Warning: All things
You cry. That's how it begins.
You never cry, and you want to fight it. You want to fight him, but you can't. Something inside you won't let you lash out, and so you cry instead, and you plead, and your skin splits under his knife like butter on a hot edge. You can't see him, but that doesn't make it better. His fingers slide inside you, and they bruise places that you didn't realize could bruise, and you wonder what kind of person you've become that you allow it, that fear makes you a coward, that you fucking cry instead.
His blade pierces your throat, and you think maybe it'll end, maybe this nightmare will end, but no, and now you're sticky, and the air smells like iron, and you feel every slice of that knife between your breasts. His cock is inside you, and it isn't sharp like the blade, but somehow it feels like it is. Like it's stabbing into the very core of who you are with every one of his thrusts. Like he's digging his way into you, and you know he won't ever leave. Even if this ends, and even if you don't bleed to death all over him, he'll never be gone. You'll carry him with you forever, inside you, deep, where there's no getting him out.
You think this is the worst. You think it can't get worse than this. It can't possibly get worse than this, but then you feel his fingers, and he's digging his fingernails into the line of skin he separated along your chest, and the pain is like nothing you've ever felt as he pulls you apart for him, on his whim, while he fucks you harder. You're crying uncontrollably now, and you've left fear behind and turned to resignation. No, to a desire for it to end, because you're still you enough to know that you don't want to live with this, that you don't want this living inside you, shaping you and molding you with terror.
But it doesn't stop, and he doesn't stop, and your body is the one that gives out in the end. The pain too sharp, too much blood puddled on the floor beneath you in the dark, and every bit of you bruised inside.