The Circles Of Hell

Am I… dead?

…

Rain.

It was the first thing Patricia could feel as she awoke. A light, misty drizzle that clung to her with fervor in the cold. Blearily, she blinked the collecting water from her eyes. Patricia's head felt like a heavy lead block as she creakily tried to push herself upwards from the damp soil, and her neck felt stiff and sore. Her blonde hair tickled her nose, and when she tried to look at it, the tip of her nose seemed almost too far away to be normal.

Woozily, she attempted to stand-

-only to collapse against the cold ground once again as her legs failed her.

It took her a moment to figure out why.

Staring down at her limbs in dim fascination and bewilderment, Patricia realized a very important fact about her legs.

She had four of them.

Her breathing rapidly increasing in strength and frequency, Patricia ogled her own legs for several minutes, as if attempting to determine how she was supposed to get them to work. Finally, the logical part of her brain kicked in and attempted to make sense of what was happening.

I have absolutely no idea what just happened.

And that pretty much summed up her day.

Or, to be more accurate, late evening; from the way the sky was darkening, she guessed the time. If only her poor head would stop aching…

Why did her head hurt so much?

Sitting down awkwardly beneath a nearby pine tree, of which there seemed to be plenty (which took some difficulty, as her legs wobbled quite a bit), Patricia peered about at her surroundings as she thought. With a small portion of the rain now out of her eyes, she could more accurately inspect her bizarrely peach colored body.

It was almost as if she possessed the mind of a child, temporarily – thinking, staring, exploring. At least, until she began slowly placing her two front hooves together. Almost as if she expected them to come together a little more fluidly, like cogs in a machine. Instead, they settled comfortably against each other like the most natural thing in the world.

Clop.

Perhaps that was what set her off.

Clop clop.

It just didn’t seem right – the way her hooves came together when she gently placed them against their partner, and slowly pulled them apart. For a moment, she almost felt as if she were supposed to be wearing protective clothing for something. She could remember her name, at least.

And that’s when it hit her.

She remembered her name.

Patricia.

And nothing else.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

Unfortunately, that was when the sudden, overwhelming sense of identity swarmed in on her in crushing collaboration with a peculiar sense of dread. Her breathing picked up pace again as her hooves clapped together oddly over and over again, and she stared at them in what could only be acclimated to a state of shock.

She wasn’t supposed to have hooves.

What am I? Some kind of… horse?

I’m Patricia. Patricia… who?

… Patricia who?

“P-P-Patricia,” she stuttered aloud, and her own voice sounded queer against her ears. So she said it again.

“P-Puh-ppp-ip-Pah-Patriiiiicia.”

Her voice sounded light, lilting and dainty. However, that could easily have been because she was speaking so softly, saying her own name. It also could have been because her ears flickered around when she tried to listen, almost as if they were a size and shape she was unused to.

“Patricia.”

Patricia couldn’t tell how long she wandered through those woods.

The sky grew steadily darker, and the rain began to fall harder as the wind picked up in tenacity. Tentatively tottering forward as she tried to remember how basic body functions worked, Patricia managed to clumsily tumble from tree to tree, using each one for support. She hated feeling like this; the feeling of inadequacy, of lack of complete control over her own body. It almost felt as if she were being dull-witted on purpose.

She continued to blunder nearly blindly until she realized that she was still trying to walk on two legs. Carefully putting one hoof down at a time, she moved at a slightly swifter pace than before. A little more proudly at her grand discovery, Patricia hobbled uncomfortably through the wooded area in a much straighter line than before.

Calling out in a voice stifled by the cold rain, Patricia wiped her bedraggled mane from her eyes for the millionth time.

“H-Hello? Is anybody out here?”

So, she could remember how to speak well enough. That was a good sign. Resting against a pine tree and feeling the rough prickle of the bark against her side, she took a few shaky breaths. This weird body was hard to get used to. And above all, mindboggling.

It just felt… wrong.

The rain steadily came down from above, littering the ground with puddles.

Shaking her head again, Patricia spotted something on her flank that caught her eye. An odd image adorned her, looking almost as if it had been painted on. Not just on one side of her, either; a quick check revealed that both sides of her body held the bizarre image of a bowling ball.

Weird.

And that pretty much summed up her evening.

Cold.

All of these impossible new occurrences might not be so awful if only it weren’t so unbearably cold. The freezing rain poured down on Patricia even harder than before, and the icy wind ensured that she shook with every tepid step. Her teeth clattered in vain within her mouth, and even that felt strange enough.

Like it wasn’t her own mouth.

She shook the rain from her face, shivering pitifully. Her determination to forge her way forward, however, was unwavering. Regardless of the fact that she was so tired and felt so weak, and despite that she felt so frigid and miserable that just about anything else would have been tolerable, Patricia continued stumbling forward in the dark. A light mist had begun to stack upwards from the ground, winding in serpentine coils into the air.

To her elation, the wooded area came to an abrupt halt as it was severed by an asphalt road.

The paved highway glistered in the rain, and infinitesimal multitudes of droplets bounced across the street in symphony, pattering into the night.

It was a road.

And where there was a road, there was logically bound to be civilization.

Aching, wet, freezing and most definitely exhausted, Patricia felt a small spark of strength bolstering her determination. She would have answers, eventually; all she had to do was search hard enough, and remain her headstrong position. With the sound of falling water filling her ears, she began her journey down the road to discovery.

