stories (without pic) by thecurious one. Usually someone dies.

[thecuriousone]

Again a chapter of the torture college.


The Crux demo

Lila stood beside Mr. Turner, her hands trembling with a mix of fear and pride as she gripped the heavy hammer while hundreds of spectators watched impatiently. It felt like a ceremony, something ancient and ritualistic, as she watched the line of condemned women being led to their crosses. Their faces were pale, terrified, and though she felt a faint stirring of pity, it was buried beneath the overwhelming gravity of the task she’d been entrusted with. To be chosen for this annual demonstration was a high honor at Redhurst, a sign that she was worthy of the most important tasks her professors could request from her.

Mr. Turner looked at her with a nod of encouragement, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Show your skills to the audience , Lila,” he said quietly, his voice steady and almost kind, as though this were a simple classroom exercise. The pride in his gaze made her chest swell, and she straightened her back, gripping the hammer tighter, her nerves tingling with anticipation and a strange, feverish excitement.

They approached the first cross, where a trembling woman had been laid out, her wrists positioned precisely on the rough wood. Mr. Turner held her down, his hands firm, his expression calm, and nodded for Lila to begin. She raised the hammer, feeling its weight pulling down on her arm, but she forced herself to focus, determined not to falter. Her heart raced, her hands slick with sweat, and for a brief moment, she feared she might miss, might mess up this chance to prove herself.

But as she brought the hammer down, it landed true, the nail driving through flesh and wood with a sickening crunch. The woman’s scream tore through the air, raw and guttural, but Lila forced herself to ignore it, her face a mask of determination. She struck again and again, feeling each vibration travel up her arm, until the nail was secure. She moved to the ankles, concentrating with a fierce precision that surprised even herself. Her fear of making a mistake dissolved, replaced by an almost mechanical focus, and she repeated the process, working methodically, her strokes steady.

As she moved from one cross to the next, the horror of her task blurred into a distant hum, an abstract noise that barely reached her. Her focus was entirely on each nail, each strike, the rhythm of her movements. She could feel Mr. Turner’s approving gaze on her, and with each successful strike, her confidence grew, her pride swelling until it drowned out every other feeling. By the time she finished, her arm hurt from the hammering, her face expressionless, and she felt… proud. She had performed flawlessly, like a seasoned apprentice, every strike perfect, every nail straight.

When the last cross was raised, the crowd broke into applause. Lila stepped back, watching as the row of crosses, each bearing a writhing, suffering figure, stood tall against the sky. The women’s cries rose together, a haunting, broken chorus, and she felt a strange satisfaction at the sight, as though she had created something—something darkly beautiful, something powerful.

The applause grew louder, and a swell of pride surged in her chest as she looked up at Mr. Turner. His approving nod felt like the ultimate reward, more intoxicating than any applause. She had done it. She had proven herself worthy.

Later that evening, Lila stood in the grand hall at the Great Crucifixion Ball, dressed in a flowing toga that made her feel almost ethereal. Around her, her classmates and professors mingled, dressed in elegant togas and tuxedos, their laughter filling the air as they celebrated the day’s success. Chandeliers cast a soft glow over the room, and wine flowed freely, the rich, heady scent of it mixing with the faint metallic tang that seemed to cling to her skin.

Outside the window one could see the long line of crosses, each carrying a squirming woman. Her work. She smiled.

She felt a great sense of accomplishment as she moved through the crowd, receiving congratulations and admiring glances. She couldn’t shake the feeling of power that thrummed through her, the satisfaction of having been part of something grand, something historic. People spoke of her performance, her composure, and with each compliment, her pride grew, blotting out any lingering doubt.

One day she would be making career as executioner.

 

[thehangingtree]

Again a chapter of the torture college.

As she moved from one cross to the next, the horror of her task blurred into a distant hum, an abstract noise that barely reached her. Her focus was entirely on each nail, each strike, the rhythm of her movements. She could feel Mr. Turner’s approving gaze on her, and with each successful strike, her confidence grew, her pride swelling until it drowned out every other feeling. By the time she finished, her arm hurt from the hammering, her face expressionless, and she felt… proud. She had performed flawlessly, like a seasoned apprentice, every strike perfect, every nail straight.

