Ashley was losing sleep lately, but all her projects had been done for school. Her exams weren't for another few months. However, it was concerning her that she was suffering within a horrifically intimate situation.
She had had a few boyfriends, but they weren't serious. Fortunately, when they did last, they weren't abusive and her expectations weren't dramatically high to live up to her ideals. They were pleasant experiences, and the break-ups were often clean-cut. Never had she gone through such abuse, not to mention abuse of power. At 16, she was already losing her innocence, but it was also playing with her mind.
"Ashley, have you been sleeping lately?"
She blinked her eyes open, not realising that she was sitting at the kitchen table facing her cereal. Half-eaten, she moved it one side and dragged herself up to face her mother at the other end of the table.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't been sleeping."
"Then why did you ask?"
"I wanted to see what you would say. I wouldn't ask if you didn't look tired. Just looking out for you, dear."
Ashley managed a small smile. Her mother was always there, and didn't brush off her troubles like normal teenagers. Ever since her dad left, her mother was a huge part of her. And for the things that were going wrong in her mind, nobody was to blame but the man in her dreams.
"I don't feel too good."
"You look it. I can phone the school so you could stay home if you want."
"Please."
Never once had she showed her mother the scar on her arm – a long, thin red line that went up her right arm that stung when she touched it. Under her sleeve, of course, she had been wearing long sleeved shirts so no one saw these marks but herself. It was almost, if anyone found out, they'd probably think she was self-harming. Although her mother was an understanding person, the worry she would cause her. What reason could she come up with? Even if she was self-harming, which she wasn't, how could she explain why she was doing it? Nobody but her knew what was going on in her dreams, so how could she explain she was stressed because a child murderer was stalking her in her dreams?
She did hate herself most of the time. The dark secrets she was hiding even from someone she trusted, because even the most understanding person probably wouldn't understand her. Only if they'd been through it themselves, but how would she know? She loved her mother, and hated the man that was doing this to her – not only physically, but emotionally, too.
She skulked upstairs to her room, hopefully not forgetting to hide anything she didn't want her mother to hear.
"Why do this?" she cried, "She's my mother!"
The shadowed figure in the boiler room raised his right hand, a glove built with knives. He approached her and Ashley grimaced as she caught a glimpse of that devilish grin in that burnt complexion.
"She doesn't need to know, Ashley," his grated voice echoed, along with his laugh that managed to get right under her skin, "because she's not going to believe you. Who is?"
"No!" she screamed, and without knowing what she was doing, made off in the opposite direction.
Despite seeing her run off from her, he loved the play and chase. It's why he didn't leap after her, because where was the fun in that? The sound her footsteps made bounced off the hissing metal, and he imagined her trying to find a way out. But the point was she would never find the way out, because there wasn't one. And he loved her frantic behaviour, trying to play him at his own game. He would always win.
Ashley's heart was beating so fast, she could hear it amongst her shallow breathing as she sprinted through the maze of pipes and steam while flying down stairs and climbing up ladders. There was a sudden point where she stopped. Had she been here before? It looked exactly the same, but perhaps because boiler rooms are often identical all over.
"So that's why he chose a boiler room…" she muttered to herself, gazing up at the glistening architecture. Her heart was pounding so hard that it was painful enough for her to start crying, and she tried so hard to remove the feeling within her stomach. But she knew differently – nothing could help her now.
"And you try so hard…"
His cackling voice made her freeze, and she didn't have to turn around to see him. Her realisation was too late, the path ahead of her leading to nowhere. The vicious, condescending presence left her unable to move, almost as if he was hypnotic enough to render her powerless.
She closed her eyes, and let out a short breath. "Why do you do this?" she cried, her voice shaking. She wanted to scream it to him, scream it to his face. But she was too scared, and she knew that even if she did, it wouldn't do anything. He would laugh at her, to see her fight back. The reaction that he rendered from his victims only made him feel more in control that he could continue provoking them so he could have his enjoyment as their sanity slowly deteriorated in front of his eyes.
"To see you fight," he said, that voice running through her veins, "to see you die. I enjoy it."
"You want to see me suffer?" she asked, in a nervously sarcastic tone, as if humour would alleviate the situation, "You're doing a great job. How about you just kill me?"
He laughed, amused by her attempt at humour, although he sufficed that what she was saying was true.
Her arms folded protectively against her chest, her eyes still closed while drawing aching breaths. He was getting closer, the laugh was crawling through her entire body and the tears were falling rapidly against her hot face.
Now that jumper was touching her back, feeling the dry and itchy jumper against her. She felt dirty with such a sadistic man – more like a monster, he didn't look like a man – that held these weapons on his hands that hovered inches from her face.
He pressed himself against her, and the only thing she was able to do was choke out sobs that rattled her, only making him enjoy this a little bit more. She could feel herself leaning backwards, watching those knives glitter. Almost vampirific, her immediate reaction of trying to pull away from him left her neck exposed and she could feel the knives rest against the pale skin. Instinctively, his other hand went under her head for support. All now she could see was the face of a madman with his eyes lit up in intense joy, and it was made perfectly sure that that was all she could see.
Ashley's arms were still free, although one sudden movement would kill her. She wanted to move her head away and there was her immediate reaction of unravelling her arms and needing to grab that hand was very close to dashing her blood on the metal.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he condescendingly chastised, and Ashley regarded it with utmost horror that he was holding her wrist with a crushing tightness. The knives whispered along the skin of her forearm, while her other hand was now being held by the hand that was resting underneath her head. She was oh so dangerously close to his face, feeling the invasiveness of her body against hers and that rotting breath of his that she tried her best to recoil from.
"You're mine, bitch," he spat, the grin spreading across his face, "and there's nothing you can do about it."