Her headstrong position wavered rather abruptly when she was oh-so-rudely run over by a screeching metal vehicle.

Thump thump.

Patricia blinked groggily, barely aware of where she was. It was too dark to see much, and it smelled of mildew and worn leather. The occasional bump from the stiff felt flooring beneath her gave some indication that she was moving, and she couldn’t seem to think properly. Too much pain, and her head felt like it was going to split. A wave of nausea hit her, but she held it back before the jagged splinter of agony jolted between her eyes again.

Wearily, her aching eyes gradually pulled themselves closer together as she passed out once more.

The pain was nearly unbearable.

Patricia vaguely remembered being shifted and ogled at, and words floating around her head like so much debris before clattering noisily against her ears. Shady, barely perceptible memories of a struggle came to mind, and her side hurt terribly even though she couldn’t remember why.

Her head pounded in rhythm with her heartbeat, and her limbs felt like rubber. If only she could remember what she’d been worrying about-

She awoke with a start, jerking wildly at her bonding. Patricia’s eyes darted around, desperately adjusting to the dim light of the basement.

“Well, look-ie who just woke up?”

The gruff, if not gleeful voice of the bearded man looming over her startled her. Patricia tried to scream, to back away – to her chagrin, she discovered that she’d been gagged with some kind of hard object, wrapping around her muzzle. Her legs had been uncomfortably tied together with a thin, sturdy wire, which cut painfully into her flesh. She also found that she was unable to rise from her side, and twisted around in panic.

Chuckling at her fearful awakening, Patricia’s captor made a waving motion to one of the other men in the poorly lit brick basement. Another taller man, with a sunken and hollow face, handed the gruff one with a beard and plaid shirt what he’d obviously used just a short while ago. It also explained why her other side hurt so much.

Letting out another panicked, muffled scream, Patricia instantly tried to wriggle away from the red-hot branding iron.

“Hold-fucking-still, would you?” Plaid growled as he roughly slammed her head against the concrete floor, bringing stars to her eyes. Squirming in soreness and fear, Patricia braced herself for the oncoming burn of the branding iron.

The tears flooded hot in her eyes as she let out another pained yell, and the sizzle of the strange mark on her flank being burned away filled the smoke filled musty air.

Patricia wasn’t certain at what point she passed out again.

She did, however, clearly notice being forcefully yanked back to horrid reality by the same man that had branded her. For some reason, a taste reminiscent of cleaning solution and sweat befouled Patricia’s tongue. Her mouth must have been freed at some point, as she could at least open her mouth to take in a deep breath. Patricia immediately tried to scream again, only to find one massive hand shoving roughly down on her lungs and pushing the air out into a weak whimper. Plaid finished pushing the latex hood over her head, roughly jamming it over her ears.

“H-help!” she yelped, jerking her head away from him. “Don’t do this - help me!”

Another of his mates, a portly looking man with a face like a rat, stuffed the gag back into her mouth with a grin. His fingers tasted of oil and dirt, and pushed against her mouth coarsely. She tried to spit it out and shake away, but Plaid forcibly held her face in position while the tall gaunt man finished tying her back legs into a metal loop, screwed into the floor.

“Ah, ah, ah, Hot Lips!” Ratface leered at her, giving her cheek a couple of tender pats. “You’ll get to put that mouth of yours to work again plenty soon, won’t you, Hot Lips?”

Hot Lips? No, Patricia!

Struggling against the rope with more zeal, she tried to shout at him that he was wrong, her name was Patricia! This was all wrong!

Instead, it only came out as a muffled plea.

Ratface merely laughed at her, and flicked her hard on the nose tauntingly.

They weren’t listening to her.

Trying to force her breathing to remain steady, Patricia thought furiously. Her every instinct screamed at her to panic and flail, to make them understand her fear. However, she took in as many details as she could, hopelessly trying to find logic and reason in her situation.

Slow down, Pat. Think. Have to think!

The rat-faced man wore plain looking attire, with a few dirty grease spots along his jeans. The tall, gaunt man in a sweater had a curved, wicked look about him; as if he were always thinking something nasty and only a moment away from doing something worse. Another was still behind her, and her neck had been tied to the floor in such a way that she had difficulty raising it up, let alone turn around to see the other. The fourth man, with the beard and plaid shirt with rolled up sleeves, could be seen out of the corner of her eye.

On the bright side, he didn’t seem to be readying any more tools to injure or deface her body with.

On the not so bright side, he was taking off his pants.

Patricia promptly began struggling again.

I’m dead.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

I’m dead, I’ve died at some point, and this is Hell.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

I’m in Hell.

Patricia’s mind itself felt like it had been beaten into submission. Maybe she was just in denial of her situation, or maybe she’d lost her mind completely. Either way, her head felt heavy and her thoughts were dulled. Patricia felt almost as if a fog had settled over her mind, making even the act of forming coherent thoughts a challenge in and of itself.

It also could have been because her captors would randomly shove a damp cloth against her nose, keeping her from breathing properly. What she did breathe in smelled of strong, sickly sweet ether, and burned her eyes regardless of how she tried to hold her breath. Each time they did so, they would affix her with some new outfit or some new torment, ranging from painful whippings with a flay of leather strips to pinching her skin with clothing pins.

