bathes in it, and for him, it seems euphoric as if he's just sniffed two lines with a content sigh.

I know that look in his eyes. My fear gives him that same addictive, mouthwatering high, doesn't it?

I almost laugh. There's no way this would be quick.

We end up so close that our noses bump together, and his breath fans over my face.

Whiskey, leather, and cigarettes.

There's a click, and something cold and heavy presses harshly to my temple. He tuts, mocking me with a slow shake of his head. "Well, well, well." He says with a low drawl. A few disarranged curls fall out of place and hang over his eyes that somehow seem so, so dark right now. I'm not breathing anymore. I stop moving altogether when the coldness unexpectedly lifts from my temple. That's when I see it in the corner of my eye. A gun. It's a fucking gun. Careful and calculated, he uses the cold barrow of the pistol to brush my hair back from my sweaty face. I whimper. "Look what we have here."

Candy told me that everyone referred to him as the Devil. I never knew why until now.

He's humming again. Humming should be a soothing sound with dulcet tones that carry on in a wordless melody. It should be something that helps you close your eyes, relax, and drift away. That isn't how it goes with him. His hum is slow and disconcerting. The irregular, dissonant chords leave my heart pounding against my rib cage.

I heard it before I started running, but I couldn't figure out what song it was — not until now, not until I was standing face to face with him with one of his hands wrapped tightly around my throat.

London Bridge Is Falling Down.

Coming from his lips, the nursery rhyme about Virgin Mary seems so unholy — so dark and so wicked. It does good as a promise — a warning for whatever hell he's about to unleash.

When his humming slows to an abrupt stop, he presses the gun under my chin. He forces me to stare into his green, hellish eyes. I suck in an uneven breath. My body shakes before him, and I can see gratification in how he smiles with sick satisfaction.

"Oh, you poor, poor thing," He tuts and forces a frown. "You don't even realize what you've gone ahead and done, do you?" He drags the cold metal of his pistol down the side of my face, tauntingly.

When I don't answer, he leans so close that his lips brush against the shell of my ear. "You made a deal with me, darling, don't you remember?" He pulls away, and his nose brushes mine. "And now, I've come to collect."