When the last cross was raised, the crowd broke into applause. Lila stepped back, watching as the row of crosses, each bearing a writhing, suffering figure, stood tall against the sky.

Lila should be proud of a job well done...

 

[thecuriousone]

This young woman travels to a war- torn part of africa to have her life ended.


The Fire Within

The beginning

Leila’s life had never been extraordinary. Born in a quiet suburban town, she grew up amidst the monotony of routine: school, friends, family dinners, and summer vacations. But there was always an undercurrent of disconnection, a sense that she was an outsider watching her own life through a fogged window.

Her parents were kind but distant, absorbed in their own silent struggles. Her mother battled an undercurrent of depression, masking her emptiness with forced cheer. Her father, a workaholic, spent more time in his office than at home. They were present in the physical sense but absent in every other way.

As a child, Leila often retreated into her imagination. She crafted elaborate worlds where she was the heroine, escaping dangers far more thrilling than the dullness of her reality. But as she grew older, her fantasies took a darker turn. The imagined dangers became less about adventure and more about suffering. Pain became a constant theme—a fascination she couldn’t explain.

In high school, she discovered an outlet in art. Her sketches were haunting: broken bodies, anguished faces, and shadowy figures. Her teachers called her work “provocative,” but her classmates thought it was disturbing. The few friends she had drifted away, unable to reconcile the quiet, polite girl with the darkness that bled from her pencil.

Leila’s loneliness deepened. She went through the motions of life—graduated, went to college, got a job in graphic design—but everything felt hollow. Her nights became a sanctuary for her twisted thoughts, a place where she could explore her obsessions without judgment.

Then, the dreams began.

At first, they were brief flashes: cold metal tables, chains, gloved hands wielding sharp instruments. She woke up sweating but dismissed them as stress-induced nightmares. Over time, they grew longer, more detailed. The faceless men in her dreams became more brutal, more inventive. They used tools she couldn’t name, methods that defied imagination.

And the pain. It was so vivid, so real, that she began to fear sleep. But fear soon gave way to a strange kind of anticipation. The pain in her dreams, as horrifying as it was, filled a void in her waking life. It gave her something to feel, something that reminded her she was alive.

Her days blurred into a grey haze. She stopped going to work, stopped answering calls. Nothing in the waking world mattered anymore. Therapy sessions turned into hollow conversations, her therapists offering platitudes that felt like band-aids on a mortal wound.

“Leila,” her last therapist said one day, leaning forward with a look of professional concern, “what do you think your dreams are trying to tell you?”

Leila stared back, hollow-eyed. “That I don’t belong here.”

That night, she searched for communities online that might understand her. She found forums where people discussed their darkest fantasies, their unfulfilled desires for pain and suffering. She lurked in the shadows, reading post after post, until she felt a strange kind of kinship with these strangers.

But even among them, she was different. They spoke of fantasies they’d never act on, while Leila’s dreams had crossed a line. Her need was no longer a whisper; it was a scream.

She crafted her post with trembling fingers, each word a confession and a plea: “I am ready. Take me. End this. Torture me to death. Do it slowly and don’t show mercy. ”

The response was overwhelming. Some mocked her, others offered sympathy, but one message stood out. It was concise, devoid of emotion:

“I can help you realize this. No limits. No escape.”

She responded immediately. The person behind the message was methodical, efficient. He arranged her travel, gave her detailed instructions. Everything about their communication was cold, transactional. But that was what Leila needed. No hesitation. No second chances.

Before she boarded the plane, bringing nothing but her passport, she left a final message for her parents.

“I’ve gone where I belong. Don’t look for me.”

As she sat in the terminal, waiting for her flight to a place she couldn’t even pronounce, somewhere in Africa. Leila felt something she hadn’t felt in years: certainty. She was finally heading toward her purpose.

The warlord

Leila stepped off the small, battered plane into a wall of humid heat. The air felt immensely hot, clinging to her skin, heavy with the mingling scents of sweat, dust, faltering sewage and decay. Around her, the airport—or what passed for one—was little more than a strip of dirt and a rusted shack.

She was met by two black men, their faces hardened, their eyes unreadable. They carried rifles casually, as if they were an extension of their bodies. No words were exchanged. They simply gestured for her to follow.

