Run For Me

FIVE

               My name is Chloe Darby, and I just signed my death wish, but to be fair the blame shouldn't be held on me. I think it's a normal reaction when a huge dick is pounded into you, and you can't help but scream out in pleasure and pain. What was I supposed to do? Lay there like a good little pillow princess?

As much as I want to turn around and try to reason with him, I know its pointless. I saw the look in his beautiful eyes.

Beautiful. Eyes.

God, what the fuck is wrong with me?

My feet hurt. I keep praying that the Charlie horses that want to make themselves known in my calves hold off. That is the last thing I need.

He's coming. I can hear him. I can feel him, but I need to push through. My body begs me to just let fate take its course, but I want to live. I want to live?

My dad always told me the reason he did drugs was because of me. He would tell me over and over that I always kept him up at night and he was too afraid to fall asleep. That he didn't want anything happening to me, so he would take drugs to keep him awake. He blamed me for his addiction.

Then later when I was older and he didn't need to take drugs to help him stay awake, he told me it was my fault because he was already on them. His voice haunts me as I hear, "If you wouldn't have been born, I would be sober." A part of me has always wondered if that was the drugs talking, or if he actually meant that.

I fall to my knees – too exhausted to go any further. The haunting memories of my dad plagues my mind and the tears are like a faucet that has been left on. The salty water glides down my face and drips off my chin onto my partially exposed chest. My shoulders shake from the broken cry I've tried to keep in.

His footsteps behind me perk my ears, but I don't move. I no longer care. Why should I? I can hear his heavy breathing as he steps closer. His breathing alone tells me how pissed he is. I know because that's one of the ways I could tell from my dad.

He stops directly behind me – his legs touching my back as I just sit there. I'm as still as a statue just waiting for the knife to slit my throat or the axe to lodge into my skull. But the longer I wait, the more my anxiety grows. The human brain is absolutely terrifying. I want to die, but the feeling of not knowing puts me on edge.

A sharp sting to my scalp causes me to gasp as his hand wraps in my black hair and pulls my head back. My eyes staring into his soulless voids and my throat exposed at his mercy. His eyes go back and forth to mine and then divert just barely to look at my swollen lips. The action is miniscule, but knowing he wants to test the waters still makes the heat pool between my legs...again.

Why am I like this?

"You did this to yourself," he says to me as he pulls the knife back out. His eyes never leaving mine.

I don't say anything. Not that I don't have the words because I have a mouthful, but I'm literally too fucking tired.

He takes a deep breath as his eyes finally break contact and travel down the length of my exposed throat. I watch as his pupils dilate. I don't know if it's the fact that my blood will be pouring from it at any moment, or he wants to replace it with his hands as he drives his thick cock into me.

The hand holding my hair tightens and I wince at the sharp pain that radiates through my scalp. He steps in front of me and places the knife at my throat. I swallow hard.