The one with the beard seemed to particularly like the clothing pins. Or, more so, jerking them viciously off of her.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Patricia’s face bumped repeatedly against the cool concrete floor as consciousness slowly trickled back to her, creeping in as her head begged her to retreat into the safety of sleep. She couldn’t tell how long she’d been down here. The four of them talked amongst each other occasionally, mostly with pointed jeers at her.

Strangely enough, she felt almost as if it wasn’t really happening; like it was all just part of a hazy nightmare, or it wasn’t really happening to her. Each new introduction to pain cruelly reminded her that it was no dream, unfortunately. Every one of the men seemed to have some preference to her suffering, each busily trying satisfy themselves in almost perfect synchronization.

One of them, however, remained relatively quiet. A plain, bland looking man with even parted brown hair stared at her as he sat backwards in a wooden chair, silently smoking a cheap cigar.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Patricia breathed pitifully through her gag as she tried again to worm away from the rat-faced man that continuously plowed into her from behind, roughly thrusting into her as her face was crudely jammed back against the floor.

“Oh, yeah,” Ratface hissed, rubbing one hand along her sore thigh before giving it yet another vicious smack. “You like that, bitch?”

Obviously – fucking – not!

She tried to kick or buck in protest, but her legs could only move so far from their posts. It wasn’t helping that Ratface kept jerking her tail (when did I get a tail?) to the side and forcing her legs to remain straight and even, causing her back to arch painfully.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Ain’t got all night here, Chuckie,” the bearded man said gutturally as he scratched himself. “You got your fuckin’ turn.”

Ratface grinned as he used both hands to flip off Plaid, simultaneously giving one final cruel slam into Patricia before finally releasing her. A heat poured into her before she fell, and her legs buckled in relief beneath the combined exhaustion and effort of being forced to keep her legs in one position for hours on end. The hot liquid oozed against her insides, eventually slipping out. It trickled downward and onto her leg, pooling beneath her.

“Aw, come on, man,” Plaid scowled at Ratface, who wore a look of triumph. “I didn’t wanna play sloppy fuckin’ seconds again.”

“Oh, quit bitching,” Ratface leered at him as he leaned comfortably against the wall as if he were discussing the weather. “She’s got other holes. Tell him for me, Hot Lips.” He shot a filthy look at Patricia, who lay barely conscious on the concrete. When she only responded with a breathy twitch, his scowl deepened.

“… I said,” Ratface took a couple of quick steps toward her and violently yanked her up by her blonde mane, eliciting another subdued whimper from her. “Tell. Him. About. Your. Holes. Hot Lips.”

Patricia’s only response was to exhale quaveringly as a bit of drool fell from beneath the gag.

Rolling his eyes, the gaunt and pale man carelessly unbuckled the gag around her muzzle, letting it drop to the floor.

The rat-faced man, still holding her head up uncomfortably from the floor, shook her a couple of times. “Fucking tell him!”

“H-hel-help m-me!” Patricia pleaded, gasping for air.

Ratface only resumed shaking her. “Say ‘My name is Hot Lips’ before I break your goddamned neck!”

“Please!” she shrieked, trying to free herself from the man’s grasp. “Stop! Let me go!”

The quiet man sitting backwards in the wooden chair had a peculiar look in his eyes, and it was him that Patricia zoned in on. “I didn’t do anything! Please, please! Let me-!”

Ratface slammed her face into the floor, and she tasted a coppery sting in her mouth. The bearded man seemed to find it chuckle worthy.

“Don’t-fucking-make-me-tell-you-again!” Ratface seethed, punctuating each word through clenched teeth with a painful shove against the floor. Crying, Patricia fell silent as her head was finally released.

Hell. The lowest pit of Hell. Nobody could deserve this. What kind of person must I have been to deserve a punishment like this?

“What’s your name, slut?” Ratface kneeled down in front of her, and spoke in a blatantly cheerful voice. When Patricia remained still, he made to harm her again. "Come on, you can tell me. After we've been so nice to you, giving you a warm home to stay in; what's your name, slut?"

Flinching, she tried to speak. “P-Lips.”

"Again."

"Hot Lips."

“Again.”

“Hot Lips.”

“Tell me what your name is.”

“My n-name is Hot Lips.”

“Now, was that really so fucking hard?” the rat-faced man beamed at her, patting her softly on top of the head a couple of times.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

He immediately slapped her again.

Patricia cried out, dropping with the blow.

“Don’t fucking talk back to someone who provides you with your meals, bitch!” Ratface cackled, and the gaunt man positioned himself behind her. Struggling against her slightly rusted bonds proved futile, although one of her back legs felt as though it might have been a little loose…

“Now, open wide, Hot Lips.”

Cringing away from him, Patricia tried to keep her mouth closed – however, the bearded man was all too eager to pry her mouth open by pinching her muzzle shut so that she couldn’t breathe.

Ratface swiftly stuffed himself inside her mouth.

At the same time, the pale and gaunt man behind her roughly jammed his entire length at once into her, hissing as he did so. Patricia tried to shake her head away or pull backwards, but the combined efforts of Plaid and Ratface, along with the sturdy ropes, kept her in place.

“… Bitch, you best start suckin’ if you want any protein today.”

