Fear

9

The warmth of my family's kitchen evaporated like mist, replaced by a stark new reality that slammed back into me like a punch.

I was still here. I had been the whole time. Just dreaming, I think. Or thinking. I don't know if I was conscious or not, but it had felt so real. Like I was back there again in that moment, the Saturday before everything changed, before I was kidnapped.

My eyes were wet before I realised. The tears were drying down either side of my face.

I was strapped down again—wrists and ankles secured to the cold metal table, my mouth taped shut. My heart sank as I blinked through the lingering haze of the dream. The cloying scent of antiseptic filled my nose, and the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above.

Before I could fully process the dream, my eyes landed on Dylan.

As soon as we made eye contact, he grinned, slow and creepy. He'd been standing there for at least five minutes, watching me wake up again like a predator observing his prey.

He strolled towards me with the same casual arrogance that made my stomach turn every time we met.

Then he laughed. A dry, unhinged laugh that scraped along my spine.

"Well then?" he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. "Did he ruin you?"

My entire body stiffened. Despite the tears, anger and fear sparked under my skin, but all I could do was glare at him weakly.

He paused beside me, his grin fading slightly. I saw his expression change. "You know..." he muttered, almost thoughtfully, gaze dropping to his fingers ghosting the edge of the table. "I used to be afraid of blood too."

My eyes narrowed as I tried to process it. A confession.

His voice softened, just slightly, and with an almost bittersweet tone. "Until Tyler helped me."

The words hung in the air. It was a revelation I should've seen coming, to be honest. But I didn't realise it until he said it. He was an ex-patient.

Dylan's eyes wandered over my face, as if examining it, and let the silence stretch. But then he turned to the counter.

It was then that I realised something. The knife I had seen on the counter, when Faisal warned me to escape, the one I had tried to reach — was still there.

When he faced me again, that same knife flashed in his hand.

I had the same reaction as I always did. My body seized up, my eyes widened, and I struggled to breathe as I gasped and sobbed through my nose.

He chuckled, running the flat edge of the blade along his fingertips, admiring the glint of it like it was a toy.

And then — I watched in absolute horror and disbelief... as he drew the blade across his own palm.

The skin split open without hesitation. He flinched — barely.

And then, horrifyingly, he moaned.

A sick, guttural sound of pleasure.

My stomach lurched.

"I think I enjoy it a bit too much now," he said breathlessly, eyes locked on the blood pooling in his palm.

Slowly, deliberately, he brought it to his mouth and licked it. He savoured it. The taste of his own blood.

A shiver of revulsion passed through me as his eyes fluttered shut, his tongue tracing the wound like it was a delicacy.

"Fuck," he whispered. "So... delicious."

I gagged, unable to tear my eyes away. Dylan grinned when he noticed, the blood staining his teeth like something out of a literal horror movie.