Not His Doll

Chapter 5

| With Pain Comes Strength |

Brahms continued the preparations, ignoring her pleads and questions. She thrashed under his weight like a caged animal.

Slamming his fists beside her head he shouted,
"What the fuck did I say?" His thick, British accent becoming more distinguishable.

His deranged eyes bore into her frightened, tired ones. She looked almost as crazed as him. Her eyes were swollen from crying, blood stained her face, and her hair was matted. Brahms swiped his finger down her lips. The rust-colored blood tinted a mesmerizing red.

Shudders escaped her lips in response.

She drove him mad. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to fuck her or slit her throat ear to ear. Maybe both. His intruding thoughts begged for him to touch her more, to defile her, and to make her scream for him. Begging him for mercy he wouldn't grant her.

Unfortunately, he couldn't touch her. Not tonight anyway, for she wouldn't last nearly as long as Brahms intended her to. No, she needed time. She needed to be healed, just so he could break her all over again.

Brahms secured his hold on her thigh, pressing the needle ever so slightly into her thigh. He looked to her as a final courtesy, eyes showing the faintest hint of empathy.
The needle peirced her skin, breaking the first layer and then the next. She cringed, body pressing into the table beneath her. The pain struck her nerve endings like lighting as he tugged the string through her skin.

"Mhm, you're doing well." Brahms hummed, knotting the suture.

He dabbed the excess blood giving Y/n a moment to catch her breath.
Her hair stuck messily to her face. She shivered, chest heaving from shock. After just a moment of peace she was returned to a state of agony as he pierced through her skin, beginning a second suture.

"What's the matter, dear? You were so chatty before."

She released a bellowing cry. Her punctures lingered with the heat of hellfire as he weaved through her skin, never sparing a moment. Brahms was confident in his stitching abilities, due to past events that won't be mentioned; he was quite skilled. Unfortunately her puncture wound was jagged, requiring complicated stitch patterns and a lot of thread.
Never before had she felt such agony. As hours went on her adrenaline assisted in subsiding some of the pain.

She distracted herself by examining the strange room he had her in. The ceiling was short with pipes that hung from it. It wasn't like a room she'd been in or seen before, especially if it was one within the house. It appeared far too unfinished to be suitable for living.

The... walls?

Her thoughts were interrupted by hard metal bashing her front teeth, being forced against her lips. It waterboarded her nostrils as he forced the liquid down her throat. She choked on most of it; her nose burning like fire, but fortunately she retained enough to swallow.
Removing the flask from her lips she coughed, expelling some water from her mouth.

"Good." He spoke, caressing her chin with his thumb.

Her thighs stuck together from the blood which pooled between her legs.

When did he finish?

The stitch work was impressive for being as rough as it was. She counted the sutures that held her skin together. The thought that she endured twenty-three stitches without anesthetics was almost unbelievable. It was curious how a secluded man posessed such skills. She didn't know whether she should thank or despise him.

Pouring the remaining water over his crimson colored hands; he scrubbed the blood from the underneath of his nails.
He unraveled some old bandages wrapping it around her thigh. Tearing a roll of duct tape he secured the bandage snug against her skin.
Tossing the roll of tape into his kit he stretched, releasing a sigh. No doubt he was as tired as she was. Murdering two men and performing a suture in the same night was quite taxing.

Exhausted from the procedure she layed sprawled across the table, not wanting to move.
Her restraints unclasped one by one as he released her wrists and ankles.
Once she was set free she coddled her thigh, laying in fetal position; Her knees pressed against her forehead.

"Where'd all your energy go, hm?" His muffled voice teased.

Brahms gently carressed her head, patting it similar to a dog. His fingers intertwined with her damp locks, yanking her backwards.
She hissed in pain, clutching the hair which tore from her scalp.

"You're filthy." He stated, shoving her forward.

"It's time for a bath."

~