I was in my home, but it wasn’t my home. I was living with roommates, but they weren’t my roommates. There were six of us, to start, but I can only remember three: myself, the other who escaped, and him.
He was beautiful, almost hauntingly so. Dark eyes that captured you. If he had ever smiled, it would have been warm. But he never smiled. Just a blank beautiful face that inhabited a room on the second floor.
There was no warning, no way for any of us to know.
He was a Sadist, in the not sexy way.
And then, one day, I was in a cage. I think I wore my night clothes, so I suppose he drugged us in our sleep. I had a pillow. That was it.
I was beyond scared. I spent my time in my confines curled up in a ball, rocking myself, trying not to go insane.
We heard their screams, heard as he did things to him, heard as they begged to die. He never stopped, not until they stopped breathing.
One by one, they were gone, until it was just two of us left. And I wondered, was it my time? Would I die that day? What would he do to me before I was blessed with my final breath?
Oddly, on that day, he unlocked both our cages. He turned on the television in the living room and told us to watch it while he cooked breakfast. The other roommate and I, a man I can only barely see now, didn’t understand, but we were to fearful to question.
I remember the sounds of his frying something on the stove. I remember smelling the food, and realizing I was hungry, but was too frightened to care.
And then we saw it, people walking around outside our house. The front door was wide open. If we just ran, ran for our lives, maybe we could make it. Maybe neither of us would die that day.
I looked into my roommate’s eyes, he into mine, and we knew without speaking. We jumped up and ran. We stumbled through the front door. And even as I plowed through a large crowd of people, I couldn’t stop running.
But then, I did. I sat with a friend, in their car, who asked me how I was doing after I’d moved. Because that’s what I told everyone. I told them I just moved out of the house.
I said I was fine, though I had vacated so quickly I left behind some furniture.
She asked me what was still there. My bed. My dresser. My desk. Some clothes. She found this ridiculous. I needed to go back for my things.
But I didn’t really need them. And I couldn’t carry it all. No matter, she had a few guy friends who would help.
A few guys. Okay.
We all walked into my house. There was no activity.
I climbed the stairs, followed the path my other roommates took to their deaths. And with each step, it soon dawned on me why he let us live. Someone had to remember. Someone had to tell his story. Someone had to keep suffering.
At the top of the stairs, two cops crouched on the floor, looking at all the dried blood.
“Get out,” they ordered. “This is a crime scene!”
“I’m a victim!” I screamed back. I finally screamed.
I turned around, ran down the stairs again, out the door again, and would never return again.
Categorised as: Gen Fiction
Comments are disabled on this post