For Your Sins
James could here it coming, breathing, the tapping, and the heavy dragging of its footsteps.
It was only his imaginationHe fired the pistol…Once to drown out the eerie sound and twice for comfort. The sound stopped. James relaxed. He would not torture himself anymore.
He'd thought it had all been in his imagination, but then why had there been so much blood gushing on to the ground? Liquid, somehow slippery and sticky at the same time as he treaded through, but not red, never red. He wasn't sure if he could even call it blood as it wasn't red. More like black, sticky mud.
There was the sound again. IT was close. There was no mistaking now for imagination the sound of the heavy metallic scraping that only one deadly tool could make… James could hear it in his head, taste the guilt weighing on the back of his tongue, and he allowed himself the satisfaction of a few helpless tears. Any minute now it would round the corner and head down the corridor at him. James could not move.
It did not move either. At least not until it was in full view of the petrified man, then it stopped. It too stood erect, a pitiful mockery of a human being, with its gore slicked smock, arms, and legs. The head especially was all wrong, doming up high and menacingly into the shape of a severe pyramid head. It should not have been able to stand so easily. The Pyramid Head was looking at him. James could see no definite eyes, but he could feel the gaze to the marrow of his bones…to the very depth of his cooling core. It was, in fact, looking at him.
It whispered inside his head as well. They were the taunting voices between his ears, in the warm, slippery cradle of his skull, burrowing each into the very centre of his brain.
My Will. My Power.
"Yo—You're not real," James stammered, extending his arms and shakily clutching the pistol in his sweaty hands.
You Believe What You See. It's Real I'm Real. It advanced, whispering every crime, every fear, and every doubt that James had ever committed or thought. It made the man tremble; it broke him down in every emotional way until he was physically sagging.
Metallic scraping resounded in his head, then a deafening clatter, and finally only slow, carefully measured footsteps.
James thought about shooting, he even tried shooting the Pyramid Head, but his eyes were squeezed shut and the weight on his shoulders was so heavy that it sapped even the energy to do something as simple as pulling a trigger. He couldn't do something to save, perhaps, his life if not his sanity.
Then the gun was gone. For Your Sins. For My Pleasure.
Then a gloved-covered, rotten-smelling, gore-slicked hand stroked his cheek in a surprisingly gentle way. James choked back a sob because the voice in his head sounded so much like Mary.
"James…James, I'm alone there now…"
"No," James whispered, utterly defenseless and submitted completely to the will of his conscience that had taken physical form. The hand that took the gun and sent it clattering down the corridor was large enough to grasp both of James's wrists and haul him to his feet. The other hand pushed, against the wall, hard, so that his teeth rattled in his head. He could not fight back; there was no will to fight. The voice in his head never once whispered submit but it controlled him anyways.
The only protest James could manage was a muffled groan somewhere deep in his throat that he couldn't even remember making. Pyramid Head leaned in close, hot, rancid breath across James's cheek, monster teeth on his ear, and slimy, gory lips on his cheek. It was claustrophobic under the giant pyramid, almost feeling sheltered. Then the slap came, and it snapped his head sideways, then the hand pushed. One gore hand pressed to his cheek, smashing the other into the cool, bare concrete wall.
James refused to fight, knowing that somewhere, it make Pyramid Head's job all the more fun. Instead he let the latexed hands roam with its fingers much too long, and probing places not meant to be touched. The angles of this thing's body were much too sharp to be human and its hips uncomfortably dig deep into James's belly. The pyramid was rather oblong in shape, and though his face was slick with tears and plastered to the concrete, James could see that its neck was able to bend at extreme and odd angles to maneuver the hefty helmet around.
Trapped.
My Will.
"Your power," James choked out on long keening wails when the extra long fingers pinched and twisted bits of flesh. Then those same fingers were ripping his clothes, humiliating him as one hand still effectively had him pinned. There was so much strength beyond that grip, so much power.
Who Controls? It asked, biting James's ear so hard that it bled, his shirt now hanging in shreds off of his shoulders. The slender, slippery fingers pinched and twisted a nipple so that James cried out, "You!"
Then James was forced to turn and face the wall. When the slick, gloved hands left his body he did not need to be told to stay put.
Another set of heavy footsteps approached but he dared not look and instead stood on trembling legs as he'd been left to. The rest of his shirt was ripped asunder and his pants and underwear yanked down to his ankles. He trembled, naked and completely submissive. He could not win now, he would never escape.
The silence stretched on until James squirmed in discomfort. He had just begun to think that he'd been left alone when there came a sudden Whoosh of a downward stroke then Crack as something hard and slender landed across his back. James yelped and jerked backwards, but no sooner had he moved when a hand forced his shoulders back to the wall and another blow struck. This time it hit his lower back.
For My Pleasure. The voice demanded as another series of blows rained across the entirety of him, reaching down even to the backs of his knees. They buckled but a fist in his hair held him upright.
For My Pleasure!
"My Sins! They're my Sins!" James sobbed hard, mewling like a newborn baby. Suddenly the hand disappeared and he crumpled into a ball. Two giant figures stood beside him, one holding a spear and one an abysmally large knife.
"Remember," These voices said, combined and non-human in tone. "Whenever you run from your guilt, we will find you."
James whimpered once in understanding and then passed out.
When he awoke some time later, he was alone. He sat up quickly, fingers tightening around something cool and solid. His gun! Still in his hand. His shirt was not ripped and his pants were still on. It all began to seem like nothing more than a bad dream, but when James stood, the piercing pain in his protesting legs told him otherwise. Later he would discover the welts, some of them still bleeding, were really still there…