As they drove deeper into the wilderness in a rattling truck, Leila watched the scenery shift from sparse settlements to dusty, oppressive savannah. Occasionally, they passed groups of ragged villagers herding their cattle, or armed patrols, their faces etched with cruelty. The truck’s tires kicked up dust, and the world outside became a blur.

They finally arrived at the warlord’s compound—an encampment infested by flies and cockroaches, guarded by men whose very presence radiated menace. At the center stood a large hut, adorned with tattered flags and symbols she didn’t recognize.

The warlord emerged.

He was larger than she had imagined, his presence overwhelming. His skin gleamed with sweat and oil, and ritual scars carved into his chest and arms seemed to tell a story of conquest and carnage. His eyes were dark, piercing, and filled with a cruel intelligence. He wore army clothes soaked in sweat.

He approached Leila slowly, his expression a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“You came willingly,” he said in a deep, accented voice. “My contact told me you asked for this.”

The Conversation

Leila sat on the dusty floor of the warlord’s hut, her wrists cuffed behind her back. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and charred wood. The warlord sat across from her on a relax chair, a stark contrast with the dirt floor on which it was placed. His broad frame filled the space, his scarred chest rising and falling as he savored the silence.

Between them, a low table held an array of knives, pliers, and other instruments of pain. Each one was polished and sharp, reflecting the flickering light of the battery powered lamp.

The warlord picked up a thin blade, turning it over in his hands. His smile was warm, almost fatherly, as he began to speak.

“You know,” he said, his voice deep and rich, “every month, I choose a woman. A special woman. Someone the spirits send to me.”

He paused, his eyes meeting Leila’s. “They come from villages, rival camps, sometimes even foolish travelers. But none, none, have come willingly. Until you.”

Leila said nothing. Her throat was dry, her pulse steady despite the gravity of his words.

The warlord chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “It is a gift, you see. What I do. These women… they scream, they cry, they beg. But in the end, they all give me what I want.” He gestured to the table. “Pain. Fear. Power. Their suffering is an offering to the spirits, and it keeps my men loyal. It keeps my enemies afraid.”

He leaned forward, placing the blade gently on the table. “And it keeps me entertained.”

Leila’s eyes flickered to the blade, then back to him. Her voice was quiet, steady. “What do you do to them?”

The warlord grinned, his teeth white against his dark skin. “Ah, you want to know? Good. I like that.” He picked up a pair of pliers, testing their grip. “Each one is different. Some, I start with their fingers. Slowly, one by one. Others, I take their eyes first, so they cannot see what is coming.”

He set the pliers down and picked up a heavier blade. “Then there are the creative ones. Last month, I carved patterns into a girl’s back, deep enough to show the bone. My men called it art. She didn’t think so.” He laughed, a low, rumbling sound. “She was strong, though. Lasted two days before she died.”

He set the blade down and leaned closer to Leila, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you… You’re special. You came to me. You asked for this.”

Leila nodded, her expression calm. “I did.”

The warlord’s eyes gleamed with delight. “I’ve never had a willing one. Do you know what that means?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “It means I can take my time. No need to break your spirit. You’ve already given it to me.”

He stood, towering over her, his shadow casting long across the room. “Here’s what will happen,” he said, his tone casual, almost cheerful. “Tonight, I’ll start with your skin. A little at a time. I want to see how long it takes before you scream. After that… maybe I’ll test your limits with fire. Not enough to kill you, of course. Just enough to make you wish you were dead.”

He circled the table, his hands brushing over the tools. “After that, I’ll see how much you can take before your body gives out. I’ll let my men watch. They’ll cheer for you, Leila. You’ll be a legend here.”

He stopped in front of her, his face inches from hers. “And when the time comes, when there’s nothing left of you but pain… I’ll give you to the fire. Let you roast till you are well done, so my chosen bodyguard can feast on your meat.”

Leila met his gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. “And then?”

The warlord smiled. “And then, you’ll be dead. Just like all the others. Only this time, I’ll remember your name.”

Leila closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing his words. When she opened them, there was no fear, only a quiet resolve. “Do what you have to do.”

The warlord studied her for a moment, then nodded, his smile widening. “Good. You understand.”

