One year ago
I sit in the hollow silence of my prison.No windows to the outside world.No lights to ruin the ambiance of hopelessness.No mouth-breathers to invade my hell.
Just me and my voyeuristic companion.
“Hello, Regret.”I can’t see a dirty godsdamn thing beyond the reach of my hand, but… “I know you’re there.”
Silent and cold, Regret stares back.
“Admiring my banging good looks again?”I stroke my full beard.“Four months in this cage, and I’m still a sexy beast.Jealous?”
No answer.Of course not.Regret doesn’t speak.It seeps.Slithers around my rib cage.Crawls inside my lungs.It’s the dark abyss squeezing my balls with clammy tentacles and yawning in my face, unimpressed.
“Serious question.Why are you so clingy?Got nothing better to do than lurk in the damn corner like a bad habit?”
Regret swells, filling my empty spaces.
I have a lot of those.
“I feel you smothering.”I chuckle bitterly.“Breathing down my neck.Rubbing up inside me like a dirty dick.I get it.I fucked up.Is that what you want to hear?”
A chill pebbles my skin.
I shove off the musty mattress, needing movement.And a smoke.
Titties would be good, too.A couple of supple pillows to rest my weary head.Can’t remember the last time I felt up a girl.
Neversounds accurate.
The room stinks of sweat and stale breath, of time stretching too thin, of Regret festering in my bowels.
I should be dead.
To think, if I hadn’t thrown myself off that cliff, I wouldn’t be trapped in a concrete room without basic necessities like smokes and titties.
Instead, I did the damn thing.I stretched out my arms like Caucasian Jesus, died for mythical reasons, and resurrected downstream, right into the manicured hands of Dr.Try-Hard.
Yeah.My captor is a medical doctor.Good for me.He mended the arrow wound in my arm, dragged me from the brink of death, and locked me in this tomb.
The best part?He has an unhealthy hard-on for the psycho who raised me.Like, he wants tobeDenver Strakh.
As if.
Dr.Limp Dick is a cheap imitation.A dollar-store Dahmer.I’ve been here for four months, and he hasn’t tried to rape me or eat me.
Why not?
Why keep me alive if not to fuck my heavenly body ten ways to Sabbath?
I inhale deeply and regret it immediately.
The damp air, ripe with mildew, carries a sharp bite of antiseptic.
Bleach.
Urine.
Blood.
