777 says:

My second JTHM fic!! Yay! This one is from the POV of one of his many victims. D

I woke up thrashing. Or at least, trying to. Ice-cold metal bars were clamped over my ankles, wrists and forehead. A ridiculous amount of leather straps crossed over the rest of me. It was bitterly tight. Its a weird way to say it, I know, but thats how it felt. Bitter. I heard footsteps at the end of the room, and I strained to open my eyes. A thin figure was disappearing into the gloom ahead.

What the hell?

"Hey! Hey, you!" I tried to call, but all that came out was a hoarse bark. The figure turned its head slightly to face me, and I caught a glimpse of his face. Large, shadowy eyes and bony cheeks. A shock of spiky black hair. He turned away quickly, shyly, and vanished.

What the hell? Whats going on?

The room was so dark and musty. It was nothing like what I was used to. Before I woke up here, I'd been staying at a luxury resort with three swimming pools (two of them heated and indoors) a gourmet sushi-bar and exquisite dinner parties almost every night. My room was overlooking the city, and it came with silk sheets and four gold-wrapped Godiva chocolates on the pillows. It was so beautiful.

Why am I here, in this hell-hole? Who did this?

Not my mother. Not my rich, handsome, doctor of a fiancee, or my many, many lovers. Not my jealous sister, or my in-laws, or any of the society girls. I thought back as far as I could, to all the people I had ever snubbed or ruined socially, and I couldn't think of a single person who would dare. I'm a well-known heiress. Like, a New York Paris Hilton. Did my captor know who my daddy was? He better hope the police get here before my daddy's men do.

A beetle crawled over my face and down my neck, giving me the icky shivers. I could feel its hooked and clawed feet scratch my skin. It was all I could do just to keep from crying. The straps were so tight, so uncomfortable. I wasn't even able to move, and my restless leg syndrome was starting to kick in. I was overcome with the need to stretch.

"Elp eeeee!" I croaked to the dark room, to the black staircase that the figure had disappeared upon.

Who would do this?

I almost died it was so miserable down there, strapped and clamped on that cold metal bed. (I guess it was a bed, because it didn't feel much like a table. There were deep grooves down its surface, I assumed to mimic the quilted pattern of a mattress.) Kind of pointless, but I didn't have anyone to complain to. I don't know how much time passed, (it felt like years, but it might have just been the darkness) and then he came back down. I knew it was him because his shoulders were raised up around his neck as if he was permanently flinching. I'm an observant girl. I notice stuff.

Anyways, it was him. He walked down the stairs to me, totally silent, and checked the clamps. The clamp over my forehead kept me from turning my head, so I didn't get a look at his face again until was he stood directly in front of me, tightening the leather straps.

He had smooth skin with an olive cast, not too dark, maybe slightly Italian. It went beautifully with his black hair, which was butchered into a strange, spikey cut. It was obvious he did his own hair.

His eyes were his most striking feature. Jet black, and the whites sparkled wetly in the gloom. Quite different from the pupils, which didn't even reflect light. They were duller than scuffed plastic. Circled in severe shadows and bruises, the skin around them was like a wound. I wondered if he ever slept at all.

His lips were thin, hard and almost non-exhistant. He chewed them absentmindedly as he jabbed a finger in between my belly and one of the clamps. It was colder than the metal, and sharp. My voice came back suddenly, and I whimpered. He glared up at me with dead eyes.

"Are you that sensitive? Does it hurt you that badly?" he said harshly. He didn't give me time to answer. "You don't know what real pain is."

I stared at him, chastened. He looked away. I noticed a small box under his arm, and he felt my eyes on it. He turned away from me and opened it. I heard metal clatter, like silverware or pennies, and I wondered what he was doing. Maybe he was digging for a scalpel to gouge symbols on my belly...

My skin was covered in goosebumps.

Suddenly, he was leaning over me, one of his chilled hands stroking my cheek, the other holding...you guessed it. A scalpel. I realised he was wearing thick, black, plastic gloves. They left a trail of cold like a dry icecube. I sucked in my breath at his touch.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked me, his dull eyes capturing mine like butterflies on pins. I couldn't look away.

"No. Why would I?"

His face twisted, and he drew away his hand. He turned away from me. Long neck sunk, shoulders hooved up and his thin arms crossed.

"Why would you? I suppose all those good looks and money are a waste. You don't remember that "freak" that walked by you and a group of your snobby friends yesterday? The one you tripped and made fun of. I was just on my way downtown, minding my own business. You didn't even know me, rich girl."

Suddenly I recognised him. The hunched figure that passed by us while we sat outside our favorite bistro, sipping wine coolers. My friend Randolf made a little comment and we all started laughing. I couldn't help it. He looked so weird out on the street with his Burton-esque clothing and freaky haircut.
He was asking for it.
So then my fiancee tripped him and the way he hit the pavement was histerical. He looked like a defensive spider.We all cheered on my fiancee and raised our wine coolers. Perfect white teeth sparkling in a perfect white grin, he poured his out on the guys face. I laughed so hard tears sprung up in my eyes. We all poured our drinks on him and laughed while Randolf kicked him over and over and over...

