En La Sangre
WARNING: This ficlet contains highly graphic and disturbing content. Please proceed with caution if you are sensitive to themes of: Intense Body Horror, Psychological Torture & Anguish, Non-Consensual / Dubious Consent Dynamics, Kidnapping & Confinement, and Disturbing Imagery.
With all said, enjoy!
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The whiskey was cheap, burning a rough trail down your throat, but she made it feel like liquid fire. Her eyes, lit by the flickering neon of the bar, held a wild, predatory gleam that mirrored your own dark curiosities. This wasn't a casual hookup; this was a dance, an intoxicating plunge into something deliciously dangerous. You were lost in her orbit, drawn by the primal promise of a night that would unravel all your carefully constructed walls. Un trago más, she purred, her fingers brushing yours, a spark that felt like both destiny and a fuse.
Then came the sudden, brutal impact at the back of your head, no warning, no flicker, just a blinding, bone-jarring slam. The world didn't just tilt; it imploded into a chaos of distorted faces, a symphony of breaking glass, and then, mercifully, a thick, suffocating black. When consciousness clawed its way back, it wasn't to the familiar stench of stale beer and desperation. It was to the biting, metallic chill of a meat locker, a concrete floor stained with something dark and slick beneath your cheek. The silence was a suffocating shroud, broken only by the rhythmic, sickening drip...drip...drip somewhere close, each drop echoing like a hammer blow in your skull.
And then you felt them: the rough, unyielding bite of leather cuffs cinching your wrists, mirroring the ones around your ankles. They weren't just restraints; they were a promise, a declaration of absolute, undeniable ownership. You were bound not to a bed, not to a chair, but to a cold, metal slab, your body splayed, exposed, awaiting sacrifice.
"You'd like that, Rojo, wouldn't you?" Her voice, cutting through the sterile chill, was a cruel, mocking caress, stripped bare of any previous flirtation. It was the sound of a puppet master pulling strings, the sound of a predator toying with its prey. She had a vice-like grip on your long ginger hair—pelo de jengibre, your own family had called it, now a taunt spat from lips that once promised paradise—yanking your head taut as she forced your gaze to the side. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, desperate drum against the silence, a futile protest. There was no escape, no easy awakening from this nightmare. This was real. This was the game.
He appeared then, emerging from the deepest shadows into the sickly, blood-red glow cast by a single, bare bulb swinging precariously overhead. He was a silhouette draped in black from head to toe, but it was the grotesque effigy strapped to his face that stole your breath: a dead, rotting deer's head, its fur matted, its eye sockets dark and cavernous, reflecting nothing but the void. It was a carnival mask of death, a chilling herald that you were at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and now, perhaps, no time at all. In his hand, a medical knife glinted, reflecting the bulb's harsh light with an almost ceremonial gleam. This wasn't a drunken brawl. This was calculated. This was performance. This was hell.
He leaned over you, the stench of decay from the deer head overpowering, sickening, filling your nostrils with the rot of the grave. With a slow, deliberate percussion, he pressed the knife against your bare chest, its cold tip a stark prelude. Then, with an unnerving precision, he injected it, not a wild plunge, but a measured, surgical insertion. You couldn't scream. The sound caught, a choked gasp, a gurgle in your throat. Only thoughts, cold and clear despite the encroaching shadows, echoed in your mind: No voy a salir de aquí como llegué. A bar. Just a bar. If only you were drunk enough not to see this, not to feel this.
A sting so sharp it was almost numb, then a bizarre sense of pressure, of something tearing, something wet and internal. Steady as he goes, he pulled. And with it, a kidney, slick and pulsing in the dim light. You hadn't even realized how deep he'd cut, how vertically and surgically precise the incision had been. It was as if you were floating, dozed, watching it happen to someone else. Black shadows, thick as tar, swallowed your vision, blurring everything into a swirling vortex of agony and disbelief, leaving only a cold, hollow ache where something vital once resided. Your body felt distant, light, as blood, warm and then chillingly cold, drained from the deep-rooted cut, painting the sterile metal a grotesque crimson. You weren't sure if you'd ever wake up. Or if you even wanted to. This hell, you realized, was just beginning, and you were its newest, unwilling performer.
"Consciousness is such a fragile thing," she mused, her voice floating through the metallic chill like smoke through cathedral air. You could hear the soft scrape of her chair as she shifted, the whisper of fabric against skin. "One moment you're drowning in oblivion, the next you're drowning in awareness. Which is worse, do you think?"
Your throat felt lined with broken glass, each breath a deliberate act of rebellion against the body's desire to simply... stop. The deer-masked figure had retreated to the shadows, but his presence lingered like the memory of a fever dream—real, inescapable, patient as death itself.
"You're wondering why," she continued, and you could hear the smile in her voice, predatory and knowing. "Why you, why here, why now. The human mind, it craves narrative, doesn't it? Cause and effect. Beginning, middle, end."
Your wrists burned where the leather had rubbed raw, but the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the growing realization that this wasn't random violence. This was curation. You were being prepared for something.
"But some stories," she whispered, and you felt her breath against your ear, warm and impossibly soft, "don't have endings. They just have... continuations."
Through the haze of pain and pharmaceutical fog, you began to understand. The kidney wasn't the prize—it was the down payment. The beginning note in a symphony of systematic dismantling. Your body wasn't a victim; it was a canvas, and they were just getting started with their masterpiece.
