Page 82 of Semblance

The man shoved me onto the bed, where I curled up into a fetal position while gasping for air.

“You smell like soiled pussy,” he said, his voice the texture of gravel. “Maybe I’ll have myself a turn before I quarter and bury you.”

I should have ran, but my entire body was paralyzed with fear.

Comeon Aria, don’t seize up,I thought to myself. If there was ever a time I needed a bit of courage, it was now.

“Never stop fighting,” they always said in the safety police videos. I grabbed an empty glass off my nightstand table and hurled it at him.

I had piss-poor aim and a girly throw and my heart sank as the glass sailed harmlessly over his head, shattering against the wall. My attacker laughed at my feeble attempt to defend myself, his voice filled with a perverse delight.

“Pathetic,” he said, lunging for me. I instinctively rolled off the bed, avoiding his talons by inches, and I bolted for the door. I felt something hard, striking me dead centre of my shoulder blades and I collapsed to the ground screaming.

“Run little girl, run,” he said with amusement. “The chase is what I savor the most, even more than the penetration.”

I was crying hysterically from both the pain of his attack and by the threat of his words. It wasn’t until I climbed to my feet and caught my reflection in the bedroom mirror that I realized that I had a knife protruding from my left shoulder.

“I saw your piano girly girl,” he said. “Can you sing as well? If I chew off your fingers, I bet you will—a pretty little song from a pretty little girl.”

The sick fuck was enjoying every second of this.

I fled from my bedroom and into the kitchen, desperate to find myself a weapon.

“Don’t stop fighting Aria,” I whispered to myself. “Never stop fighting.”

Pulling open the drawers, I grabbed the first weapon I saw. It was a Zwiggler butcher’s knife that came with the condo.

I clung onto that enormous thing with complete desperation, both hands wrapped around the handle. My attacker strolled into the kitchen casually, as if he were at his own home.

“What’s cooking my dear?” he asked, just before his eyes caught sight of the cleaver in my hand.

He wasn’t intimidated. Instead, he laughed at me. I was as threatening as a bunny with fangs.

“Does the little girl want to dance?” he asked, pulling out his own massive knife from his boot. Its jagged bite looked deadly. I wanted to drop to my knees and scream out in fear, but I held myself together.

I had to fight.

My voice cracked as I screamed at him. “Fucker!” I shouted as I swung as hard as I could, but my attack was clumsy and uncontrolled and the man dodged it effortlessly. I felt a heavy blow to my stomach and I instantly dropped to my knees.

The butcher’s knife fell out of my hands and onto the floor.

Had he stabbed me? My hands clung onto my abdomen, desperately prodding for an open wound. Luckily, I felt no blood. Perhaps I wasn’t dead—not yet anyway.

“I hit you with my left hand as a warning,” he said, pointing to his right hand which held the knife. “But the next time you attempt to be stupid again, it’ll be with the other one.”

I struggled to rise to my feet but the pain from my stomach along with the knife protruding from my back was crippling.

I was at his complete mercy.

I collapsed to the ground in a sad heap.

It just wasn’t fair, I thought. Just when the future looked so bright, this masked asshole was going to steal it away from me. Tonight, I was going to get raped, murdered, and then butchered. Oh God, was this real?

His footsteps made no sound as he walked over to where I lay, hovering over me, like a black spectre of death. Out of the corner of my tear-stained eyes, I saw the knife in his hand.

“Are you going to still struggle girly? Or can I have some real fun now?”

“Fuck you,” I cried out. “You damn asshole.”

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