He clapped his hands, signaling the guards outside. The door opened, and two men entered, dragging Leila to her feet.

As they led her away, the warlord called after her. “I’ll see you tonight, Leila. Make me proud.”

Leila didn’t look back. She walked with steady steps, each one bringing her closer to the fate she had chosen.


The last night

The camp bustled as preparations began. The warlord’s men dragged Leila to a post in the center of the compound, tearing her top and shorts off her body, before chaining her wrists and ankles with rusty chains. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the camp. Fires were lit, their orange glow flickering against the faces of the gathered militia.

Leila’s heart pounded, not with fear, but with an almost euphoric sense of inevitability. She had arrived at the end of her journey.

The warlord himself wielded the blade, his movements calculated. His first cut he gave her was slow and shallow, like he was exploring how to hurt her. A zig zag cut over her forearm. Leila’s skin split under the steel, and pain bloomed, while her blood spilled in the dust. She gasped, her body instinctively jerking against the restraints, but she didn’t cry out.

The warlord’s men watched with rapt attention, their eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. They cheered and raised their assault rifles with every new wound, their voices rising in a grotesque symphony. Before long her body was covered in a criss cross pattern of shallow cuts.

“You feel it now, don’t you?” the warlord said, his voice calm, almost gentle. “The fire inside you. The fire that will consume you.”

As the torture continued, Leila’s body began to fail. Blood pooled at her feet, her vision blurred, and the edges of her consciousness frayed. But through the agony, she felt something else—a strange, almost transcendent clarity.

The warlord ordered his men to prepare the final stage. They lit a fire larger than the other fires, a massive pile of wood and debris set ablaze. Then they cut off her limbs. Leila barely realized it. She saw one of the guards dancing with his AK47 in one hand, and a severed arm in the other hand. A triumphant smile on his face. Then she realized, that he was holding her severed arm. On one of the smaller fires, she saw her legs roasting.

When the main fire was burning big enough, they dumped Leila’s limbless body on top of the roaring flames. It was unbearably hot, searing her flesh even before the fire touched her.

As the flames licked at her skin, Leila finally screamed—a raw, primal sound that echoed through the camp. But her scream wasn’t one of despair. It was a release, almost a triumphant yell. She had found her end, and in that end, she found her purpose.

The warlord and his men chanted and fired volleys into the night, their voices blending with the crackling flames. They worshipped the spectacle, the offering of flesh and spirit to the spirits.

Leila’s body blackened and crumbled, her essence rising with the smoke into the night sky. In her final moments, she felt a profound sense of liberation. She was no longer bound by her dreams, her pain, or her existence.

She was free.

 

[thecuriousone]

For a change, the main character lives in this short one.



The Thrill of Knowing


The glow of Ethan’s laptop screen illuminated the dark room as Clara sat cross-legged on their bed. It was an innocent enough start: she had borrowed his computer to stream a movie afterhers had died. But when she clicked open his media folder, a small collection of unmarked videos caught her eye.


The first one opened with a shaky, handheld shot of a woman, bound and gagged, her eyes full of sheer, animal panic. Ethan’s voice, calm and deliberate, came from behind the camera. Thescene that followed unraveled Clara’s sense of reality.


She watched as he mutilated the woman with surgical precision, his blade carving into her chest with a cold detachment that was as terrifying as it was mesmerizing. Blood soaked the frame ashe continued, cutting away her tits and then dismembering her with a calculated rhythm, each motion methodical, purposeful. There was no hesitation in his actions—just an eerie, practiced ease.


Clara’s stomach churned. Her hands flew to her mouth, muffling a scream that begged to escape.


But she didn’t stop watching.


Each cut, each strangled cry from the victim, seemed to dig claws into her psyche. The horror of what she was witnessing should have sent her fleeing. Instead, a dark, forbidden warmth spreadthrough her body.


She paused the video, chest heaving, her thoughts in a cyclone of revulsion and… desire?


What is wrong with me?


Her mind screamed at her to delete the files, to run far away and call the police. Yet, another part of her—a deeper, hidden part—ached to press play again, to see more. The clinicalprecision of his violence, the undeniable dominance of his actions, and the thought that he, Ethan, was capable of such things sent a thrill coursing through her veins.


