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Here she sits all alone; isolated on her bed.
Quarantined in her room.
Locked away from the rest of the world.
Crying her eyes out; just sobbing away.
The bottle only opens when she’s alone.
She couldn’t let anyone know what was really going on; how she might have felt.
No. She was on her own on this.
How many days had she been awake?
Anti-depressants. Many of them had been consumed by this point.
A bottle and a half in a few days.
No sleep. None could be had.
Sleeping leads to dreaming.
Dreams of him.
Nightmares.
She didn’t want to think about it.
She simply couldn’t.
Every time she closed her eyes he was there.
His breath hot on her face.
His weight pinning her down.
His loud, deep voice.
“It’s okay, princess. This will all be over soon.”
Not soon enough.
Never soon enough.
Her hand clenched tightly around a knitting needle.
The knitting needle.
His breath on hers; she’s choking.
Gagging.
Thinking of it brings tears to her eyes.
Wiping the moisture from her eyes, she sits quietly down on top of the towel that’s spread over the foot of the bed.
Then, a sudden knock on the door startles her into a fit. Dropping the needle, and falling back on the bed, she’s sobbing with her hands to her face.
“Sally?”
Just ignore it, and it will go away.
She doesn’t know what it is. She doesn’t need to.
Just ignore it, and it will go away.
Skeletons dance across the floor, not an inch tall. They scare her. She wishes they would go away, with the voice and the loud knocking noise, but they won’t.
They just keep dancing.
The waltz.
Foxtrot.
The knocking gets louder. The dancing gets faster.
A hundred little skeletons in dusty old clothes. Dancing away on the floor by her bed.
Hands clamped tight to her mouth, she notices that she can’t feel her face.
Why the fuck can’t she feel her face?
Something isn’t right. She feels funny.
Sick, even.
She throws up again, between her fingers, and out onto her white comforter. The one with the flowers all over it.
“Sally? Are you okay?”
She starts sobbing heavily again. She can’t help it.
The knocking gets louder.
“Sally?”
“Go away!”
“What?”
“Get the fuck away, you demon!”
“Sally, it’s Son-”
“GET THE FUCK AWAY!”
And then there was silence, save for Sally’s incoherent whining.

She’s changed.

Over a month ago, it wasn’t like this. It was nothing like this.

She was..

Well, she wasn’t like this.

What the fuck did he do to her?

That isn’t Sally. That’s not the Sally that lived here before.

It may be her body, but that isn’t Sally Acorn.

Sally Acorn loved me…

Sally Acorn didn’t flinch when I would touch her. Sally Acorn didn’t lock herself away in her room for two days straight. Sally Acorn didn’t tell me to go away. Ever.

He captured her while we were attempting to blow up a factory. This would have cut down his productivity by twenty-five percent.

Needless to say the mission was a failure. The bomb was a dud. Didn’t go off for some reason.

We had to split up at one point. Take different directions.

I waited for hours at the rendezvous point. Then I went searching for her.

She was easy to get back. She always is. This has happened before, but normally when I rescue her, she’s happy to see me.

This time she seemed kind of… dead?

Her eyes were beady. Soulless. It scared me, it truly did. When she looks at me now, it’s like she’s not looking at me. She’s looking past me. Through me.

Off into space.

Her responses are empty. One worded answers.

Dismissal.

As if to say “there. I answered it. Leave me alone.”

Something happened, and she won’t tell me.

Does she even remember?

Does she trust me enough to say?

Maybe it torments her still. Torturing her day in and day out.

I feel so useless. She’s helplessly awry, and I can’t do shit to help her.

What if she doesn’t even want my help?

Something is wrong with her. He did something to her head, I fucking know it. He hurt her, and I’m going to fucking kill him for it.

This cat and mouse bullshit is over.

I’m going to kill him, and it’s going to be painful.

