Violence
You're terrified. Not just scared, but terrified. Even as you walk into the storage unit, you know it's a trap, but you don't know how to get out of it, so you walk into the spider's web, and you know that you're going to stick there. Thoughts flash through your mind as you take those last steps. You remember waking up sore and violated, and you remember the sound of laughter. You remember the feel of a crop in your hand, and you remember the sound of laughter. You remember a fear so strong you could smell it, and you remember the sound of laughter. You know it's not normal, having someone's laughter imprinted on your memory like that, but it's there, and it's only gotten louder in the past week, and you're so scared that you want to leave, to run, to go.
But guilt doesn't let you, and you walk the remainder of the way into the storage unit, the cellphone that's in your hand magnifying his voice and letting it crawl along your skin. And then he's there, across the room, closer. And the phone is gone, and it's just you and him, and you think you'd rather be dead than drink whatever he's trying to get you to drink, to go wherever he's trying to get you to go.
He'll come, you think. He'll come. He'll come. He'll come. But he doesn't come. He doesn't.
The man reaches for you, and he jabs his keys into your skull until the pain almost eclipses your terror. Blood is running into your eyes, and you almost can't get your sticky fingers on the knife you have hidden. But you manage, and the feel of resistance as you slice through his hamstrings is the closest thing to sheer joy that you've felt since your son was born. For a moment, you think you'll make it. You think you will. But then he destroys his phone, and you can't call anyone. You look down, and you're covered with blood, and you hate.
You hate.
The gun, taken from the back of your jeans, is warm in your hand, and it's pure pain that guides your hand as you kneel and press it to his groin. Two years. Two years. Two years. Two years of fear. Two years of him threatening everything you love. Two years of him bringing back every feeling of being nothing.
Two years, and still he won't tell you where he's hidden her. She's going to die, and it's your fault. Guilt rises up like bile, and you can taste it bitter on your tongue.
And you pull the trigger, and it doesn't help, doesn't do a fucking thing. And then the memory ends in a sharp scream, a cry, and the realization that it won't go away. Even if you kill him, it won't go away.