The guy saw recognition in my eyes and his face darkened even more.

"I guess anonimity made it easier, huh? You didn't have to worry about knowing my name or seeing me ever again. I was just a quick thrill, something to impress your friends with...You disgusting hole."

He paced up and down in front of the metal bed, arms behind his back, the scalpel now discarded. I felt fat beads of sweat run down my back along my bruised spine. How long was he going to keep me here? What was he going to do?

"No, Nailbunny, it WAS her fault. I had been having a wonderful week and they ruined it! Those snobs fucked it all up! I was actually happy!"

Once again, I couldn't move my head because of the clamp, but I was certain there wasn't anyone else in the room with us. He was talking to himself.

Oh my god. Schitsophrenic maniac. He's the guy who kidnapped me! HE'S the one!!

"Who's Nailbunny?" I asked, but he ignored me. He was pacing feverishly, ranting to himself. I couldn't even understand some of the words he was using. I guess he was right about me being a waste. I didn't exactly read much. I was more of the shopping and tanning parlor sort of girl.

"No more anonimity! Fuck it! My name is Johnny C, and I'm 20 years old! I'm the creative force behind Happy Noodle Boy, a comic popular among the homeless insane!" he said loudly. He stopped in front of me. He held the rotted head of a bunny rabbit in both hands, cradling it, and I realized his eyes were the same. His eyes were the same as a decapitated rabbit's. And then he was howling in anguish.

He turned and fled up the black staircase, and I wished I'd asked to pee.

Several days passed, and I stayed strapped to the metal mattress. I was so thirsty, Mr. Satan, I was certain I was near death. My tongue swelled so I couldn't talk. Bugs walked up and down my face, my shirt, and into my $200 Victorias Secret lace bra. They clung to the corners of my mouth and cleaned their antennae. They gathered between my back and the metal bed, stealing warmth.

I think on the second day I just let my bladder go and thanked God it was dark.

When I was able to, I slept. I dreamed of my beautiful hotel room and the Godiva chocolates in their golden foil skins and the hand-squeezed orange juice and quadruple filtered spring water and my bed with the white silk sheets that were changed once a day and breakfasts of ripe strawberries and crepes...I know I cried in my sleep, because when I woke, my cheeks were wet and I was tortured by the sensation.

Twice, the guy came down and talked to me. Me and the bugs, which were all names Mr. Samsa. He told us over and over what I'd done, how shallow I was and what a disgusting waste I was. I cried and cursed and begged to him at first, (when I could talk) but it was like speaking to a falling blade. It wasn't going to stop.

All night he would pace upstairs, or wander through the underground chambers. I learned I wasn't the only one. There were others, who had done similar things and were recieving similar punishment.

But I didn't know what punishment was, until it happened. Just holding still in the dark was bliss next to what he did to me.

It was about my fifth day there. I was mostly unconcious, just laying there, hoping for death. Wishing I understood why he was doing this to me. It seemed a litte harsh for what we did. I mean, don't people get kicked around all the time in highschool?

Anyways, I heard him come down the black staircase, but I kept my eyes closed. I just listened through a sleepy haze as he walked around. I heard him set the box down. I heard that familar pennies-and-silverware sound, and I felt his plastic-covered fingers on my arm. I didn't flinch.

Then, without warning, he broke it. He just snapped my elbow backwards with a demonic strength. I screamed wordlessly, fully awake now. His face was twisted and strange. And his eyes...they were wide and shining, like spilt ink.

"You think its funny to cause people pain?!! IS THIS FUNNY? ARE YOU LAUGHING NOW?!?!?!!!" he ended in a scream. I screamed with him, my lungs on fire, my arm limp and full of bone fragments. He unclamped it and held it out straight. He was laughing a little, sort of a histerical chuckle. I was screaming my head off. It hurt like nothing I'd ever felt before.

"Do you want to know what I got out of the box, rich girl?" he asked. I felt sharp metal teeth press into the crook of my arm, just resting there on top. Tiny, metal teeth. Serrated.


Johnny began to saw.

It was horrible. He sawed off both my arms and my legs, and chopped them up with his knives. He fed them to me.

I never stopped screaming, Mr. Satan. Not once. Not even after he left, and I was alone with the bugs.

A little while after that, I died. But not without the feeling of a thousand insects squirming to get the first spot for egg laying on the bleeding stumps. The stumps of the arms that had dumped the wine on his head. The stumps of the legs that had kicked him. Oh! And I learned that the quilt pattern was really a blood-let, and I wasn't on a bed, I was on a killing slab.

I guess Johnny was right about me somehow, Mr. Satan, because I never thought I'd end up in Hell.