Why do you torture me like this?
How can you take pleasure from these awful things that you do, and smile as you watch me cry.
When did you start hating me enough to tear me to shreds and laugh everytime you hear a crunch.
Those first few moments were magic to me. I dream of your tender caress and the way you whispered sweet nothings into my ear, kissing gently down my neck and gently me in your strong arms. When I knew who you were and believed it was the truth. If they were magic to me, what were they to you? And why don't they matter anymore?
I lie here on the floor, surrounded by my own blood and your cum. Wondering how we got to this. I remember those night's, curled together in nothing but love. When the only tears that fell from my eyes where of joy and content.
Now they are falling again. And my beatened body is naked on the concrete floor of another new locker room. I'm shivering in the cold, shaking with the familiar pain shooting up and down my back and legs, making the blood slowing dripping away down there not matter to me anymore. It's not my blood now, it's your's. You claimed everything that was mine a long time ago, and I gave it all to you without a thought.
Now they are all I have, my thought's. My thought's of what we are, what we were and why we are still this way. I think of new excuses to give the boss, I think of how much I am still hurting, mentally checking the damage. You went easy on me tonight, two broken ribs, dislocated shoulder and a few brusies shaped like your fists and boots. You must have been in a good mood.
I sigh with relief when the door slams shut. The vibrations pounding through my head like your fists did moments ago. But it is sweet pain to me, it is nothing but a hangover to the life I live in now. It's not mine, it's yours. I am not me, I am your toy. I am your punching bag. I am your submissive pet that keeps you entertained and brings you money from the other horny guys that roam around the back as if they own the place.
That used to be us. That used to be you whispering in my ear. They used to be your arms gently wrapped around my shaking, bloodied form, lifting me slowly off the floor. That used to be your chest my head was cradled against. That used to be you wiping away my tears and gently washing off the blood from a match with a warm clothes and soothing hands.
But it is not you. And this blood is not from a match. It is not your chest or your hands or your whispers or your arms. It's not you that is cleaning my burning wounds. It is your that put them there. And it is you that forced me to lie on the floor and it is you that broke my bones and it is you that marred my flesh and it is you that rips me open as you rape me each night.
It is you I am afraid of. It is you that yells at me when I do something wrong, or if you do something wrong. It is me that pays the price when something does not go the way you want or you lose a match or even worse a title.
It is him that is healing my wounds. The one you call mentor and friend. But doesn't judge you, he doesn't hate you. He hate's me. He is covering your tracks, washing away the evidence so no one can wander in and find it. He is tidying up your mess. And I hear myself whimper as his arms remove them selves from around my tired broken body, and I am roughly shoved away, now clean. I gasp as my clothes are thrown hard at me and he spits at me to get dressed and get out. Nothing but a worthless slut. A whore. That's what he mumbles under his breath as he stormes down the corridors to his next meeting with Vince.
I can hear his footsteps fade away and I know I am alone. For now. I get dressed, noticing I was given no underwear. I can see what is left of it lying in a tattered heap in the corner. I cannot help it as I break down against the wall and let the tears roll down my cheeks. It hurts even more as my convulsing sobs make my body spasm. I can't do anything to make the visions stop. I close my eyes and it replays in front of me, I open them and i can see the spot where you took what you wanted and left me for dead. The door opens again. And I am faced with my future for the next few hours. He's grinning, ear to ear. I know that grin. You taught him that grin. I know what intentions hide behind that sinister smile, and I wimper again as he grabs me by the hair and forces me to lie on the cold stone floor.
When did you start hating me enough to hurt me like this? When did I become your property to do with as you please and pass around like sweets? And why do I still crawl through my own blood to curl up to the side of your bed each night, listening to you breath as the black circles row bigger from my lack of peace?
You remain true to your name, Hunter, as I, the Legend Killer, am the one dieing inside.