Ratface pulled his manhood from her mouth, slapping her crudely a couple of times in the cheek with it with enough force to nearly blind her when it hit her eye.

“St-stop. Please. Please, stop.” Patricia’s voice came out weak, and battered. The quiet man in the chair still sat, watching silently. An odd pallor had settled over his features, giving him a haunted look. For the briefest moment, she almost felt a glimmer of hope that the odd look he wore was some indication that they would leave her alone. Maybe she was just so desperate that she was misreading signs.

It didn’t matter.

Nobody was going to help her.

Nobody was coming to save her.

The torture would only continue. Maybe even death would be preferable to this senseless torment.

“Suck, Hot Lips,” Plaid rumbled, holding her chin tightly in his hand. Trembling, Patricia complied before any more pain befell her. The bearded man was much larger and longer than Ratface, however – it didn’t take much for his tip to excitedly poke the back of her throat.

Patricia gagged, and her eyes widened. This was insane.

With a bite downward on Plaid’s sweaty member, Patricia thought that she had obtained the upper hand – at least, until the hairy hand of the bearded man clamped tightly down on her throat, cutting off possibility of breathing altogether.

“Go ahead, you dumb little slut,” Ratface grinned, awaiting his comrade’s reaction. “Go ahead. Bite it hard. We’ll keep fuckin’ you after you’re cold.”

And wouldn’t it just be Patricia’s luck that Plaid grew even harder from that statement.

Great. Necrophiliac. Right when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, too.

She felt the sudden inexplicable urge to giggle, but that could have been caused from the lack of oxygen to her brain. Plaid quickly erupted with a hot squirt inside her mouth and against the back of her throat.

Without warning, Patricia vomited onto the floor as Plaid pulled out.

“Oh-ho-ho!” Ratface laughed as she retched loudly, still being steadily ground into from behind by the gaunt man. “Looks like we get to train your gag reflex, too!”

Patricia threw up what little bile she had, and continued to retch until the heaves became dry and throaty. The blinding pain behind her eyes threatened to overwhelm her again, and the gaunt man slithered out from her before shooting a hot line of himself across her branded flank. He hissed satisfactorily, leaning against her before giving Patricia one last slap across the rear as he let her fall to the floor. Into her own vomit, unfortunately.

“Shit,” Plaid rolled his neck, giving off a couple of cracking noises. “Gonna have our work cut out for us, eh?” he announced in a cheery voice. Too worn down to do anything else, Patricia weakly tried to shift her head out of the puddle without much success.

It didn’t take them long to redress themselves. Drinks, cigarettes, jaunty laughs and conversation; it was like she wasn’t even there.

Which was fine by Patricia – so long as they weren’t harming her further. She was too tired, too fatigued and in too much pain to think properly. Even the feeling of disgust she felt at her own inability to move from the puddle of ick she lay in faded before long, only to be replaced with a dull, thrumming headache.

She wished that she could just pass out again, instead of lying miserably against the floor and staring at the red brick wall while the rest of them gradually filtered out of the basement. Laughing, joking – like it was some kind of casual party, and she was a piece of furniture.

Patricia barely even registered when she sank into blissful oblivion again.

Maybe she was dead after all, and she just didn’t know it.

Author's Notes:

Now, I feel that there are a few issues that sorely deserve to be addressed here.

Please note that this story was written EXPRESSLY to be presented as a story. Not as smut or clop fiction, but if that's what the readers have decided it should be labeled, I'll leave it at that.
Also, if you collectively feel (by which I mean at LEAST ten people) strongly enough that this story needs to be tagged with a warning as 'Grim-Dark', then please let me know. I'm not completely certain if it's 100% Grim-Dark, but this story most definitely treads in that direction more than once.

Now.
Again, this story was meant to be written as a STORY, but also as an experiment. It is a work of fiction, a piece of art. Granted, a horrible, dark, gritty, foul and repulsive piece of art, but a piece of art nonetheless. It was designed that way. If it elicits a response - no matter WHAT that response may be, whether it's admiration, disgust, or even apathy - then let us know. Without proper feedback, it's just more mindless garbage.

Everybody on FiMFic knows that we've got plenty of that already.

Don't Let The Door Hit You

Taptap taptap. Taptap taptap.

Christopher strummed his fingers along his thigh, thinking.

Of course, they would have suggested his own home to keep her in. He was the eldest of the four, he had an actual basement, he was more knowledgeable, it was closer – any excuse they could find, really. But he knew the real reasons two of the others had insisted on using his own home.

The simple fact of the matter was that they didn’t want to clean up the mess.

The pony gave a miserable twitch when he touched it, but barely moved after that. Christopher found himself staring at the unconscious mare as he knelt next to her, losing himself in thought.

Of course, they’d made boastful claims about what they’d do with their own personal subordinate from My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Even Phil did now and then, and the scrawny man wasn’t even much of a Brony in the first place. It was quite another thing, however, to actually be in the position to do it.

The mare before him gave a pitiful little kick with one of her back legs, though she made no move to shift from the dried puddle she lay in. One of her eyes was partially open, but she stared straight into nothingness. Never had he seen a pony, let alone any actual person, looking so completely and utterly...

Broken.

After a few moments of silence, Christopher slowly began undoing her bonds.

It was simple enough to carry her up the small flight of stairs to the bathroom on the second floor.

