A.R: 12

Rae was vividly shaking, struggling to keep his hands still and his knees from buckling. He could feel the body heat from the older man, and the tension of the muscles as the man gave him instructions that he simply could not follow.

He watched as another man, bulkier and beefier, whisper incoherent words to the blindfolded girl. He wondered what she had been told, because in an instant, anger poured onto her face and leaked into her dialogue.

She suddenly screamed at him, causing Rae to jump backwards. She writhed and squirmed ruthlessly, the ropes binding her hands and leaving nasty bruises.

Rae looked around the room in panic, hoping that someone could explain what was happening, but he was met with white, pristine walls. Not a single person in sight.

She seethed as she made eye contact with him, her golden blonde hair covering the rest of her fury-painted expression.

‘I’ll kill you! I’ll rip your eyes out!’ She threatened, struggling to remove the rest of her bindings.

‘What did I do?’ Rae shouted back in a state of frenzy. She rolled around on the ground, and he stared down at her as she wriggled, greatly resembling a worm.

Rae couldn’t help but let out a half-stifled snort.

She jumped up, her ropes successfully untied. He had celebrated too early.

Her hands were in tight fists, breathing laboured, her hair ruffled and eyes bloodshot. She was not just livid, or furious: she was apoplectic and out for blood.

She lunged at Rae, hands in claw-form and ready to carry out her promise – to rip his eyes out. Rae dodged her hands. She came at him again, faster, and more agile than before, her teeth bared, and her electric blue eyes locked onto his.

‘Miss,’ he called, unsure of what her name was, ‘we can stop now. I’m sure you are getting tired... We can work this out.’

She paused for a second. He, too, stopped.

But it seemed she was just catching her breathe, as she, without warning, leapt at him.

Everything went dark, like the lights had just turned off. There was no sound. The girl was gone. The room was gone. He was gone.

The scene flashed back on, and he could feel his neck tighten. He couldn’t make out a sentence, and the girl laughed at this fact.

It went dim again. The echoing sound of the girl’s laugh vanishing. He couldn’t feel anything but the cold and empty space in which he floated in.

The girl flickered above him. Her cold, clammy hands were wrapped around his neck and his vision was blurring.

She was strangling him.

In retaliation, he threw a punch to the side of her head.

Darkness. He was back in solitude, unsure of how he was controlling the phenomenon.

Then he was back, his vision flashing. Except this time, he was watching from afar. Someone was bashing the girl’s head in.

Violently. Ruthlessly.

They hit her again. And again. And again. But she would not get off. So, they went for the stomach.

The two disappeared once more. He was back to the darkness. He did not know where he was or why he was there, but he found the place oddly peaceful. There were no scary men there to coerce him to commit crimes, and no girl strangling him to death.

He had believed the space lacked sound, so it came as a shock when an ear-piecing screech reached his ears. He screamed in agony, though his voice remained muted. His ears still ringing no matter how hard he held them closed.

I hate you.

The three words kept ringing in his ears, swarming in his mind, snaking around his body.

I hate you.

He cried out but the words got louder, as if to drown out his pleads. He thrashed around, hoping that if he could get away, it would stop. But he couldn’t. It was everywhere. It was everything.

I hate you.

The words were followed by a head-splitting bang. One that took all the breath and life from Rae’s body. One that left him empty and silent, like the place he was trapped in.

Everything came rushing back to him in waves. At his feet laid the unmoving body of the girl, her hair painted ruby. Slow, crimson liquid pooled around her head, where there was a visible hole through her temple. The blood seeped underneath his shoes but somehow, he felt like they were entering his body.

The gun that he held in his hand dropped heavily to the floor, splashing the blood of his victim onto his trousers, staining whatever innocence he had left.

He was the one bashing her head in. He was the one who hated himself with such passion. He was the one who had murdered a person.

Many people came into the room after, but he paid them no mind. They patted him on his back, clapped for him, ruffled his hair. As if what he had done was something to be rewarded.

What he did was nothing accomplishing.

It was nauseating.

Vile.

Sickening.

So, why was a part of him, longing to do it again?