Bloody Shackles

Chapter 8: Sweet Dreams

This chapter is inspired by the song Sweet Dreams by Emily Browning. Please vote and comment! :)

WARNING: This chapter contains attempted rape so if you don't think you will be able to handle that, simply skip this chapter. Remember, this is rated PG-13 for a reason. Thank you.

Marcus’s POV

            I pulled away, allowing her to breath.

            “So you still won’t tell me?” I whispered lowly in her ear.

            “N-Never,” she stammered.

            I cruel smile found its way onto my lips as I moved my mouth up and down the side of her neck.

            “Then I’ll have to force you.”

            I bit down. Teeth breaking flesh. Crimson liquid flowed. Her back arched. Wiggling, squirming, trying. Trying to escape. She inhaled sharply. Silently screaming, crying. Wanting, wishing, hoping. Hoping for freedom. Freedom never comes.

            I didn’t drink. Not about blood. Not about thirst. It’s about pain. It’s about agony. It’s about wanting. Wanting to make. Make her bleed. Make her scream. Make her suffer. Make her…

            Break. I want to break her.

I smiled at the thought.

            “Will you tell me?”

            “N-No.”

            I pulled away. Licked her wound. She gasped loudly. On my tongue. On my lips. Ruby red stains. It drips, falls. On her own. Now her lips. Are ruby red. Her eyes fill. Fill with fear. Fill with terror. I won’t stop. I grab her. Grip her neck. Too rough, hard. Fingers that bruise. Nails that cut. I want her. Her to see. See my anger. See my rage. See my fury. See it now. See your future. You can’t escape. There’s no freedom. Freedom is lost. Escape is forgotten. I own you. You are mine. Remember, little girl.

            You are nothing.

            “Tell me,” I demanded.

            “I c-can’t.”

            “You can, and you will,” I growled.

            “I-I promised.”

            “Promises are meant to be broken.”

            Without waiting for her response I trailed my hands along her sides. Feeling, touching, searching. Buttons, zippers, ties. Take it off. You want to. Play a game? Then I’ll play. But never forget. That I am. Marcus Ishkov and. Marcus Ishkov always. Wins.

            I will win.

            “This little game of yours is no fun if you don’t play along.”

            “W-What game?”

            “The game you’ve been playing all along, you thoughtless imp,” I grumbled. Her body stiffened as I found the knot to untie her dress. One little pull. All it takes. Is one pull. I smiled wickedly. And I pulled.

            “You think if you take your time, I’ll forget about you. You think if you make friends, then they’ll beat me down trying to protect you. You think if you’re quiet, I won’t notice that you’re still walking behind me. You think that if you fight, then I’ll back off. You think that if you don’t reply that I’ll stop taunting you. You think that if you don’t move that you won’t be able to feel me. You think that this will all be over soon?”

            “Well guess what?” I questioned.

            She stared blankly at me, not give any indication of a response.

            “You need to wake up!” I barked, slapping her hard on her cheek. It flashed red. She flinched back and squeezed her eyes shut tight.

            Leaning close to her, and placing my forehead against hers, I exhaled slowly. She opened her eyes. Confusion and fear swirled in them.

            “This isn’t a dream, Little One, this is a nightmare.”

            I stripped her of the dress, throwing aside. She shivered. I took in her body. Small chest. That didn’t matter. Tiny waist. That didn’t matter. What matters, what is important, is her skin. Smooth and colored like ivory. Let’s make it colored like blood.

            Fingers slide up. Fingers slide down. Tracing the lines. Giving her chills. Slipping my hands. Behind her back. Unhook her bra. Goosebumps on skin. She lifts her. Hand to my. Chest and she. Pushes me away. Slowly and deliberately. In her eyes. Tears glisten there. She whimpers softly.

            “S-Stop…please.”

            Something stirs within. My heart hurts. Is this guilt? Is this regret? No, it isn’t. This is anger. Anger at her. Anger at myself. I turn away. Grit my teeth.

            “Get out,” I whisper.

            I wait for her reply to fill the silence. She does not reply.

            “Get out! Get out of here, now!” I shout. Lashing out at her I aim to slap her again, but she scrambles out of the way, falling off the bed. She stumbles out of the room, closing the door behind her.

            As I glance over at her dress, which lies in a discarded hemp on the floor, the guilt and regret find their way into my heart. They embed themselves there, tunneling into my heart and soul like worms. It hurts.

            “What have I done?”