The barely conscious mare in his arms felt so… unnaturally thin. Too light, and her already slim frame only gave her an air of fragility. Without realizing it, Christopher found himself walking more softly toward the bathtub before placing her carefully in it. Making certain that she was sitting up properly, he leaned her against the wall and latched the door behind him as the hot water began filling the room with steam.

He sat in silence on the porcelain throne, occasionally testing the water temperature with his fingertip. Then again, if it was too hot, the peach colored mare wasn’t saying anything. With torn latex peeled off of her, she somehow had a softer, more effeminate tone about her. The caked filth on her made her look like she’d recently rolled in something smelly; which, coincidentally, she had.

The mare sat with heavy lidded eyes, staring blankly at the wall in front of her. The empty, deadened look she wore made something questionable stir in Christopher, but he brushed it off. Wetting a cloth, he slowly began wiping down the mare with the hot water as the tub finished filling.

“I’m not stupid.”

It was the first time he’d actually heard her say something coherent. Christopher blinked, but continued wiping.

“You won’t get away with this,” the mare muttered softly in a quavering voice. Her face, however, remained stolid and expressionless, and she did not turn to look at him. “I know how conditioning works. Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot.”

Christopher actually slowed his scrubbing for a moment. He took one of her hooves in his hands, as if inspecting it. He gradually began to lather a bar of soap against her, gently cleaning the short and soft fur as if she hadn’t spoken.

“… What’s your name?” He, too, remained expressionless and blank. It was difficult to read him, but she had an answer ready.

“Hot Li-“

“No, no,” he shook his head, carefully brushing at a spot behind her ear with the wet cloth. She flinched when he lifted his hand, and Christopher said “You can go ahead and tell me your name. It’ll be just between us. Okay?”

When she pursed her lips together, he thought she might actually answer. Instead, she sat quietly without moving, letting the steaming water soak into her.

“… Why?”

Christopher honestly tried to ignore the injured, downright wounded expression she gave him, but it was difficult.

“Why me?” she asked softly as he wiped a bit of gunk from her mane, if a little more gently. “What did I ever do to anybody to deserve this?”

He actually showed some facial features with that one. Not much, but a little. It could have been anything from discomfort to mild surprise, or something in between. “You mean, anypony.”

The mare gave him a queer look, tilting her head slightly. “What? No, anybody. I-I didn’t do anything, I didn’t hurt anyone. Why are you doing this to me?”

For as much expression as he showed, Christopher might as well have had a face made of rubber. Within, however, was utmost turmoil.

“… You didn’t tell me your name,” he spoke evenly with a low voice, pouring some water over her head. The heat startled her, but she didn’t move. Christopher expected a name like ‘Bowling Pin’, or something related to it. He’d seen her Cutie Mark before it was… removed.

For a long, long moment, the mare didn’t speak at all. He merely continued unabated, tenderly washing every inch of her body as if he were waxing a car.

Eventually, she turned enough to face him in the tub.

“Patricia.”

A bizarre, contorted look flickered across his face momentarily, but it was gone in the next instant. Whatever it was, it was enough to cause him to cease cleaning her altogether.

“… Your name is Patricia?” he asked slowly, pronouncing it carefully. “Are you sure?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she frowned. “Yes. I remember that much.”

“You make it sound like you forgot,” he replied nonchalantly, but his mind worked furiously. It took him a moment to return to his task.

“… I don’t… know. I don’t know where I am,” Patricia admitted miserably, allowing him to lift her leg to continue to scrub her more accurately. The soap tickled her nose, and it smelled of caramel and detergent.

“Do you know how you got here?” he asked eventually, but he no longer looked her in the eyes.

“I don’t know.” Patricia hung her head, and he poured more hot water down her back. “I-I woke up, um… in a forest, I think. Before that… nothing.”

“Do you think you might have amnesia?”

“Maybe.” She said quietly, the still and sickly pallor falling back over her equine face. However, she sounded like she was ready to cry again. “My head hurts. I… I hurt so, so much.”

Christopher spoke no more for the entirety of the time he spent bathing her.

He didn’t know what they had expected. Their own personal servant, living solely for the purpose of nightly debauchery? It sounded good, in theory. It was a real, live pony – so realistic that it threw him off a little. More than that; the way she moved, the way she sounded. It was the way Patricia spoke and behaved. He hadn’t expected her to be so…

Human.

It was only when the water had been completely drained from the tub that either of them spoke.

He tried to hand Patricia a towel with which to dry herself, but her hooves were too clumsy and aching. Tiredly, she fumbled with the towel over and over again, faster and faster with trembling arms. It didn’t take long for it to drop out of her hooves and fall with a quiet flump to the floor. She simply sat in the tub, tears falling silently as she stared down at the cloth.

“… Here.”

He plucked the towel up from the floor between his fingers, carefully throwing it over her back and gently beginning to help her dry herself. She didn’t respond, but her crying dissipated into a few miserable unhappy sniffles after a while.

“… Chris.”

Patricia sat staring forward, but her eyes finally inched toward his direction.

“My name is Chris. You’re in my house, I live on the edge of the city. You’re in America. It’s…” he checked the small black phone in his pocket before replacing it deftly. “Four twenty-six A.M. Saturday.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Patricia asked almost inaudibly. It made no sense.

