Quick Author's Note: I said I would upload a chapter some time ago (before deleting the note) and I managed to type up a decent amount. I would have liked to added more; however, since I have been impeded in my free time, as usual, I would like to get something up. Please let me know if you all want more. It's been such a long time, I want to know what you all think since you have so incredibly patient and still engaged with the content.

xo

For a moment, the droning of a male's voice seeped into my consciousness with a single acronym and distracted me from the patch of skin I was currently scratching. My eyes were met with a wide-eyed expression and an inquiry of any concerns or questions I may have had. Seconds passed before I responded.

"What is DID?"

The question was out of curiosity, but not because I did not know what it was. The gentleman sitting behind a rather plain office desk had been assigned as my interim counselor and the one responsible for my intake. After a general and now suggesting I shared behaviors of someone with a multiple personality disorder. An inaccurate conclusion by my own inspection, but a query allowed me to proceed with an assessment of his professionalism. Internally, I was laughing in disbelief at the representation of Murkoff's best in mental healthcare and growing angrier the more I thought of sharing anything more personal. The case had divulged enough thanks to an ingenuine effort to cooperate, but as a part of my sentence, I agreed to attend a psychosocial treatment program under the Murkoff Corporation. All leading to my residency at Mount Massive and my place in this tiny, copy-and-paste of an office.

Sarcasm urged to take over as a calming mechanism and I briefly considered mentioning how rigorous the corporation's hiring process must be, but did not. Instead, I took several glances around. The office itself was small and bland, furnished with standard office supplies and decorated by various professional accolades and a bookcase lined with expert texts. As for the counselor himself, there was nothing particularly interesting to note. It was clear he had the look of a professional, but his assessment process was questionable, forcing me to hope my formal counsel was more entertaining to participate.

Once his opinion concluded in explanation, the therapist looked to me for another reply. It would be a disappointment on his part; I wanted to ponder my own prognosis in the privacy of the quiet cell. For the first time since the trial and the examinations that took place during, I was confronting my behaviors rather than indulging them. The counselor took my silence as a segue to moving onto the next topic: Murkoff's role in my recovery and to my relief, the assignment of a routine therapist. "Well, thankfully, we have method of addressing the biological and mental contributions of your condition," he began. Pretending to feign ignorance, I mentally trekked between listening out for the mention of my therapist and considering what diagnosis would fit my predilections. "Dr. Carl Houston will be your attending physician during your stay here. You are to meet with him once a week to begin initial assessments for the Engine program. Down the line, those sessions may increase in duration and be conducted at any time if necessary." His eyes along with his tone sharpened, no longer giving the demeanor of a professional but instead, a solider of a bigger force. However, I did not care to return the banter, as I noted my therapist's name.

"Dr. Carl Houston…"

Silence forced a shift to the discussion of the prescribed treatment under Murkoff's care for someone with DID. This, I needed to know and his transgression was momentarily ignored. Given the previous judgment of my "condition," this had to be rich in amusement. From my understanding, the assessments would begin as verbal and written only – seemed standard enough. Depending on my progress, he explained, assessments would aim to study certain brain activity. Again, seemingly appropriate though the details of those types of assessments were vague. Obviously, this would be as much information I would get without stirring bad blood; I nodded and intentionally looked away to communicate the end of our conversation.

The door behind me swung open. Back to the cell.

Immediately, our attention was centered on the panicked stranger currently observing the two bloodlust pairs of eyes trailing over his restrained appendages. Then I remembered my own hazardous position. I was just as much of a target as the stranger, whose own eyes were observing the thickness of the ropes wound around his wrists before glancing towards a small trolley next to him, its contents out of my sight. Another sweeping glance of the room, though dim, revealed mounds of flesh littering about the floor and other surfaces. The stench of torture, a mix of fresh and old perspiration and blood, lingered in between deep inhalation. It was starting to agitate my nausea. With silence came a disengagement and a lack of distraction from the hideous environment. A quick recollection of the one and only conquest started to pale as minimal bloodshed in comparison to the decorations left behind as Eddie's personal trophies. I began to imagine a select variety of "tools" Eddie chose for such occasions waiting on that trolley being similar to those already in view. Whatever horrors ahead was a complete mystery to the both of us with its only clues the decorated remains of Eddie's ex-prey.

A part of me now felt sicker for the variety of reasons present in my physical circumstances, but more than that, I had allowed myself to be captured and prepared for an apparent slaughter that lost priority to another's. Furthermore, my captor was much more experienced and twisted than I originally credited.