She watched the two other videos. Different women, same torture. She could not stop herself. She rubbed her pussy, only pulling back when she realised that she was about to cum. Each coupleof minutes, without realizing it, her fingers were back at her clit, bringing herself to the brink before she could control herself again.


When she finally shut the laptop, the room was suffocating in its silence. Clara felt a thrum of adrenaline beneath her skin, a buzzing mix of fear and… arousal. Her heart pounded notjust from terror but from the electric thrill of discovery.


He could kill me.


The thought sent a sharp, intoxicating pang of anticipation down her spine.


For days, she couldn’t look at Ethan the same way. His gentle smile over breakfast, the way he kissed her forehead when he left for work, the subtle strength of his hand on her back—allof it took on a new, sinister undercurrent.


He was a predator. She knew that now.


And she was prey.


But rather than running, she found herself leaning into the danger. Her thoughts turned darker as she imagined him finding out. What would he do? Would he panic? Or would he corner her, hisdark secret no longer hidden, and reveal the monster she now knew him to be?


Clara fantasized about the moment he’d figure it out. She pictured herself confronting him, staring into those calm, calculating eyes. Would he tie her up like the others? Would he carveher apart with the same deliberate artistry? The thought made her stomach churn—and her breath hitch with an aching desire she couldn’t explain.


The possibility of being his next victim didn’t just terrify her. It thrilled her.


One night, unable to resist the pull of her spiraling thoughts, she played the videos again. The sharp cries of his victims, the haunting sound of his blade cutting through flesh—theyno longer felt foreign. They felt intimate.


She imagined herself in their place.


She pictured her body on that screen, her voice crying out, her flesh beneath his hands.


The fantasy was overwhelming, dark, and raw. She hated herself for it. She hated how much it excited her.


By the time Ethan returned home that night, Clara was already sitting on the couch, waiting for him. He leaned down to kiss her, his hand brushing her cheek with his usual tenderness.


“Long day?” he asked.


Her lips twitched into a soft smile. “Yeah… but I was thinking about you.”


The double meaning in her words was almost too much to bear.


That night, as she lay beside him in bed, his arms wrapped securely around her, Clara considered saying it out loud. Do it to me. Make me yours, completely.


Her heartbeat raced at the thought. Would he smile that calm, chilling smile? Would he whisper sweet nothings as he prepared her for the end?


The possibility consumed her, the sharp line between terror and desire blurring into something she could no longer separate.


By morning, Clara had made her decision. She would keep his secret. She would wait. For now, at least.


And when the time came—if the time came—she would meet her fate willingly.


Because deep down, in a part of herself she could never admit aloud, she wanted to know what it felt like to be his masterpiece.

 

[Sofiya Tkachenko]

Something with drowning, abduction and rape.

A Beautiful Day for a Jog

Chapter 1: A Beautiful Day for a Jog

Jogging along the nature trail had become my daily escape. The rhythmic pounding of my feet on the dirt path, the fresh air filling my lungs, and the occasional deer sighting—this was my sanctuary. Plus, it didn’t hurt that I got to flaunt my toned legs in my cute running shorts. Yep, life was good. Little did I know that today’s jog would be anything but ordinary.

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and I had just hit my stride. I passed the old wooden sign that marked the halfway point and felt a burst of energy. There’s something about pushing past your limits that feels so damn good. That, and the knowledge that a post-run smoothie was waiting for me at home.

As I rounded the bend near the river, I spotted a white van parked on the side of the road. It wasn’t unusual to see vehicles here; fishermen often parked their cars and trucks along the riverside. I didn’t think much of it, even though it seemed a bit out of place for a Tuesday morning.

“Probably someone taking a sick day to fish,” I thought with a smirk. Lucky them.

That’s when everything went to hell. Out of nowhere, a massive figure lunged at me from behind the trees. Before I could even register what was happening, I was tackled to the ground with the force of a linebacker. My brain screamed at me to fight back, but my body was slow to respond.

“Get off me!” I shouted, trying to twist out of his grip. But he was too strong.

“Stay still!” he growled, his voice sending chills down my spine.

