Disclaimer: This yomibitorazo does not own Jim Hensen's The Labyrinth, because if we did, then we would be Jim Hensen, which we aren't.
WARNING: This story contains suggested rape and torture. Read responsibly, fics are rated for a reason, even if we don't agree with the suggested rating.
AN: We humbly apologize for the psycho-babble; our only excuse is that we were very bored after psychology class one day. Also, this story is a ONESHOT, nothing more…for now.
.:o.o:.
Hello, Sarah
You'd think she'd be used to it by now, the darkness. The infernal darkness, the blessed darkness.
She could so write a paper about classical conditioning. Pavlov and baby Albert had nothing on her. If she ever— No. When she was free from this she would write a paper that would be the envy of every psychiatrist in the country. No, the world.
When she was free of this…Yes, she added the paper to her mental To Do list.
She must really be losing her mind! She had gone through college avoiding writing papers like one would avoid the Plague. But analyzing the situation, breaking it down into psychological terms, was perhaps preserving her sanity.
Unconditioned Stimulus: a psychotic, sadistic ass-wipe with very sharp knives of varying sizes and a penchant for torture, rape, and murder, i.e. a serial mutilator/rapist/killer.
Unconditioned Response: fear. However, fear is learned, pain is instinctive, and so, technically, pain is the UR, but she cared to differ with this technicality.
Conditioned Stimulus: light. Well, the light only appears when the door is opened, so perhaps the door opening is the CS? Does it really matter?
Conditioned Response: fear. Or is it pain?
And for those in the audience, readership, whatever, who are completely lost, the situation (is there a psychological term for that? study, maybe?) is this: a psychotic, sadistic, ass-wipe, et cetera, et cetera (see US for complete description) practices his craft (torture and rape, hmm, perhaps this is the US…note to self: consult a psych teacher) on the victim, er, the subject. This results in primarily pain but also a fear of future, more, or worse pain, the UR.
Now the vic—the subject has lost all concept of time (no windows) and lost count of the visits, (sessions he calls them) somewhere around lucky number seven. As a result, she was unsure when the CS took over for the US. Actually, now that she thought about it, that transition occurred about the same time that she lost count. Huh.
Anyway, the result is this: the door opens, revealing light, and bam! The fear of being hurt, of feeling pain, the fear that this is it, that he'll kill her this time, kicks in. The CS triggers the CR; imagine that.
Well, that got boring fast. She began to remember why she had disliked writing papers.
Perhaps some good old-fashioned psychoanalysis, courtesy of one Sigmund Freud, would pass the time better. Sex and violence…this won't last long either.
To begin, he definitely has 'mother' issues. Either Mommy hadn't loved him enough or Mommy had loved him too much. Decisions, decisions. She was willing to bet Mommy had been absent, if not physically, then emotionally.
Perhaps sex was a way to become noticed by females. Rape probably comes from Daddy issues.
Hmm…
This was going nowhere fast. Such a pity…
No! She would not think of him and that place. If ever there was a fast track to insanity, then that would most definitely be the way.
But silence, especially in her mind, was the true enemy. Such gaping silence would allow despair to come in. Helplessness, hopelessness…Huh, she'd be one step away from being suicidal.
Worthlessness.
Was she worthless? Has anyone noticed her missing?
'Stupid,' she called herself. There was to be no wallowing in self-pity; this was one of the three rules she had set when it all began.
Maybe mentally reciting these rules will pass the time. It was worth a shot.
One: No wallowing in self-pity.
Two: Do not give up hope or the will to live.
Three: Maintain sanity at all costs, for insanity will be viewed as a violation of rule two.
This worked for a mere six minutes before she found herself once again bored.
This was a big problem; she was completely and utterly bored to death.
She stifled a giggle. The UR would come back and find her dead. Authorities would eventually find her body, or maybe a jogger, and the autopsy would report the COD to have been boredom.
Another barely covered giggle. Oh, it wasn't that funny, but isolation was taking its toll. People react oddly in extreme situations, she knew.
She also knew it could be worse. For instance, her captor could be like Hannibal the Cannibal, so adept at his art that he could keep her alive while he ate her.
Ick, bad imagery. New rule: no thoughts so disturbing that they turn her stomach. She needed what little contents she had.
The true problem, she imagined, was that she knew. She knew when next he came it would be the last time.
He was growing weary of attempting to break her. The other consideration being the longer he kept her, and alive at that, the greater the odds of discovery.
And so it was only a matter of time now.
.:o.o:.
Maybe she slept, maybe she didn't. It was that odd state in which one could not be sure, in which the line between waking and sleeping blurred.
One cause of this could be anticipation. When one anticipates a disruption of one's unconscious state, there is a heightened awareness and one perhaps merely dozes.
She was anticipating such an event, in spades.
He had only awakened her once. Once had been enough.
So she drifted for a time. A long time, a short time, she knew not, but her mind was pleasantly empty, save for static noise.
He came to her while she drifted.
The room flooded with light, hurting her eyes. But she forced herself to keep them open, to see him, despite the pain.
He slapped her, hard.
He was speaking, she realized as the ringing faded. His voice came in disjointed pieces, parts of words and phrases and soon she understood what he had said and was currently saying.
It had been sixteen days since it all began. He congratulated her on lasting far longer than the others. The sick bastard expressed remorse at not being able to continue, to not have a chance to break her, but the police were starting to sniff in his direction.
"Time to move on," he said. "But not without finishing with you. Oh, it's not how I care to end it," he explained, "but self-preservation must come before pleasure."
He continued to prattle on, a true narcissist, loving to hear himself speak. And she in turn had learned to tune him out during their 'sessions'. He hadn't been content to let her suffer in silence, but had spoken endlessly, never permitting her to forget he controlled her pain and only he could stop it, if he chose to.
There was slight guilt on his part for not being able to give her the same 'consideration', his exact word, as the others. When he said this, he of course meant that she had yet to be broken.
So here he offered to pass on a message, if she wished, as a prize of sorts, as consolation prize, and as an apology for their 'premature parting'.
The serial rapist/killer, the sadistic torturer, gently held a glass of water with a straw for her to ease the arid state of her mouth and throat.
She winced as cool water slid down her throat worn raw from screaming. In truth she doubted she could speak. Her full lips were chapped and split in multiple places.
But she wanted to say something. Toby needed to know it wasn't his fault, that she wasn't mad at him.
Whether or not the message would be passed on, she couldn't say, but there is something to be said about dying with a clear conscience.
She knew exactly what she wanted to say, what message Toby should receive and yet, thinking of Toby, something happened.
If asked, she would suggest her brain had shorted or her thought processes had crossed wires. Regardless the reason, she suddenly recalled with absolute clarity the words and all that had occurred as a result of those twelve innocent words.
And when her mouth opened as he took the glass away, she said in a raspy, barely audible voice, "I wish the goblins would come and take you away, right now."
He laughed then. "Are you insane? Did I succeed after all?"
The lights died. The blessed darkness all-consuming, offering secrecy for the ones scampering around the edges of the room, hiding the ones stifling shrill giggles.
"If this is insanity," she started in a stronger voice, "then I wish never to be sane again."
An unnatural light suffused the room. A tall, slender blonde man, wearing breeches so tight that they fit like a second skin and a gaping linen shirt, leaned casually against the door.
As he began to speak, two rows of sharp, pointed teeth were seen. And though his mismatched eyes were focused on the man, he addressed the woman.
"Hello, Sarah."
.:o.o:.
Editing Completed: 5/8/06