Hello, lovely reader. I'd like to mention that I posted this story on deviantart, so if you'd like to read it there go ahead and visit my profile.

There'll be a link to my dA gallery. I already posted the next two chapters there, but I stored them and I will unstore them as soon as I publish them here. I also feel like my English got worse since I wrote this, so I apologize if chapter 4 is a lot different from these.

Do not expect regular updates. If I don't feel well, I will not write. I can't help it, and I'd appreciate it if you understood. Thank you.

2007

I set my empty mug on the table.

My mum sat across from me, next to a man with dark hair that he'd pulled back in a ponytail.

To me it just looked plain stupid, I decided humming.

"Daniel," the man said, trying to get me to talk to him.

I however, after 14 days of silence, still refused to speak.

Well, you might think, isn't that rude?

And I might have to ask you whether or not it'd be rude if someone invaded your very personal space, or no-touchey space as I liked to call it.

"Daniel, you have to tell us what the voices say."

Sweat glistened on his forehead and a single bead made its way to his brows, where it disappeared in his thick unibrow.

I paused, then silently applauded inside my head.

Now they thought I was shizophrenic.

The first diagnosis the "doctor" had made had involved demons and how the evil internet had caused me to go astray.

When his supposedly working exorcism had failed however, my mother begged on her knees for him to somehow heal me.

I had tried for so long to convince her that I was normal after all, but she literally just kept throwing bibles at me, - she'd even borrowed a whole bunch from a nearby church to somehow keep me off her - washed my mouth with sacred water, and one night I overheard her talking to my father on the phone about how she should just send me away, to a far-away place.

"Daniel, I know you're in there somewhere. Noone wants to hurt you." I heard the idiot rambling on.

Noone wanted to hurt me.

Countless red spots on my bruised skin told a whole different story though.

When he had first unpacked his bag, filled with syringes, weird-looking liquids, some reels of thread and two ropes, my mother panicked and told him off, and while I just sat there watching, he persuaded her that it wasn't me he was hurting, it was the demon.

After that my mum did whatever he said, rarely even looking at me anymore.

At some point he even moved in with us, stating that she would be better off if the demon ever decided to go on a killing spree. The more time passed the more appealing this idea became to me.

I was gay. I was an atheist. I wasn't mad.

But I sure felt close to going insane.

"Daniel,"

I looked up and saw him sighing.

"Go to your room."

My eyes widened.

"Go to your room. Don't even try to run, ya faggot.

The holy Lord is on my side." he declared.

I glanced at my mother, who just hung her head in shame and put her hands in her lap. Knowing her, she probably wasn't even ashamed of herself, doing nothing to save her only child from a crazy rapist, but rather of me, so I didn't even try to get her to help me.

Looking around I contemplated whether or not making my escape would be worth the consequences, but before I could decide on what to do I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. I sensed a large hand grad my wrist which caused me to snap and flail violently pushing the taller man back in the process, then I ran for the bathroom.

Holding my hair back with my scarred hands I threw up bile and crumbs I couldn't quite place.

I hadn't eaten in almost a week and lived off the water I got to drink from the tap when that guy allowed me to used the bathroom.

When I had finished puking my knees gave in and I fell back to lean my head against the cool tile wall. Upon seeing my flushed face in the broken mirror that stood on the floor opposite me, I flinched.

The boy looking at me from inside the mirror had horrendous looking wounds all over his face; the fear reflected in his eyes and as I raised my hand to reach for him, he mimicked my movements and did the same.

Our fingertips brushed but all I felt was the cold glass against my skin.

I closed my eyes and just as I pulled my hand back the door flew open and he entered.

He looked around and his gaze lingered on the stains and indefinable substances on the white porcelain seat.

"Daniel" he adressed me, " that's not you. They devour you from the inside."

"Fuck off!" I spat at him, though it came out much less angry than I had intended. It felt weird to talk again, like my tongue had got all tangled in my mouth.

"Watch your language, heathen!" he warned as his lips twisted into a smile.

"Now, come upstairs, and don't try anything funny. I've got my ways to make you behave."

A dark brown leather collar appeared in his hands and I hissed as he placed it around my neck, attaching a leash to it. He then pulled me onto my feet and up the stairs while I tried my best not to trip. Tears were about to well in my eyes as he motioned for me to open the bedroom door.

Tiny little droplets of salty water fell from my closed lids as he pushed me through and I got down on my knees.

My personal hell was about to begin over again.