I managed to get one arm free and swung it at him, but he easily dodged my attempt. Within seconds, he had my arms twisted painfully behind my back, and I felt the cold bite of handcuffs snap around my wrists.

“Help!” I screamed, but the trail was deserted. My voice echoed uselessly in the empty space.

Before I could scream again, he stuffed a rag into my mouth and covered it with duct tape. I tried to kick at him, but he quickly secured my legs with another set of handcuffs. Panic surged through me as he pulled a bag over my head, plunging me into darkness.

“Please, no!” I tried to shout, but it came out as a muffled whimper.

He dragged me towards the van, my body scraping against the rough ground. I fought with everything I had, but it was no use. He was too strong, and I was too restrained. I heard the van door slide open, and then I was lifted and tossed inside like a sack of potatoes.

The door slammed shut, and the engine roared to life. As the van sped off, I was thrown against the metal floor, the handcuffs digging into my skin. Tears streamed down my face, soaking the inside of the bag. I had never felt so helpless in my life.
Chapter 2: A Day of Torment

The van jolted and bounced over the rough roads, each bump sending fresh waves of pain through my body. I lay there, blind and gagged, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts. Who was this man? What did he want with me? And how the hell was I going to get out of this?

I tried to stay calm, but it was no use. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of my chest. Every time I moved, the handcuffs bit into my skin, reminding me of just how trapped I was. I had to think of a way to escape, but my mind was too clouded with fear to come up with anything useful.

Finally, the van came to a stop. I heard the driver’s door open and the heavy thud of boots on the ground. The back door slid open, and rough hands grabbed me, yanking me out of the van and onto my feet. The bag was pulled off my head, and I blinked against the sudden brightness.

We were in the middle of nowhere. An old, abandoned warehouse loomed in front of me, its windows shattered and walls covered in graffiti. The man shoved me forward, and I stumbled, nearly falling to the ground.

“Move,” he ordered, his voice cold and menacing.

I tried to obey, my mind racing. But with my ankles still cuffed, I made little progress. So he decided to speed things up, grabbed my hair and pulled my to the warehouse. I had to find a way to escape, but for now, I had no choice but to do as he said. He pushed me through the broken door and into the dark interior of the warehouse. The place reeked of mold and decay, and I shuddered as we made our way through the maze of debris.

He shoved me into a small, dank room and slammed the door shut behind us. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at me with a twisted smile on his face.

He ripped off the duct tape that had kept my mouth sealed. I spit out the rag and uttered some unhinged sounds. “Welcome to your new home,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Hope you like it. You’re gonna be here for a while.”

I glared at him, trying to muster as much defiance as I could. “Why are you doing this?” I demanded, my voice shaking.

“Because I can,” he replied simply. “And because it’s fun. I have been observing you for weeks, and now I have you at my mercy.”

My heart sank. This was a game to him, and I was just a pawn. I had to find a way out of here before it was too late.

He ripped off my clothes, and started fucking my ass with zero tenderness. He took a viagra pill to make sure his stamina would be near unlimited. The hours dragged on, each one more agonizing than the last while he forced his lid in every hole of my body. He tormented me relentlessly, never giving me a moment’s peace. He taunted me, insulted me, and laughed at my feeble attempts to fight back. Every time I thought he might let up, he found new energy to make me suffer. He hit me, bumped my head against objects, grabbed my tits and pulled as hard as he could, just to make me feel more miserable.

En un momento dado, trajo un balde de agua helada y lo arrojó sobre mi cabeza, riéndose mientras yo jadeaba y farfullaba. “Pareces una rata ahogada”, se burló. “Patético”. Había limpiado la suciedad de mi cuerpo, pero no por mucho tiempo. En cuestión de minutos estaba cubierto de barro y de cualquier otra suciedad que hubiera en el suelo, mezclada con mi propia sangre.

Todo el tiempo me mantuvo esposada de pies y manos, sin posibilidad de escapar de su interminable tortura y violación.

Quería gritar, llorar, suplicar clemencia, pero sabía que eso solo empeoraría las cosas. Así que apreté los dientes y aguanté, tratando de aferrarme a la esperanza de que, de algún modo, encontraría una forma de escapar.

