One Last Breath
I couldn't stop him from cutting in.
My mind was slipping away, clearing the behavioral void for someone I never trusted, much less tolerated being taken over by.
"Don't you do it." I whispered shakily. "Don't you fucking make a statistic out of us."
Cruel laughter filled the bathroom, a telltale sign of horrible events yet to come.
"You scared, Darling?" replied my sweet, loving alter ego, mocking me with another one of his patented nicknames. Right before he intentionally screws us over, he slaps a sarcastic sentiment at the end of his statements. That's his prim, no-nonsense way of referring to me as the good angel on his shoulder, the blasted conscience he'd just love to eat the wings off of and flatten under a ready boot.
Ignoring the threat of broken glass lingering by our neck, I asked, "Why? What have I got to be afraid of?"
As soon as the words left my lips, I knew I had made a serious mistake. Unknowingly, I had extended him an open invitation to hurt us, maybe even kill us, and there would be nothing I could do to convince him otherwise. The crude weapon drew closer, eyeing my shallow breathing with a spiteful, steely gaze. Its partner in crime smiled madly. Instead of waiting for me to perish, my other self could stab me as many times as he liked, paint the walls with my blood, even string my carcass up like a strand of sick Christmas garland, and nobody would ever know he committed murder.
Of course, I knew full well that he was interested in far more than death and destruction. No matter how much he loved breaking windows or terrorizing me, nothing could match his desire to control our body completely. He craves dominance. Greed. Total power over the rest of us. And killing me will allow him to do just that. His sadistic message was loud and clear: I must die.
"So, how do you want it?" he purred. I could almost feel his hot breath burning my ear, tempting me with the fires of our own personal hell. "Nice 'n quick? Medium paced? Or," he suggested coldly, dragging the tip of his blade across our throat, "maybe something slow and easy? Y'know, a method that'll let you savor your last moments of living?"
"How's screaming in pain supposed to let me enjoy my last breath?" I retorted.
He laughed again, a terrible, sinister reaction that still echoes in my nightmares.
"You might not think your cries are heaven, but I do."
I cracked a weary grin.
"Sick fuck." I spat, half-joking, half-contemptuously.
Our hand betrayed me, licking our Adam's apple with a sharp, pointed tongue. His knife longed to bury itself in me, but I wouldn't have it. Not yet, at least. I had no qualms about being mutilated or executed, but I did have a problem with him attempting to do away with others of us. If I died, would kind, sweet Nanashi follow suit? And what about Sarah, the adoring, impulsive child that I held hands with and sang songs to? Would all the good ones fade to have the insatiable, greedy personalities rise up in their place? What terror would I be unleashing on the world if I simply let myself be slaughtered?
"C'mon, Kitten." drawled the bastard, "I'm honoring your last request here. You could show a teensy bit more gratitude than you are now."
I was floored. Did he actually believe he was saving me? Disgusted, I bared my teeth, wishing I could sink my canines into him.
"Don't act like your doing me any favors." I snapped. "You're just some manipulative prick who rules by fear."
"Playing therapist again?" accused the light of my life playfully, speaking in that calm, derisive tone I've come to loathe.
I rolled my eyes. "You're such an asshole sometimes."
"Aw, only sometimes? Why not all the time?"
Too angry to say anything else, I shut my mouth. No matter what insult I hit him with, he'd take it as a compliment, making my words backfire like risky pranks gone wrong. His humor was warped beyond reason. If he saw an animal get run over, he chuckled. Whenever a child whimpered, his eyes glittered dangerously, seeming to feed off the pain he witnessed. This guy wasn't really human. He couldn't be. He could be a demon, evil spirit, even a rogue beast of genetic experimentation, but he couldn't be a true person. Yet he was my oddly treasured roommate, a separate mind trapped in a single body, absorbing all the paranoia and frustration from my life. I couldn't help but feel indebted to him for the occasions he provided me an escape from my world.
Then again, he functioned like a double-edged sword. Half the blade promised relief, the other granted unlimited torture. His mood wasn't stable enough to reveal how he'd treat me during the day. But for those rare times he came to my rescue, he proved to be an invaluable ally. I learned to appreciate his don't-give-a-shit attitude. He could strut around the city and turn his nose up at a homeless person, snub a starving orphan, even step over someone dying, and none of those misfortunes would faze him. Matter of fact, I started to believe that nothing could bother him.