“I don’t know how you got here. You sound a little torn up about not being able to remember, so I’m filling in some of your holes.”

Christopher internally cringed at his choice of wording almost immediately.

Bitterly, Patricia said “I only wanted to go home.”

“This is your home now,” Christopher said bluntly. “You have amnesia, and you don’t know where else to go. Am I right?”

She bit her lip, and remained motionless. Patricia refused to give ground on absolutely anything, regardless of how drained she was. She wouldn’t be manipulated, and he was obviously twisting her words around.

Patricia hung her head, her damp and bedraggled mane falling around her as she fought the urge to cry again. She just felt so tired. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

“W-why me?” she sobbed, her composure leaving her as she sank to the floor. “Why is this happening to me?” Patricia wept into her hooves, as if she could force back the tide of tears insistent on smashing the emotional dyke she so was desperately attempting to rebuild.

Slowly – very, very slowly, Christopher knelt down beside her.

“… Shh, shh-shh-shh.” He hushed her, holding her warmly. “… It’s o~kay. Everything’s okay. I promise. It’s all right. You’re gonna be okay,” Christopher spoke softly as he sat next to her, rocking her gently back and forth.

And just like that, her resolve shattered completely.

Patricia bawled openly, and clung tightly to what she could grip of his buttoned shirt. She cried for what felt like an eternity, sobbing hysterically as her shoulders heaved mightily. Christopher held her closely to him, patiently rocking back and forth as he repeated the mantra. She cried for her confusion and fear, she cried for her own miserable lot in life. She cried because she had no hope.

Finally, Patricia’s loud cries and weeping devolved into a despondent and dejected slew of snuffles and tearful hiccups. She must have caved in to the sleep at some point, because she awoke to the sound of Christopher humming tunelessly as he rocked her. He held the slim mare aloft in both hands, swaying forward and back almost hypnotically. Patricia was instantly reminded of a snake.

Or a boa constrictor, to be more specific.

Coffee cake.

The chink of chinaware against the tiled kitchen table was the only noise filling the room, as neither of them made a peep. It was such a ludicrous notion, such an outright stupid thing that she didn’t immediately know how to respond.

Patricia stared at the slice of warmed cake before her, watching as little roiling fingers of steam crawled vertically. Christopher even began brewing a small pot of coffee, and the clunky machine groaned to life behind him as he sat opposite of the pony.

It was all just so… normal.

As if the night before hadn’t even happened.

A subtle check along her side with one hoof denied that. The painful blister caused from having the branding iron jammed against her flank was enough to cause the rest of the horrid memories to force their way to the top. Patricia shuddered, realizing that the plain man was still staring at her.

“You haven’t touched your breakfast.”

Christopher said it with such an even tone, like he was completely unperturbed by the pony in front of him.

“I’m not hungry,” she responded quietly without raising her head.

“You need to eat.”

“I... I can’t.”

He began to retort, but realized that she meant what she said; she continuously tried to balance the fork between her hooves, only to drop it time and again.

Christopher exhaled through his nostrils, shifting his chair beside hers. She recoiled when he did so, but stayed uncomfortably seated. Grasping the fork in one hand, he began cutting the moist coffee cake into smaller pieces and plucking them up with the fork, holding them out for Patricia.

It tasted sweet, and was a welcome addition to her aching stomach.

After it was gone, Christopher cleared his throat and moved away, presumably to obtain the freshly brewed coffee.

“Would you like some more?” he inquired politely, eying the remainder of the baked sweets.

Patricia considered it before shaking her head. “I’m finished with the coffee cake, if you don’t mind.”

Christopher nodded wordlessly, offering her a napkin.

“I… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He responded blandly, pouring two small ceramic mugs with the strong liquid. Christopher silently held up a small canister of sugar questioningly, and after a moment, Patricia nodded. She watched as the crystals dissipated into the drink, and the added cream gave the coffee a silky, smooth taste.

“This is insane.”

Patricia spoke her mind freely, if only because nobody else seemed to notice just how crazy all of this was.

“No,” Chris shook his head slowly. “This is coffee.”

Her brows furrowed angrily, and she pushed the mug away. “Stop toying with me. Is this a game to you? Is that it?”

He chose his words carefully, pondering each one. “Is it a crime to show a little hospitality to a house guest?”

If anything, this only served to make her more upset.

“You mean, prisoner.” She spat, glowering at him. Completely blank faced, Chris drank deeply from his coffee without dropping his gaze.

“You are not a prisoner,” he said quietly. “You’re actually very lucky that we found you at all. You probably would have been dead by now if it weren’t for us.”

“I’m already dead.” Patricia whispered sullenly. “I’m dead, and I’m in Hell.”

“You mean, ‘Tartarus’.”

“I know what I said.”

The odd, flickering look passed over Christopher’s face once more; a single shred of uncertainty, a shadow of doubt. Changing the subject, he asked “What makes you think you’re dead in Hell?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because all I’ve known since I woke up is suffering. Did that not occur to you?”

He suddenly wished she would look away from him.

Or stare with anything but that horrible, pained expression. No anger, no hate. Only sorrow.

“… Patricia’s an awfully strange name for a pony,” he said as he finished off his coffee. Anything to keep the topic changing, to keep the conversation away from where it needed to be.

