Page 92 of Degradation
She whimpers, and for one second, for one beautiful moment, I think she’s as turned on as I am.
Only, she stumbles back. Of course, it’s me allowing her to, it’s me releasing her.
The dagger is still in her hand, and a voice in my head is screaming at her to do it, to bury it in my gut, to slice and to hack and to leave me a butchered mess.
Go on, Paitlyn, take the step. Cross the line. Prove you’re as fucked in the head as I know you are.
Blood is now streaming from the cut on my cheek. I lift a finger, smearing it, before bringing the digit to her mouth.
And as if that’s the final catalyst, she turns and flees. She races to the bathroom, slamming the door shut.
Pailtyn
I’m hiding in the bathroom, trying to hard not to cry, and yet the tears are falling anyway. I’m praying that the tiny bit of wood that separates us is somehow enough to keep this monster out.
I didn’t mean to turn into that, to become that, to become that fucked up, irrational thing. I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take the fact that I was in the same room as him, that I was here, essentially locked in with the man who stole my eyes.
When my husband told me he was going away, I stupidly thought I might have a few precious days of silence, of reprieve. God, how stupid was I?
He seems more intent now to torture every minute of my existence, whether he is around to witness it or not.
I palm my face, and all I can think about is that moment, that horrific point when I had the blade against his skin. He didn’t seem scared. He didn’t even seem concerned. No, I bet his eyes fucking gleamed, sparkled more, like the devil part of him realised how close he is to returning home.
God, I’m an idiot. A stupid, stupid idiot.
He’s going to make me pay for that. He’s going to make me bleed again. He’s…My rambled thoughts seem to falter as I realise the blade is still so tight in my left hand.
I sink to the floor, feeling those cold tiles against my exposed legs, but for once, the feeling is comforting.
There’s an idea steadily growing in my head, one that has probably been here for a while and yet, I’ve never dared let it truly form. But now, now is the moment. Now, is the only chance I think I’ll get.
My finger gingerly traces the sharp edge and with very little pressure it slices the pad in two. Maybe I’m high, maybe I’ve lost my mind, but the pain I expected isn’t nearly as nasty as it should be.
I could do it.
I could use this knife, use this gift, and end all of this. End my suffering, end my shame, my abuse, everything.
It would be a fine thing to do, a nice little fuck you. Gunther isn’t here to even try to stop me, and Devin, well, I’ve no doubt he’ll finally get some recompense for all the shit he’s caused.
I could practically laugh at the idea of it, of fucking him over in such a beautiful and final way.
My fingertips pick at the handle. It’s not the fanciest of daggers. There’s some sort of fabric wrapped around it, taped around it, that’s fraying where the elastic is giving way.
I draw out a long, low breath.
Is doing this really the answer? In my head, I’d imagined my victory being one I could actually witness. I’d dreamt of Gunther going truly insane. Of him being locked away in an asylum, or even better, being done in by all those conspirators I heard him and Guthrie talking about.
But what victory is there when I don’t have my sight? What victory can I have when I’ve been irreparably damaged?
Taking this route won’t give me true vengeance. Taking this route will mean I’ll always be regarded as unrighteous.
But does it matter? Does it matter what anyone else thinks? None of them have had to endure anything like the horrors I have. None of them have even come close to the suffering I’ve lived through, month after month after month.
No, this is a good option. A smart option. I don’t want to die and yet I can’t live like this, I can’t exist like this. Not anymore. I’m too exhausted. I’m too broken to continue.
And doing this takes the power from them, this, for the first time in my entire life, puts me in charge.
A silent tear streaks down my cheek as the gravity of this hits me. I’m going to die. I’m going to die here, today. But in some ways, this won’t be my death, this will be my rebirth, my freedom. If I’m lucky there will be a life after this, and if God has witnessed all my suffering then perhaps he will even forgive this offence, forgive this trespass and let me enter paradise.