On a spring afternoon, after squashing a baby bird for fun, is when I changed my outlook of him as my protector. Reflecting on his history of shredding butterflies, strangling squirrels, and maiming all creatures bright and beautiful, I finally saw him for what he was. Too bad this revelation struck me after I already had permitted him to have dual control of my body. Now, I was little more than a prisoner, watching helplessly from invisible bars as he pleasured himself by tormenting me.
"I asked you something, Sweetums." he murmured dreamily.
"Yeah, you did."
"You going to tell me?"
"No."
"No?" he repeated.
Was that surprise I detected in his voice? Cocking a triumphant smirk, my ego swelled with pride. This was a small victory for me, provoking an emotional response from the harsh, noncommittal creature he fancied himself to be. Maybe he'll come to his senses, I thought hopefully. Maybe he'll quit being a violent lunatic long enough to understand what he's doing. Maybe, God willing, he might try to be sane-
A piercing cry erupted from me, severing any illusions I had of peaceful teenage years. He was doing it, goddamnit; the bitch was finally doing it. After six months of listening to him rant how I'd be a scrumptious cow to butcher, he was making what I took as empty threats a horrifying reality.
"Why?" was all my poor, tired self could utter.
"Because you've got something I want, Pumpkin." he said, his coarse, demonic voice sending chills up and down my back.
"You don't have to do this, though. You could just-aaagh!"
Instantly, my head jerked backwards, throbbing madly as I cracked my skull against the door. In a blinding second, material items lost their lush, gorgeous colors, turning as red as the battlegrounds of a warring country. Hazy crimson devoured the floor. Every fixture with a faucet looked like blood was dripping into the drains. Even the tears running down my face resembled wine pouring from busted bottles. Frantic and scared, I tried to stay calm, to banish my anxiety to the dark recesses of my mind, but the feelings refused to leave me alone. He had backed me into a corner, sneering at me while slicing our skin, anxiously waiting for the moment when I would let him have his way with me. No, he can't do this! I raged. He can't! I won't let him-
Relentlessly, he shoved the glass deeper into us, making it nearly impossible to breath. I staggered forwards, falling face first into the sink. One hand sought to cover my wounds. Its evil twin did everything it could to destroy my tiny lifeline and me. Oh, my God, I panicked, this is it. I'm dying. I'm dying and am going to end up dead without anyone knowing what happened to me.
"Stop it!" I demanded breathlessly, struggling to stay alive under the dire circumstances. "Stop it! Stop it now!"
His blade rebelled against my commands, dealing devastating blows to our collarbone. There were no remarks, no empty threats to be heard, no bludgeoned pets with cheery notes stapled to their rotting coats for me to find. There was only pain, excruciating, nauseating pain, sucking energy out of me faster than the devil seizing a damned soul. Possessed by coughing bouts, I lowered my head, spat warm, frothy blood onto the formerly pristine basin, then tasted the awful grief of defeat. I regressed into my frightened, child-like state, a boy who cowered under his bed, sucked his thumb, and wondered in wide-eyed terror if his own shadow would feast on him if he fell asleep.
"No more," I pleaded in infant tones, "please, no more. I promise to be good from now on. Please don't hurt me. I'll be good; I swear I'll be good."
Forcing our head up, my split self had me face the appearance I ached to avoid. My little baby features peered brokenly at me, hurting from a decade of abuse, mourning for the innocence that would never be experienced. Puffy blue eyes sobbed. Cheeks shivered from being perpetually watered. Nostrils stung from sniffling back too much sadness. Lips muttered incoherent vows like "I'm sorry, Daddy" and "I love you, even though you hate me". Memories, vile, ugly recollections of my past, had me unraveling quickly. There was no escaping who I was. I will always be that frightened, subhuman nobody, crawling on my hands and knees to beg Daddy for his approval, only to be torn apart by his sexual fetishes. I wasn't good enough to be anything meaningful to him. I never would be. Why should I continue to live as if I'm a perfect son? Obviously, I didn't come remotely close to his standards. Was that how I could make Daddy happy, by ridding him of me?
