The voice filters through layers and layers of haze and gauze, reality and fiction slipsliding together until you lose the ability to tell one from the other. But her voice coaxes you on, taunting you, challenging you. You're drunk on something that fills you so fully, overwhelming your senses, making it impossible to think straight. You push forward, fingers shoving someplace warm and moist, and you're going against your own limits of what's acceptable, but fuck. Her voice keeps goading you on. You take one step, she demands twelve, and hell if you aren't someone who takes pride in never disappointing.
Her continued taunts have you driving forward, burying something other than fingers deep in that bitching, begging body, and though you find no pleasure in the actual act, it satisfies something dark deep within you. You growl, unable to form words, and heat spills over your fingers as skin splits easily with a drag of your knife, and it's that cry of pain that you really like to hear. You're sharing your pain, the one that plagues you constantly, a friend you hate, with someone else, and that feels good.
There's no control anymore, you're flying on autopilot, fingers digging into the wound that was your creation, and through it all, you lose track of time. There's just the heat that surrounds your fingers, your cock, and you can't stop giving it to her, giving in to those goading words.
And then.
Things shatter.
You realise she hasn't said anything in a long time. She isn't moving. And the darkness recedes, leaving behind a dull horror that grips you through and through. You all but drop her on the floor in your hurry to get out, unable to face what you just did, the line you just crossed. It's hard to breathe as you race away, falling against a wall, and nothing in the world will stop the sound of her voice in your ears, blood-soaked fingers digging into cropped hair, trying to block it all out.