May I Die This Time




I don’t know how long I’ve been down here.  Days, weeks, months, minutes, the amount of time doesn’t matter.  What matters is that I’ve been down here much longer than I should have, and I need to get out of here, one way or another.  The problem is that I only have one way out and, for some reason, I keep coming back.  I can barely remember how I got down here.  Maybe I stumbled and fell down a hole?  Maybe I was kidnapped and held down here?  None of that matters either.  All that matters is what I can remember and all I can remember is him, that sick monster and his evil eyes that he hides behind a disgusting mask.  The mask is covered in old blood and is stained from a lot of use.  He always comes in with his old rusted blade and a spoon and does…horrible things to me.  I wish that I could find some hope of freedom.  I just want to breathe a breath of fresh air and be free!  Is that too much to ask?  But freedom will come in the form of a breath of fresh air.  Freedom for me will come in the form of my death rattle.

For as long as I can remember, this man with the twisted spoon and broken rabbit mask has always come down a long hallway in a dark, wet tunnel, where I stay at the end of it.  All I can see beyond my dirty hair and the blood he leaves on me is wet stone walls and a wooden door with an opening at the end that he uses to see me through.  There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but I can’t seem to reach it.  He has me chained to the wall at the end of this tunnel.   No matter how much I would tug or pull, all it ever did was tear into my flesh.  Whoever this man was did not matter.  What mattered was that he would not let me leave. 

He would make his way into my narrow room quite often.  I have no framework by which to tell when he would come in, but I could tell that he would come in a lot.  Every time that he would come in, he would always come in with some new way to torture me.  I could tell that he enjoyed it.  He has a deep rasp and a deeper tone of voice, but he always had a grin beneath that partially broken mask.  I could see it just at the edge of the mask and see the way lines around his eyes behind the mask would crease.  He truly enjoyed what he would do to me and never ceased in finding new ways to have his fun with me.  The problem for me was that, no matter how hard I tried, I could not seem to leave.  Not even in my death could I find peace.  It seemed like, every time I would have a visit from him, and I saw him leave, I would regain a sense of energy after his departure.  He was…toying with me.  But why?

What could compel a man to do something like this to anyone is beyond me.  But that question does not seem further away than an escape.    No, escape is nothing more than a dream for me.  Finding an escape from this nightmare full of terror and bloodshed would be a greater gift than anything else I could receive. Nothing would compare than to not have to feel the metal wrapped around my ankles and wrists, or the metal knife as it ripped through my neck every time he would come in to visit me.  It seems as if my mind, my body, and my spirit are trapped down here.  Not even death seems to serve as a means of escape.  Every means by which you could have imagined of dispatching a person with, he’s done it.  Every possible way you could kill someone, he’s done it to me.  And, no matter what he does, he makes sure to slit my throat and collects my blood in a dirty white cup that has been stained brown with blood.  As my eyes would close, I would see and feel him rake his twisted spoon up against my neck to taste the remainder of what would not fit in his cup.  He would pull his mask back slightly and take a taste of my blood with his twisted spoon.  The light from the single lightbulb would always shine just enough light for me to be able to see his smile and the black iris in his eyes, like the soulless eyes of a monster.

His disgusting acts always held a somewhat distinguished demeanor.  Somehow, behind that mask and his blood-stained apron and pants, I could tell that the walk and movement of a gentleman existed.  Somehow though, this man saw fit to keep me caged against a wall inside of this dark room to keep me for my blood.  To what ends he would use my blood, I would never know.  All I know is that my last hope of escape came when he came in with a large ax.  This time I told him to take my head with him.  My hope was that maybe if my head were to leave this room, maybe I would be able to leave in peace.  This was before his spoon became twisted.  He did as I asked and chopped my head off.  He collected the blood and tasted it with his spoon.  I had a few brief seconds that were filled with searing pain and a sense of choking.  I tried to breathe in, but there was no means by which to stop the blood from pouring out of me and for my brain to gain a second wind.  I was slowly fading, but my eyes flittered with hope as he carried my head out.  However, he realized what my plan was of escape and turned to me with a sense of anger before he smiled his twisted smile at me again.  All I heard before I felt his spoon plunge into my left eye were the words “Nice try.”  And like that, I was back, chained to the end of the room, and left with no way out.

Since that day, his spoon that he comes to sip my blood with has been twisted, much like his soul.  He comes in frequently now, always coming in with the same attire and his knife to cut my neck open, the twisted spoon to taste the blood, and the mask so my look of fear or despair would not taint his grinning face.  I have been left with no hope of escape and no way out.  All I hope is for my death rattle to come.  I long for nothing but my death and peace.  Dear God, what I have I done to deserve this?  I can hear him coming.  If mercy does exist, may it be that I die this time.

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