MAD

chvpter 8

WARNING - GRAPHIC CONTENT -

IF YOU FIND VIOLENCE, ASSAULT OR THEMES OF SEXUAL ASSAULT TRIGGERING THEN PLEASE SKIP THIS CHAPTER

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...

I walk with my head dipped, eyes trawling the black alley. I intuit something awful, my hair raising, gripping my knife as I scan the night, hopping a gutter as I look around.

But then I sight an arm flying from the shadow, and just like that a tall figure grabs me, forcing something to my mouth. I kick to get free, sucking in a gulp of panicked air against the foam. It hisses. Too late, I realise that what I thought was a cloth, is in fact a whip-it gas mask.

Fuck! I grip his wrist, prying the mask he's holding against my mouth free, but to my horror, the world tilts on a terrible spin. Instantly my head throbs. The force of the high, instantaneous and nauseating, makes the sides of my vision bleed with black, warmth rolling down my arms and legs, leaving them numb.

His voice hisses in my ear. The animal, sadistic grunt lurches me into reality. Monster.

In all honesty, I don't know what happens when I claw myself around, eyes showing me a black wall. A dark figure looms over me.

I stab the bastard in the throat, the world still spinning as I struggle to fight the drugs he made me inhale. Thud. His body? Or mine? A knife clatters on the tar. I think he kicked me in the ribs? Or maybe I hit them on my landing.

Heat expands from my face. Hot, burning blood floods from my nose, my eyes stinging and my face throbbing. I swallow, only realising I accidentally choked a mouthful of metal down my throat. But I pry myself upright, fighting myself.

I moan, hobbling a few steps before I crash into the wall and smack my head against the jagged concrete. I try to shove myself, but when my hand connects with the floor, my body only rolls to the side and I smack my back on something, moaning at the sharp pain of a metal crate digging into my back.

...

I twist the door handle open with trembling fingers, every inch of me aching. I barely hold myself together as I storm into my room and rip the floorboard up, retrieving my gun.

It's heavy in my hands, shaking so hard that the magazine rattles. That bastard drugged me. He grabbed me in the alley and put a whip-it mask to my damn face. The thing with masks is the high hits you at once, but it wears off quick too.

Panic grips me. I was two seconds away from losing all control of my body when I stabbed him. What if I hadn't?

In the dim light, I trudge to the kitchen and dump the gun on the island table, shrugging my shirt off and scooping up a scouring brush. I scrub my hands feverishly, a choked noise escaping my lips.

A torch clicks and I flinch at the harsh light, "Oh, baby!" My mother's voice spikes in alarm, and she rushes across the kitchen. "You're covered in blood! Is it yours!?"

I spin around, preparing to fend her off but her twisted features are so ripe with concern that it halts me. What? She shrugs her fur coat off and discards it beside my shirt.

"When did you get all of these tattoos!" She yelps like she's hurt I never showed her. She hasn't seen more than my arms since I was sixteen. She takes the brush from me, her spindly brows knotting. "I." She shakes her head, "Don't mind that." The fleeting moment, where she realised she doesn't even know the first thing about me, disappears. "What happened to you?"