A conversation with a pony. The very idea…

“I don’t pick and choose.” Patricia said simply, nudging her half-full mug left and right in front of her with one hoof. “I could remember it when I woke up. Nothing else.”

“Nothing at all? Not even what Equestria is like?”

“Never heard of him.” Patricia shook her head.

“It’s a place,” Christopher explained. “I thought you might have… I don’t know. Come from there, I guess.”

“Why?” she asked, tilting her head again. It seemed to be a strange habit she was developing.

“It just seems like the obvious answer,” he replied bluntly. “You know. Like something out of a story.”

That statement only served to solidify her opinion that he was clearly out of his mind.

Then again, as Patricia rubbed the flats of her own front hooves together again, it occurred to her that maybe ‘sanity’ was subjective.

Pony.

“… You don’t have to do this.” Patricia said sadly, shaking her head. “You could – couldn’t you just… let me go? I-I won’t tell anyone. I’ll just go away, and nobody will know.”

“I’m not holding you here against your will.”

Patricia blinked in surprise, waiting. She expected him to laugh cruelly, denying her exit or scoff at her bargaining for freedom. The fact that he was basically handing it to her caught her off guard.

“… There’s the door,” he nodded out the kitchen. “I won’t stop you.”

… I can’t tell if he’s fucking with me or not.

Her eyes narrowed, and she thought quickly. “… You mean it?”

“Sure.” Chris shrugged halfheartedly, suddenly very interested in a stain on the table. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Best of luck surviving in a world like this one. By the way, don’t let Charlie bite you on the way out. He’s got a pretty long chain by the fence.”

Patricia opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again.

“Oh, and have fun convincing the entire world that you’re not actually an extraterrestrial or something. I’m sure that people won’t want to dissect you very much.”

… He’s trying to manipulate me.

“I know, you’re probably thinking I’m trying to pull the wool over your eyes,” Christopher droned on. “But if you really think you can survive out there –“ he nodded toward the small, glass kitchen window. “-without anybody who cares about your wellbeing to help you or protect you, I won’t stop you. Be my guest.”

Patricia stood in the doorway, blinking in the bright early morning sunlight.

True to his word, Christopher made no move to stop her.

She balanced shakily on the entryway, peering out across the yard. A small stone path cut through it, ending at a picketed wooden fence. Next to the gate lay an alert Rottweiler, who’s ears perked up when she stepped outside.

She was outside.

She was outside.

Patricia found that she was beginning to hyperventilate from a sudden sense of panic.

She was still in the doorway; it was just a short little run to the gate, and past the dog. Just a little jaunt, a quick little trot, and then she was home free.

If she knew where home was.

Or what had happened to her.

Or who she really was.

Christopher closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nostrils as he savored the scent of the coffee. The familiar latch of the door closing, followed by absolute silence greeted his ears.

Letting all of his breath out into a heavy, drawn out sigh, Christopher held the mug in both hands as he bowed his head and basked in the silence.

“… I’ll have some more of that coffee cake, if you don’t mind.”

Picture Perfect Pony

“Her name was Patricia, too.”

Patricia stared at the light haired woman in the photograph, smiling as she stood next to the younger Christopher smoking a cigarette. The pair of them looked happy, reclining against the oak tree.

"She always did love the smell of coffee cake."

She held the small picture frame in her hooves, carefully turning it over.

“It’s a… very nice picture.”

“I’ve always been a fan of photography.”

“… How did it… I mean – how long ago was…?” the mare asked awkwardly, replacing the picture on the coffee table. Christopher’s face seemed to sag, but before long he regained his bland, neutral look.

“A long time ago.”

“I’m… sorry about your wife.” Patricia said honestly. It was never easy to lose a loved one. A small part of her felt that part was true, even if she couldn’t remember why.

“I cope successfully.” Chris said quietly. Changing the subject, he said “Are you comfortable?”

She shifted on the sofa, her hooves sinking into the soft material. She nodded quickly, and he leaned back slightly in the chair opposite her. The leveled stare he gave her from across the coffee table made her feel almost as if he were… inspecting her. Then again, if someone reminiscent of her loved one had all but dropped out of the sky-

-Patricia shook herself internally. What was she doing? Relating to the man; this man, of all people, was a horribly detrimental idea. And yet…

“I’m fine.” Patricia lied, and cleared her throat. Of course she wasn’t fine. The fact that she came back at all was, at best, utterly demented.

But… where am I supposed to go…?

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, or unhappy in your short stay here,” Christopher said softly, giving her hoof a kind pat.

Patricia’s first reaction was to snort at his claim, but he looked as if he truly meant it.

“I also want you to understand that all I want to do is help you.”

Okay, now that is bullshit.

“Why?”

“I help lots of women, much like you. Aside from the ‘being a pony’ thing, of course.”

She frowned, suspicion etched plainly on her face. “Why? Why the sudden change of heart, when you and your ‘friends’-“ she said, attempting to make air quotes with hooves. “-were all too eager to use me like a four-man flesh condom?”

“I never laid a finger on you,” Christopher said defensively. As if it changed anything.

“But you let them – you let them hurt me.”

She hadn’t meant to stutter, but it slipped anyway. Christopher’s eye twitched, but his bland mask covered his face yet again.

“And I’m very, very sorry Patricia.”

“You’re sorry?” she said incredulously. “You’re sorry?!”

