I feel paranoid and wonder if it’s just a fucking side effect of my meds. Dr. Thurston did warn me to look out for any new symptoms. And now with the messages disappearing and thinking someone is in my house, I have to consider the very realpossibility that I might be having a reaction. Especially since I’ve been mixing the pills with alcohol. This all could be a nightmare of my own making. Maybe shrugging off the warnings wasn’t the smartest way to numb my pain.
But if I’m not numb, then I’m feeling. And I’m afraid of what I’m capable of if I allow myself to feel.
I mean, just look at me. Frightened beyond belief, sitting in bed with a knife.
But if I’m losing it, then where are all my toys? Could I be losing time again? Just like when Sarah went missing.
The brain is a strange place, capable of so many things. It could be reverting back to what it did when Sarah disappeared. Blacking out what I don’t want to remember.
I resolve to toss out the alcohol first thing in the morning.
Nights are hard for me anyway, so I’m used to running on little sleep. It’s when my brain comes alive with scenarios set on making me feel.
When I was first brought to Kingston, my parents had arranged to have me kidnapped by these masked men. They arrived in the pitch black of night, skull masks in place so I couldn’t make out their features. Their bodies were covered in all black as they ripped me out of bed, fighting with what little strength I had.
But the kicker was the moment I locked eyes on my parent’s gazing on approvingly from the side. Watching me struggling against these muscular figures, screaming and crying with everything I had.
“Whyyy?” I cried with tears streaming down the sides of my face, my body slumping as they shoved a needle into my veins.
“You’ll understand one day.”
Everyone at Kingston had a similar story. All of us ripped away in the middle of the night. All of us thrown together in an amalgamation of disappointment. Made to follow theunbendable rules of Kingston Prep, where they promised to extract the demons that had taken root in our souls. Damning us. Corrupting us. Turning their precious children into bad kids that must be saved. And only they could save us, orwewould die trying.
It was no secret that the academy’s rules were outrageous and even at times dangerous. Put a bunch of angry, confused kids in a confined space, ruled over by adults with anger management issues and a god complex and you had a recipe for disaster.
Kids would arrive weekly and learn quickly the need to fall in line. Otherwise, they faced the wrath of the headmaster and his cronies. Dorm parents who patrolled the hallways. Making sure we never fell out of step with their demands.
Stand straight.
Recite your prayers.
Not one hair out of place.
Not one wisp of a smile.
Eat every single mushy pea, or have it shoved down your throat until you gag.
It was only after I escaped, that I realized how fucked up that place had made me. Twisting parts of me into a shadow of my former self.
I wasn’t a bad kid. I was just a confused teenager, looking to find myself. But according to my parents? My mother mostly. I was a heathen. Needing the fear of God instilled into me.
And her only complaint was that I dared to question why we were to believe blindly what some ancient text said. She’d even hired someone to come and have me exorcised. Convinced that I was filled with a legion of demons. Wicked in all my ways.
“You are to be obedient. Children shouldn’t question their parents. Their faith. Something is wrong with you, child. Sometype of evil lurks within your veins.” She used to say to me when I was growing up.
I guess I was difficult. Making her examine her own faith with myquestions.
One thing she did get right though, is that I am fucked up now. Maybe there is an evil that lives in me. Because as I’ve aged, my fantasies have warped and twisted. Thinking of those faceless men that came into my room to take me.
Wondering what it would be like to have them inside me.
A fantasy that my doctor says is rooted in my trauma. Fine to explore within the confines of my head. A way to work out the wrong that was done to me.
The thought of them having their way with me, as I lay helpless beneath them makes me delirious with desire. So much so, that when I make myself come for my subscribers, that’s what I’m thinking of. Rough hands restraining me. Needing me. Taking me.
Fuck, I miss my toys.
Getting myself off with just my hand tonight has left me needing more. I eye the handle of the knife I’m holding, wondering how it would feel.
