|| Inevitable ||

VIII

"Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination."

~ Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

For once in my entire lifetime, I sleep peacefully.

My worries fall away in the abyssal world of my dreamscape. No horrors can touch me in this sacred place where I might fly and produce flames from my bare hands. A fantasy land where my family lives in tranquility, and where I am free to love and be loved by whomever I should choose.

However you can only stay in this land for so long, before it begins to crumble and you must open your eyes to the real world.

I am in control when it comes to my fantasies, but reality always has an interesting way of reminding me who in fact is in charge.

My heavy head rocks from side to side as I attempt to crane my neck forward. A dull ache rests at the back of my throbbing neck, enough to allow a small headache to brew at either side of my temple. Attempting to massage these sore points I meet the resistance of thick, metal chains wrapped around each of my stiff wrists.

What mess have I landed myself in now?

Light burns into my closed eyelids, until I can't resist it's scorching pull anymore and my eyes fly open.

Luxury. That's what the room screams as I assess its interior. A long dining table, with only two places set. The table is simply incredible; angelic figures are carved into the glossy sides of the dark brown wood, and atop the surface of the table displays a lazy pattern of hypnotic, wooden rings. The curls and edges make it feel feminine in its design, but its dominating presence in the spacious room is distinctively masculine.

In accordance with all the other rooms of this unfortunately marvellous house, the sombre walls are dark in their colour palette. This one in particular is of a bewitching midnight blue colour, my favourite colour coincidentally. A golden chandelier suspends itself from the ceiling, bathing the room in a warm, but eerie glow.

The tiny hairs on the nape of my neck stand as my eyes trail up the lines of the table and once again meet my infamous captor.

He lounges back leisurely in his chair at the head of the table; a throne for the king. His body is leant to one side, with one leg slung casually over the side of the expertly-carved chair.

I feel a familiar chill at the sight of his mask; of him.

My hands are bound to the chair I am placed in, but that doesn't stop me from attempting to wrench them free. My upper lip lifts in a snarl. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He doesn't reply.

I should be terrified after the incident in my room, but my emotions do a complete one-eighty in this foreign environment. "Answer me, you twisted fuck. What was that back there?" A shudder travels down my spine upon remembering the dismembered bodies scattered about my room. Trisha's disfigured head. "Why did you destroy the face of that girl?"

He chuckles quietly to himself. "It was just a bit of fun," he speaks from behind his usual disguise. He pauses. "Actually that's not wholly true," he corrects himself in a low voice, and leans forward in his seat. Though several metres away, the action makes me feel like we are a hair's breadth apart. "I am a sick and twisted fuck, there's no doubt regarding that." His hands grip at the two sides of the table; he stands from his chair. "But I don't do this solely for fun, I do this for something more than fun. This thrills me to the core. It's a drug I'm addicted to. A drink I'm constantly intoxicated on."