Chapter 43

I didn't breathe for some time, and when I did, it was to finally spit out the gore and blood inside my mouth.

I began to sob uncontrollably, trembling, and unable to move; unable to stop staring at the gory mush that had been Lyra Svensson.

Besho approached, pointing the shotgun at me. I didn't recognise him at first. All I saw was Lyra.

He said something. I didn't hear.

I felt the gun on my shoulder, and shivers ran up and down my spine. I couldn't move. I couldn't respond to him even if I wanted.

"Oy," He said, (I think), "You wanna be next?"

I tried to shake my head, to beg for my life. But I couldn't move.

"You gonna make this difficult too?"

I shuddered more, my blood running cold. I felt as though my stomach had been ripped out. I tried, desperately, and finally shook my head, choking.

"I don't believe you," He said, leaning closer. He smiled, and touched my quivering chin, "Are you really scared? Or is it an act?"

I whimpered, feeling something wet and warm ooze down my leg.

"Awww. Poor baby," He laughed, "You're a good little actress, aren't you? Maybe science isn't your forte."

"Now," He touched my shoulder, "You got something on you?"

I shook my head, whining as he pressed the gun at my chest, a building congestion blocking my throat.

He stroked my hair, gripping it, "Going for a swim, were we? That's nice. No wonder your body's so tight. Now, what have you got? You shove something in your leotard? Up your tight little pussy? Hm?"

I shook my head, opening my mouth to speak, but squeaking instead.

He placed his forearm around my neck, shushing me, "Be a good girl and stay still, okay?"

I winced, nodding shakily.

I don't want to die, I thought, I don't want to die.

"Good girly," He said, his breath hot on my neck, "Now, let's see what you've got on you."

He knew I was defenceless; as if the skinny bitch in a swimsuit—not even wearing proper shoes—had something on her.

I think it was an excuse for if anyone asked questions about my nudity; if he kept me alive, that is.

I remember everything he did to me, despite my attempts to slip into some kind of daze—so as not to die as restlessly aa Lyra.

He felt up my breasts first, triple-checking under each, poking and prodding. Then he pulled and twisted.

It was so painful when I wasn't dazed. All I wanted to do was scream and cry, but I couldn't.

If this was a usual assault, the worst thing that could come from screaming was a worse assault, which wasn't as bad because I was dazed. It was usually only just bearable. Usually.

Here, I had to act as though I had no mouth. No emotions. As though I was a doll.

But I'm strong; maybe I could get through this. Maybe I would live. Maybe I would live to be happy, and healthy, and loved. Or maybe this would be the last time this ever happened.

After he'd examined me, the gun aimed at my waist, he whispered to me, "I don't feel anything on you," He pushed himself against me—forcing me to feel his crotch.

He pulled me closer, laughing as I gasped for air, "But I don't trust you. I think I should be more...thorough with a little bitch like you."

I let out another inhuman squeak.

"Shhhh. Now. Lie down."

I whined, but the gun and his member seemed to bury into my skin.

"I said, lie down," He hissed, moving the gun.

I sobbed, and he let go of me. I spluttered and placed my hands on the floor. He pressed the gun against my neck and told me to lie down again.

I did, but he shook his head.

"No, not there," He pointed to the pile of Lyra-gore, "Lie with your little bitch."

I didn't move, but at the feeling of the gun on my head, I shakily crawled over and lay next to her.

"You stupid bimbo," He snarled, "Not there. There. See that nice pile of brain-juice? Why don't you stick your face in that?"

"Puuh—Puh-Please," I whispered, looking at him, the gun between my eyes. Looking at that thing was almost enough to send me into exhaustion.

He narrowed his eyes, and finally removed the gun from my face. Instead, he grabbed my hair, and forced my face into the Lyra-gore.

I tried to keep my mouth shut, trying not to breathe, but he kept pulling my hair, standing on my ankles or smashing my head into the ground. My only reaction was to start crying.

He laughed, "Why don't you eat some of it? You loved her, didn't you?"

"Nuh-nuh-nuh—"

"Here, a nice chunk of brain for you. Open wide."

"Nu-Nuh—"

I tried not to. I didn't want to. He pointed that gun at me, and said, "You better keep your girlfriend down, bitch."