Suddenly, I couldn't keep my balance. Teeth clenched as I swayed back and forth, scraping enamel while the room spun. Cold, I felt so freaking cold, drenched in a blanket of icy sweat, trembling in the madness that only a dissociating masochist could understand. Suffocated by my lapse of sanity, I did the unthinkable. The rage was too great to bear. Once my fingers assembled themselves into a fist, I crammed every molecule of abandonment, regret, and sorrow in to the quivering ball. Nails gnawed through two layers of skin, but I couldn't care less. I had to have a tight grip so that the bad feelings wouldn't seep out and haunt me. Slowly, I raised my eyes to the pitiless god before me. Rapes, stabbings, beatings, unimaginable episodes of horror that I couldn't hide from replaced my adolescent view. Daddy emerged in all my flashbacks, molesting me in some, jesting about letting me whore for his co-workers in others. He was there, grinning wickedly at me, reaching out to touch my battered frame with his big, merciless hands.
Uselessly, I shook my head. "I'm too small for that Daddy. I'll choke 'cuz my mouth's not wide enough."
Nothing I said affected him. As he grew larger, I seemed to shrink, withdrawing in to myself, praying for the honor of everlasting invisibility. The past was leaking into the present, causing me massive confusion. Crying jags came easier. I was perilously close to hysteria.
"I don't wanna sleep with those men anymore! I don't wanna!"
But what I wanted never mattered to Daddy Dearest. It was always about what I could do for him, how he told me to suck him off, how long I could stand him ramming himself into me until I crumpled to the ground. My eyes snapped shut, but I still felt him there, pinching my chest, slapping my cheeks, pretending to choke me by crushing my windpipe-
"NO!" I screamed wildly. "I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!"
In a feral flash of movement, I hurled my fist in front of me, wailing when my knuckles collided with the glass. The mirror exploded into millions of pieces, scattering in various directions. I dropped on top of the jagged tinsel, cursing my father, my name, every therapy session I had attended, the pills thrown at me to keep me drugged, all of the shitty aspects of my existence.
"Fuck the planet!" shouted livid hellcats in my head. "Catch the fuckers and gut them dry!"
"No, let's buy them teddy bears and Pixy Stix!" sweetie-pie Sarah squealed.
As usual, she was only concerned with finding new playmates, not comprehending the atrocities some of us lived through. None of us ever took the initiative to inform her of what we knew. She was just a six-year-old, dazzling us with blissful smiles, bouncy blond pigtails, and precious dimples on her cheeks. Even the worst of us decided Sarah should be free to lead a normal, carefree life. She was just too young and charming to be corrupted by the sins of our father.
Nanashi piped up, adding his humanitarian influence to our clashing opinions. "I'm gonna love Daddy forever." he confessed. Nani had a tender heart, one that held on to unrealistic dreams of being the perfect offspring, an overachiever who would stop at nothing to win Daddy's praise. None of us doubted he would sacrifice his soul for the chance to be held or kissed. "He never meant to hurt us. In fact, I bet slapping or fondling us was how he showed his affection."
Honestly, I didn't know what to think or believe. Curling up in a fetal position, I lay in a crib of shattered youth, fragments of my stolen childhood crunching beneath me, depressing me with reminders of my faults and failings. The urge to commit suicide was overwhelming. A shaky palm covered my mouth, stifling a low, pathetic moan. Since the night I was bound by my wrists, dangling from the branch of an ash tree, I envisioned a future decorated with crowning achievements, earning so many awards and A's in school that Daddy would just have to see what a wonderful person I was. My strict regimen of round-the-clock studying had the opposite effect. Art projects done for him were shredded in front of me. Paintings were burned, plasters purposely dropped, clay thrown in the trash, holiday cards mangled by neighborhood strays-the list of futile attempts to make him love me must have been as tall as I was when I graduated from kindergarten. Pointless, everything felt so fucking worthless at the moment. If my own parent wasn't concerned for me, then who would be?
Weeping for the absence of a gentle, compassionate father figure, I used my one last breath to beg Daddy to see me as the son I've always desired to be for him.
"Daddy, love me…I'll do anything to be loved by you."