“Don’t worry, Princess”
He never stopped pretending to try to comfort her.
“It’s my first time, too.”
And deep laughter bellowed from the pit his gut, as his naked body crushed hers beneath it.
She was already screaming.
Skin stretches upon invasion, slowly tearing.
She had started crying a long time ago.
It only got worse.
With each thrust of this foreign act, her voice would break.
Her throat was hoarse.
The begging had ceased a while back.
There was only crying now.
Sobbing and laughter.
And screaming.
Each thrust sending waves of shock through her body.
And screaming.
His fat body pounding against hers, when finally
a release.
He collapses on top of her, as her cries continue.
Breathing heavily, crushing her with his body weight, he starts to chuckle.
He gets up, and looks down at his handy work.
His crying, naked handy work. Semen and blood dripping down her leg.
He left her there for a little while.
Left her there to think about what had just happened.
It didn’t dawn on her then.
She dismissed the idea entirely.
Never once during this period did she think of the meaning of the act itself.
Not once.
He returned a few moments later with a hypodermic needle, filled almost to its end with a clear substance.
He pushed the needle slowly into her thigh, and pushed down on the plunger.
She felt an intense burning sensation as he injected the contents into her blood stream. She wanted to scream, but after a few seconds she felt nothing.
Nothing.
She closed her eyes.
Nothing else is remembered of that night.

Uncapping the bottle, I pour the contents into an empty glass.

Fill it to the brim. This is my third glass.

Taking the biggest swig I can, I set the glass down and struggle to swallow. Coughing, I put all my body weight into my elbow, by leaning it against the table in front of me.

I feel sick.

I feel tired.

I feel angry.

I feel useless.

Useless.

Fuck.

Take another hit from the glass.

The vodka tells my stomach that I’m going to throw up. My head tells my stomach that it’s just burp. Man up. You’re alright.

Hell, you’re almost ready for another one.

I take that back.

God, Sally.

This is my fault. I should have been there for her.

But I wassn’t.

Hindsssight’ss twenty-twenty.

All she did was ask god for an angel.
An angel to guide her in her time of need.
An angel to protect her. An angel to look after her.
She asked for an angel, but instead she got a sign.
A sign of disapproval.
A sign of warning.
She isn’t sure when the bodies appeared.
She just knows she doesn’t want to touch them.
She does not have the slightest idea how the wall caught fire, either. She just knows that it’s a sign.
A sign from god.
She has to purge this demon that torments her so, or be consumed by the flames.
Quickly hopping on all fours, she scans the floor for the knitting needle.
Spotting it next to a corpse by the corner of the bed, she reaches out for it.
It seems like it’s a million miles away.
Grasping her fingertips around it, she picks it up slowly.
Her hand trembles wildly.
Purge the demon.
She’s scared; this is given.
Heroism has its price.
As does divinity.
As does salvation.
This is a test.
A test from god.
The hardest test she will ever face.
Can she pull it off?
She can try.
Clutching the knitting needle tightly in her hand, she spreads her legs.
Her entire body is trembling.
This has to be done.
It’s the only way.
She just wishes she had an angel.
An angel to guide her.
And the flames get bigger.

jussslt wissshhhh I could hel…p

Cringing, her face contorted.
Clenching her bare hand around the thick needle, the skin on her palm fits to the groves.
She’s not ready.
But here goes everything.
She feels the cold point sliding into her.
Her eyes have never been shut this tightly.
She carefully guides the slender metal tip to her cervix.
A pause.
Whimpering and crying, she goes for it. Pushing it in deep, she starts to scream louder than ever as she forces it at an angle into the wall of her uterus.
Her voice box tears to shreds as she screams her voice hoarse.
Scraping away.
She coughs. Blood runs down her chin, and she falls to her back.
She has to stop.
The agony is too great.
But it doesn’t subside.
Coughing up more blood.
It’s coming from her throat.
She cries out as she swipes the needle to the left, and back around.
She yanks the knitting needle out as hard as she can, projecting blood out all over the white comforter.
The bloody fetus is tugged out as well, creating a grotesque mess of mucus, blood and placenta. After birth.
She no longer has a voice. Her cries are silent; her breathing ragged.
Coughing up more blood, she leans forward.
The flames are retreating.
She grabs the fetus, and tries to get up. The attempt is unsuccessful.
She falls to the floor, leaning her back against the mattress so she can sit up.
Dropping the knitting needle, she picks up the baby with both hands, and brings it down on the hard wood floor.
Has to make sure it’s dead.
For good. For real.
She tries to speak, but she can’t.
She just hopes god is proud of her for purging the demon.
She just hopes she can finally rest.

She was found a day later, when Sonic finally broke into her apartment.

She was found on the floor.
She was covered in blood.
She was dead.
In her bloody lap was a mangled fetus, that had been smashed into the ground repeatedly between her legs.

On the floor to her right was a bloody knitting needle and a bottle of concerta.

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