I didn't want to die. I don't want to die.

I had to do it. I had to swallow. I tried to keep it in my throat to throw up later, but it just went down.

As the brain went down my oesophagus, my own brain seemed to change. It felt like it was burning out of my skull. It wasn't working. I couldn't think. I could barely comprehend anything.

It was like my brain had melted. I was melting.

I was babbling and drooling, wailing like a shy zombie. Still, I did as he told me. It was the only thing I could do.

I tried to think. I just didn't know how.

Besho forced me into the gore again, and again and again. Then he got on my back, pointing the gun at the back of my head, and 'thoroughly examining' me.

I wailed as he did this, still sobbing, my brain still melting.

I made noises no animal would never make. I couldn't remember how to speak, only expressing my melted emotions by groans and wails.

He seemed to think they were sexual, or maybe that was just another excuse to get inside me. Then again, I had lost all control of my bodily functions, including my ejaculation.

It wasn't any different from the first time he'd done it, but it felt different.

It felt as though my body was being ripped in two. It felt like there was an alien inside of me.

It felt like I was being killed, but not by him—by my own body; trying desperately to dissolve and free itself from this suffering, even if my consciousness begged to stay.

I didn't know what to do aside from make those noises and let myself melt, doing whatever he told me.

I just did it. I didn't care what he did, as long as he let me live with whatever sanity I could maintain.

He told me, "Roll over, let's look at those little titties again," and I did it.

He licked my breasts—as if he thought it would make me enjoy it. He chewed on my nipples until they bled, mumbling things I didn't comprehend

What I did still comprehend, was Lyra. In what was left her mangled corpse—the meat cleaver.

It became the only thing to occupy my melted brain. With it, came an instinct.

My humanity had been melted. All that remained of my brain was an ape. A wild, bloodthirsty, ape.

The ape placed my hands behind my head, looking at Besho with melted eyes. He could see my breasts better now. He liked that.

The ape waited, and when he was slobbering and licking me, she reached for the cleaver.

I could not think, and acted only on the ape's instinct.

I swung the meat cleaver on the hand that held the gun. It got caught in his wrist, but I pulled it out and aimed again, his good hand now on my throat.

"You little bitch," He spat, trying to move his mangled hand.

I swung the cleaver at his eyes, and when he flinched, I went for his hand again.

It didn't come off, but hung by a few strings of muscle. He made noises not dissimilar to what I had been making, and as he wailed, I tried to hit his face.

He stopped me, squeezing my neck even more, his foot on my hip. He let go of me to punch me, and flung the cleaver from my hand.

His shotgun had pulled what remained of his hand off. It had left strings of muscle in his wrist—degloved, I believe is the word.

Still standing on me, he tried to reach the gun. As he leant over me, I reached to his face, scraping my nails on his face, eventually plunging my nails into one of his eyes.

He swore and spat on me, trying to rub his eye with the degloved hand.

I aimed for his other eye, feeling it squelch and smosh in my hand. My hands wet with eye-gel and blood.

I leapt at him, digging my gelled nails into the cuts that Lyra had left for me. He still clawed at me, blindly swearing and swiping.

I clung to him, sinking my teeth into his neck until I felt something burst, and tore it out with my monkey's teeth.

I shoved him to the ground and stood, stumbling to the meat cleaver.

He grabbed my ankles and I slipped. He screamed at me, but I still could not comprehend.

I kicked his already bloodied face, again and again.

I got on top of him, I placed my hands on his neck, but stopped and started, as he had done to me.

As he had done to me.

I saw a piece of Lyra-gore on the floor—part of a bone or maybe a tooth—I shoved it into his mouth, still making my wailing noises.

He was spluttering; swearing at me. I didn't want that—the ape was waiting for him to beg, and only then would she stop.

He called me a sick bitch, he kept repeating it. Something about that made me crueller. Even in my melted state, cruelty remained—a bitter cluster of emotion, propelling me into action.

I didn't want to be cruel. I don't like to believe that I am cruel.

But then again, maybe it says something, that when stripped to primitive instincts, I was cruel.

I tell myself I just snapped, for I didn't see myself just attacking Chief Besho. He was not just one man; he was all of them, and my cruelty was the child of the men who made me.

I believe that is why I did what I did next to Chief Besho.