Cuando el sol empezó a ponerse, finalmente pareció cansarse de sus juegos. Encadenó una pesada pesa de cencerro a mis tobillos y me arrastró de regreso a la camioneta. Me dolían las piernas por el peso adicional y cada paso era una lucha.

Conducíamos en silencio, el único sonido que se oía era el traqueteo de las cadenas y el rugido del motor. No tenía ni idea de adónde íbamos, pero sabía que no podía ser ningún buen lugar.

Capítulo 3: El puente sin retorno

La camioneta se detuvo y mi captor me sacó de un tirón, arrastrándome hacia un puente desierto. El aire era frío y un escalofrío me recorrió la espalda mientras miraba el agua oscura y arremolinada que había debajo.

—Este es el final del camino —dijo, con una voz desprovista de toda emoción—. Es hora de decir adiós. Bájate del puente.

Negué con la cabeza y el pánico me invadió. —¡No, por favor! Haré lo que sea, pero no me hagas saltar.

Se rió con un sonido cruel y despiadado. “No tienes elección. O saltas o te hago algo mucho peor”.

Miré el agua con el corazón acelerado. Tenía que haber una salida. No podía rendirme, no ahora. Pero mientras estaba allí, con el peso de las cadenas tirándome hacia abajo, me di cuenta de que no había escapatoria.

—Hazlo —ordenó con voz de hielo. Sacó un cuchillo de su bolsillo y sostuvo la punta contra mi pezón.

Tras una última mirada desesperada hacia él, me acerqué al borde del puente. El agua fría me envolvió y el peso del cencerro me arrastró hacia abajo, hacia abajo, hacia abajo. Luché, luché con todas mis fuerzas, pero fue inútil. Las cadenas eran demasiado pesadas y yo estaba demasiado débil.

Capítulo 4: Los momentos finales

El agua estaba fría, tan fría que parecía como si agujas me atravesaran la piel. Me retorcí y pateé, pero el peso que llevaba encadenado a los tobillos era implacable y me arrastraba cada vez más hacia el abismo oscuro. Mis pulmones pedían aire a gritos, pero cada vez que abría la boca, lo único que conseguía era más agua.

"¿Es esto todo?", me pregunté. "¿Así es como termina?"

Mis pensamientos eran un torbellino caótico de pánico y arrepentimiento. Pensé en mi madre, que nunca sabría lo que me había pasado. Pensé en mis amigos, que se preguntarían por qué había dejado de ir a almorzar. Incluso pensé en el chico del que estaba enamorada, que probablemente nunca sabría de mi existencia.

Es curioso cómo funciona tu mente en tus momentos finales.

Los bordes de mi visión comenzaron a desdibujarse y una extraña sensación de calma comenzó a apoderarse de mí. Tal vez era el momento de dejarme llevar.

Pero entonces algo dentro de mí se quebró. No. No era así como iba a salir. No iba a dejar que ese monstruo ganara. Con las últimas fuerzas que me quedaban, luché contra las cadenas, pateando y tirando con todas mis fuerzas.

Fue un esfuerzo inútil. El peso era demasiado y mi cuerpo estaba demasiado débil. Pero seguí luchando, seguí luchando, porque eso era lo que yo era. Era una luchadora y no iba a rendirme sin luchar.

A medida que la oscuridad se acercaba, sentí una extraña sensación de paz. Tal vez fuera la falta de oxígeno, o tal vez era la certeza de que había hecho todo lo que podía. De cualquier manera, estaba lista. Lista para dejarme llevar. Mientras el agua llenaba mis pulmones y la oscuridad comenzaba a acercarse, pensé en mi familia, mis amigos, todas las personas que amaba. Esperaba que encontraran la paz, incluso si yo no podía.

Solté el aliento y expulsé el último aire privado de oxígeno de mis pulmones, solo para ser reemplazado por agua.

En esos últimos momentos, pensé en los buenos momentos. Las risas, el amor, los momentos de pura alegría. Y me aferré a esos recuerdos mientras la oscuridad se apoderaba de mí y me llevaba hacia lo desconocido.

Wow !!

 

[SirMGBZ]

Because deep down, in a part of herself she could never admit aloud, she wanted to know what it felt like to be his masterpiece.

That was twelve kinds of awesome!