I am running, running down a hallway. I think I am chasing someone, but I am unclear as to who, or why. My bare feet pound on the green carpet, heart beating in my chest. Yet my breath comes slow, regular, as if I am not running at all.
I round a corner, and then I see her. I know who she is, but I don't know why she is here. All I know is that I want her more than I have ever wanted anything ever before.
She looks back over her shoulder, her light hair tousled by the wind. She looks afraid, but I don't care. She stumbles slightly, over her own two feet. She picks herself up and continues on, but I know she will not be able to last for much longer. She is breathing hard, drawing ragged breath with each running step. She will be mine soon.
Finally, she stops, tired to the point of exhaustion. She leans against the wall, trying in vain to regain control of her breathing. My run slows to a walk. There is no need for hurry now. She is tired, and soon she will be mine.
She sees me advancing, and starts to step away, but she has no energy left. Her hand catches on a wall decoration and slices it open. I see blood trickle out of the wound on her finger, and the flow fascinates me - The slow dribble of the liquid as it left the body, as if her very essence was slowly flowing out of her.
I reach out to her, and she does not resist. Yet. I hold her gently in my arms, allowing her head to rest on my chest. She is still breathing heavily, but I think she is also beginning to relax. To her surprise, I lift her injured hand into my own and observe the wound carefully. It was only superficial, nothing a bit of time wouldn't heal. It wasn't even serious enough to require healing or bandaging of any kind.
As if to confirm this, I lift her hand to mouth level and slide the injured finger slowly into my mouth, the metallic taste of her blood working its way over my tongue. I take joy in the taste, not because I find it pleasing, but because it is hers. It is hers, and I want her.
Her breath catches in her throat. Her heart begins to pound again. What are you doing? she asks me, voice quivering. Nothing, I assure her, my tongue smoothing over her finger and wound. She whimpers, as if she was a wounded dog, afraid of anyone who came near enough to help. What's wrong? I ask. She doesn't respond, but instead begins to tremble.
This confuses me. Why was she afraid? There was nothing I could do that would be worthy of such an action. Why was she so scared? Oh well. It didn't matter. I have her now, and that was all that mattered to me.
I slowly slide the finger out of my mouth, my tongue tickling the nerves up and down the length. I pick another finger and repeat the action. She whimpers again, now shaking violently. I grip her tighter, her body now pressed hard against my own. I relish the feeling of closeness. This just feels so...right. Our bodies pressed together, there being no secrets between us. I can feel her trembling, but I ignore it.
I took my time finishing with both hands before moving on to other things. I lean in toward her and kiss her gently. She pulls away and I grow angry. Couldn't she see that I wanted this? I kiss her again, this time harder, more forceful. She tries to get away, but my grip is too strong. She is struggling, and that makes me want her more than ever.
I place one hand behind her neck, and take a handful of her hair as assurance. If she did anything I didn't like, she would regret it. I kiss her again, and this time she tries to push me away. I don't like this. I yank her hair and she cries out. I place a hand roughly over her mouth so she will not be heard. It wouldn't matter if she did scream, anyway, since there is no one around. No one except her and me.
I force her to the ground, by body pushing hers against the green carpet. She struggles more, and her hair is pulled again. Hard. I move to remove the articles of clothing separating her perfect body from mine. She tries to scream again, and my hand moves back to her mouth. This time she bites me. Hard. I recoil, observing the blood that was now flowing freely from the wound on my hand.
I become angry. How dare this bitch do me harm? She must pay for her impotence. I slap her hard across the face, my hand leaving a angry red welt on her pale cheek. I feel in control, that I hold all the power I could ever need. I feel the need to exercise that power, to demonstrate it to the only on who was around. I lick at the blood, taking it into my own system. It stops bleeding soon; I am a fast healer.
I shift my body so that I am more in control and my hand goes to remove her shirt. She almost screams again, but thinks better of it. I smile to myself. She has learned that she has no power, that I am the one in control. My hand slides under the thin cotton and -
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I wake with a jolt, just in time. I had no desire to relive that moment, or that day, week, even that year. I slide off the bed and exit the room, no longer wanting to be confined to four walls and the boundaries of my past.