I relinquished control and now moments away from death feeling beaten and second-rate in more ways than one. The epiphany infuriated me. I could feel the burn dead center, the rest of my body responding as the heat noticeably traveled to my extremities. The cool draft of the desecrated basement no longer chilled my exposed frame. My hands balled around the ropes in frustration and to prevent speaking once more out of turn, I bit down on the side of my tongue enough to feed on the blood pressing out of teeth punctures. My eyes clenched together, producing a dew of tears around the lashes and I noticed the sensation was oddly calming.

"Now, where shall we begin?" Eddie's voice compelled my eyes back open, watching as he traversed from his table to the small trolley next to our third party. "It was quite nice of you to bring this gift to memorialize our time together, darling." A small camcorder was lifted to his eye level, Eddie's fingers tampering with it at first out of irritation, but finally setting it back down carefully. "I've always loved the idea of making family home movies. Perhaps, this one will be more…of a personal collection."

Suddenly, an anger-fueled inspiration found opportunity dripping from his suggestion. A moment to regain my senses and potentially stay the demise of another; I assumed the look of a jealous and frenzied lover. The perfect masquerade to the insecurity of my abilities.

"And he gets first choice?"

The outburst was quiet, but of startling. Enough to stop our captor in his steps. The broad frame of his back turned until the match broad front of him faced me again and he stared. In its darkness, I could make out displeasure responding to my actions. My face averted his gaze. There was an awkward shame hovering over my consciousness as I knew how exposed I appeared to those in the room. But then I remembered he was now equipped with a digital audience to memorialize the entire spectacle. The realization was a fatal wounding. Only footsteps broke the silence and they were obviously advancing towards my table. A whisper of the camera's hums now stirred near my bare ear. Curiosity nagged me to attempt eye contact, but was sparring with the idea of having candid camera evidence in anyone's hands. For lack of a better yet fitting phrase, my hands were tied. Nothing else to do but to play this as the latest volume of a fucked-up prison romance snuff film.

Seconds passed as a low yet audible growl lingered above me. However, resistance was waning; I had to face the result of my accusations. I gradually turned, initially meeting his waist before my eyes tracked upwards to a look so menacing, the very thought of my punishment both stimulated and frightened me. He was visibly annoyed, but even more than that, there was a glare of disgust. As if he were personally offended by decision to question his judgment.

"I…thought I told you to enjoy the show." Eddie's grasp on his camera tightened as his glance shifted to fumble around again with its buttons. Now was the perfect time to draw more blood out of my oral wound, sucking until the bittersweet taste ceased and became nothing more than fresh spit.

"Grr…fucking thing."

Our orator was growing increasingly frustrated.

"Me or the camera?"

A swift movement later saw an exchange of focus from the camera to my throat; a gasp of surprise transformed into a gag immediately. He had an admittedly deadly grip on it. My sight began to strain.

This is it.

"You talk too fucking much." He commented as my body struggled against the wood, in complete submission to his hold.

"….thought I was saving the best for last, but you are starting to no longer appear suitable enough for the profile, darling…" The pressure in my ears was beginning to drown him out, but I could sense where he was going with his speech. Hell, the clues were well spotted before; for the moment, I didn't smell their putrid stench. My arms flung about in their ropes, the instinct to claw at his fist. I imagined quite the performance being potentially being captured.

"However, this….is magnificent."

My eyes were now pulsing, forcing a hallucination of colors. I could feel my skin turning a deep shade of red and panic only now began to hit as my body started falling limp against my resolve to fight back. It seemed useless; I was only encouraging death.

Then, the pressure was gone and my body's way of showing gratitude was to cough incessantly, attempting to regulate its normal tempo of breath. Spit bubbled around the corner of my lips as it gradually steadied and the hacking slowly ceased. Just in time for me to see Eddie's hand move down to his trousers. Its motions were evident: he was becoming stimulated again. "You know, darling. You are ill mannered, but perhaps," Eddie enthusiastically paused to continue his massage through his trousers before his fingers moved across my lips to reveal a spot of precum had formed somewhere on the fabric. I shuddered from my own arousal and without hesitation, a subtle tongue slid to taste it. Eddie let out a satisfied growl. His hand now trailed down to lightly pat the moist center approvingly. "Now that I know you'll be on your best behavior…"

(I will continue to post as long as you all like. Thank you for reading up to this point. :) )