Serpentine Desires

The prey

I woke up to the sharp and excruciating pulse coursing through my body.

It would sound exaggerated but every inch of me was screaming in protest and my muscles were trembling beneath my skin as I tried to shift on the bed. My breasts ached at the foreign sensation of metal on my skin. Reminding me how mercilessly he had taken what he wanted.

There was no part of me left untouched by his brutality. My throat felt raw, my skin marred, bruises blooming in violent shades of purple and blue. All that belonged to him.

I winced as I sat up. My legs refused to cooperate. Even breathing hurt, he was like a beast that had ravaged me last night. To my relief, the room was empty and the bed sheets were twisted and soaked in his scent.

Tears welled up, unbidden, and rolled down my cheeks in silent despair. How cruel could he be?

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough for him.

My chest tightened and a sob threatened to escape, but I swallowed it down. He couldn't hear me now. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Instead, I forced myself to stand, my legs trembling beneath the weight of the pain. Each step was like I was getting ready for some kind of battle, but I had to keep going. I needed to get away from him.

I stumbled toward the bathroom, gripping the doorframe to keep myself upright. The mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized—wild hair, bruised lips, and eyes swollen with tears. My body was marked by him, claimed in the cruellest way possible. I leaned over the sink, gripping the cold porcelain as nausea twisted in my stomach.

It was his plan all along, wasn't it? To break me down until there was nothing left. To make me feel like nothing but his possession. He had succeeded. My fingers curled into fists as anger surged through me, but beneath it all was something deeper. A cold, simmering hatred that I never knew I was capable of feeling.

Goddamn, man-child. He acted like a kid even though he stood six foot two.

A nightmare covered in flesh and bones with no heart.

It fit him perfectly. He was nothing more than a man-child, driven by his anger and insecurities, taking it out on me because he couldn't understand himself. I hated him. More than I hated anyone in my life.

I turned on the shower, stepping under the cold spray even though it was two degrees outside, my body shivering as the water hit my skin. Every bruise. Every bite mark. Each broken piece of me screamed his name. He didn't just touch my skin, he shattered me. Piece by piece, he tore through my soul. And I let him.

I let him cause my hands were tied.

My hands gingerly washed away the traces of last night's horrors. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't erase his touch. It was as if he had himself tattooed on my heart.

I couldn't let him in. I couldn't keep him out. I couldn't trust myself. I was a fool for falling right where he wanted me.

Now, I moved like a ghost, mourning what was gone, of what he took.

Piece by piece, I was fading, and there was nothing left to save.

It took every ounce of strength to dry myself off, to pull on clothes that felt too tight against my aching skin. I chose something simple—a plain black knitted sweater that covered most of my bruises and sweats. But even the fabric brushing against me was the ghost of him.

My hands shook as I gripped the door handle. I wasn't ready to face him, but I had no choice.

It hurt everywhere. Not just my body—my heart, my soul. Pain was all I knew. It became who I was.