Behind the mask

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"Tell me-" he says, his hand shifting to my hair, tucking a loose strand gently behind my ear. His warm breath brushes my neck as he leans in, his lips almost grazing my ear. The warmth of his proximity and the intensity of his voice make my breath hitch, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. "Did it feel good when you killed that man?" he whispers, his tone low and intense.

My throat tightens as vivid memories of that night rush back: the cold weight of the knife in my hand, the way it sliced through his flesh, the blood staining my hands. I recall the horrific gurgling sounds before the man fell on top of me, his blood mixing with mine. The fear, yes, but also the rush of power and the sick relief of having fought back, of having survived.

"I didn't have a choice," I whisper, my voice barely audible, the weight of my confession almost too much to bear.

"I'm not asking if you had a choice," he responds softly, his breath hot against my ear. "I'm asking if it felt good."

I swallow hard, struggling against the wave of nausea that threatens to overwhelm me. "Yes."

(Cover photo taken and owned by me)