Crunch. Creak. Silence
TRIGGER WARNING!! SENSITIVE CONTENT!! Psychological horror. Physical and emotional abuse.
Quiet footsteps. The disgusting creak of old floorboards. Bare feet sticking to the cold floor. The howling wind. The smell of dust, mold, dampness. Whispers. From one side, from the other. A woman’s, a man’s, a child’s, an old person’s. Behind the right wall, behind the left door, above the ceiling, under the floor. Eyes. They stare into your very soul from every corner. Brown, blue, green, gray, blood-red, completely white. Staring, watching, pursuing. They hear, they listen, they heed. Every quiet step, every creak. They have voices, they are the ones whispering. Step. Step… one more step… one more. Stop. The last step, a squelching sound. The creaking stopped, feet stuck to the floor, stopped in a cold, viscous puddle. The voices fell silent, the eyes closed. Silence, total darkness, utter blackness. Hands rose to the face and dug nails into the skin, as if trying to claw something out of the head, out of the thoughts. Hands sticky, dirty. The body weakens, bends. Hands still digging into the face. Goosebumps run down the spine, it gets colder. Breathing becomes heavier. Each exhale grows louder, heavier, bursting from the chest with rage. The total silence is broken by heavy, panicked gasps. Painful, as if each one could be the last. Eyes snap open again, voices start again. The whisper grows louder and louder. The gaze grows heavier and heavier. Someone is standing behind, unnoticed, intangibly… mocking this pitiful sight…
–Are you scared?
The wind grows stronger.
–Are you in pain?
Hands tremble from the cold. Throat scratchy, mouth dry, tongue sticks to the palate, the taste of blood makes nausea rise to the throat…
–Tell me, are you in pain?
Feet, stuck to the floor, shift slightly.
–Are you angry?
Cold, viscous liquid seeps between toes.
–Are you trying to fight? Or are you getting ready to give up?
Pale red streaks remain on the face from the fingernails.
–Doesn’t it hurt?
It hurts.
–Do you want it to hurt?
Legs begin to tremble, barely holding up the weak body. Knees hit the floor loudly, into the same cold, viscous puddle on the creaking floorboards.
–Do you want me to hurt you?
Get Anna Lender’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Hands move to the crown of the head, clench tightly in the hair.
–You want it, don’t you? Say it, do you want it?
Long hair touches the floor, wet strands grow heavy.
–Say you want the pain. Say it.
Everywhere is viscous liquid, filth, cold, darkness, voices, eyes…
–SAY IT.
Stop. Enough, stop it. Please, shut up! Don’t do this to me…
–ASK ME TO HURT YOU.
Stop. Shut up. Shut up. ENOUGH. ENOUGH. SHUT THE FUCK UP, STOP IT, CLOSE YOUR MOUTH, STOP, IT HURTS. IT HURTS. HURTS. HURTS. HURTS. HURTS. HURTS. HURTS. HURTS.
–LET ME HURT YOU!!
Crunch. Creak. Silence.
Voices fell silent. Eyes closed. Darkness, silence, calm… but feeling returns to the body. A sound is heard… voices. Someone talking outside. Laughter. Head spins and buzzes, thoughts empty. Eyes open slightly. In front of me… a window. Sun shining, flooding the room with light. Birds singing. Smells like coffee, pastries, and… nausea rises to the throat, stomach cramps. Head is lying in a large puddle of dried and clotted blood. Trembling hands rise to the face. The sun illuminates dirty, bloodstained palms. In them lie clumps of tangled, torn-out hair, soaked in congealed blood. Head continues to buzz, splitting with pain. Squeamishly, with sharp movements, hands peel the hair stuck to the skin. The back of the hand presses against the forehead… a wound. From a blow. Fresh, aching, dull, hot. Hand reaches higher, finds two fresh bald patches on the scalp. Bloody, torn open by fingernails. Knees throb, bare feet are frozen, but they still help to slowly stand up. Hands push off the floor, from the puddle of dried blood. The sun peers through the window, as if mourningly observing. The light stings the eyes unpleasantly. Creak of floorboards underfoot. The rays illuminate the floor. The gaze quickly, disgustedly turns away from the vile sight. Turning away from the window, a step toward the exit. Step. Step. One more step. Stop. Out of the corner of the eye… a mirror. Reflection.
–What do you look like now?
Gaze fixed forward, body doesn’t move.
–Look at yourself.
Body completely drained of strength, head empty, mouth dry, a lump in the throat.
–Look what you’ve become. LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO YOURSELF!
Crunch. Creak. Silence.
Translated by the author. Thank you for reading.