Christopher recoiled. “They aren’t afraid to kill you, you know.”

Patricia fell silent, seriously reconsidering her sanity for not taking her chances with the Rottweiler. She pursed her lips, thinking.

“Look, Patricia,” Christopher said in exasperation as he checked the time. “Please, believe me when I say I really do want to help you. But if you make them angry, they will not hesitate to end your life. Do you understand?”

Slowly, and without looking at him, she nodded. She understood perfectly. That didn’t mean she liked it.

“They won’t be here until tonight, anyway. There’s nothing you or I can do about the others. Okay?” he said quietly, speaking in a clear tone. “Just know that I’m going to do everything in my power to ease your hardships, and make life better for you.”

She hesitated, but didn’t say anything. Patricia didn't like the way he talked. It felt less like he was speaking to her and more as if he were speaking at her. Too rehearsed. When she didn’t respond immediately, he swooped in for the kill.

“And maybe we can find out something that can help your memory.”

Patricia’s head involuntarily snapped upwards, even though she tried to hide her enthusiasm.

“… You mean it?” she asked doubtfully. “You’ll really try to help me get my memory back?”

“I think there’s a good chance I could help you with your memory, even if it’s only a little. Mental acuity studies are a hobby of mine, coincidentally.”

She hardly dared to believe him, but a sliver of hope remained. Perhaps she would have answers, after all.

The sound of barking and crackling gravel reached her ears.

“Shit.” Christopher swore uncharacteristically, peering out the living room window. Following his gaze, Patricia spotted three vehicles slowly rolling into the driveway; it didn’t take much to guess who drove them.

Her heart leaped into her chest, and she froze with uncertainty.

Christopher ran a hand down his face in a practiced fashion, and began quickly rifling through the underside drawers on the coffee table. It only took a few seconds to find out why – he swiftly replaced the photograph on the table with a green leash, and snapped the drawer back without looking.

“Come here.” He demanded, throwing a hurried look out the window. From the noise outside, Patricia determined that it was definitely his comrades.

“What? But-?”

“Patricia, please.” He said flatly. “Just promise me that you’ll do absolutely everything you’re told, immediately and without question. Am I understood?”

“But-!”

“PATRICIA! Am I understood!?” he shouted suddenly, causing her to flinch. She nodded quickly, and he threw the leash around her neck hastily before reclaiming his seat.

“Come on, old man!” the banging on the front door echoed through the house as Christopher’s face settled into the experienced blank mask for the umpteenth time, all emotion leaving it. “Can you get the door this time, or do we need to get you a walker first?”

The jeering voice Patricia instantly recognized as the rat-faced man. If she remembered properly, one of the others had called him… Chuck, was it?

What does it matter what their names are? It doesn’t. It doesn’t matter.

“The door’s unlocked, Charles,” Christopher said loudly without turning his gaze from the worried mare. “I thought we went over this.”

The sound of the door creaking open, followed by the steps of several sets of feet set off alarm bells in her head.

It went on forever.

Christopher sat backwards in the wooden chair in the corner, quietly puffing on one of the cigar’s he’d pulled from a small box.

A sense of déjà vu prickled her mind, for to Patricia, this seemed horribly familiar.

Ratface (she refused to call him Charles) wrapped the leash around his fist, gripping it tightly as he controlled the motion of Patricia’s head. She gagged as Ratface plunged deeper into her throat, hissing as he released inside her mouth.

Patricia tried to keep from tasting it, but the salty sting of it befouled her mouth regardless.

Ratface ever-so-slowly pulled out, and forced her chin up by holding the leash even higher.

“Swallow, Hot Lips.”

The disgusted look on her face was reply enough.

“Swallow it!” Ratface jerked the leash hard, causing her to gag. Acquiescently she choked it down, if only to breathe. Just as Plaid had forced her to do.

Perhaps that was why Ratface seemed to be in such a foul mood, was that someone else had beaten him to the punch – or, as were more likely the case, was just always in a foul mood.

Ratface shot a glare in Christopher’s direction as he wiped his tip on Patricia’s cheek a couple of times, before pushing her head backwards as he tossed the leash to the gaunt man again.

“I thought you said she was gonna be nice n’ trained up, y’old fart?” Ratface grunted, snapping open a can of cheap beer before watching Gaunt have his turn with the pony.

“I did,” Christopher stated quietly without looking up. “Watch.” Snapping his fingers, he said “Sit.”

Patricia obeyed, thinking heavily.

“See? Be polite for once,” Christopher finished off his cigar, tapping the ashes into a ceramic black tray before beginning on a new one.

“Fuck you.” Ratface deadpanned.

Patricia tried to gasp as Plaid lifted her up by her tail, causing a shooting pain to flare through her spine. Instead, Gaunt used his opportunity of her sudden take of breath to shove in his length as far down into her throat as it would go. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she fought the gag reflex with everything she had as he thrust inward and out. At the same time, Plaid began stuffing two fingers into her as he pushed her tail out of the way.

Because of the metal loops on the floor, slightly rusted and worn with use, he could only move her so far.

All she could do was hope that it ended before long.

“Hot Lips has been a good girl today. Isn’t that right, Hot Lips?” Christopher said slowly, as if reassuring Ratface. Which was exactly what he was doing, actually.

It wouldn't do for him to cause any lasting damage to her.

She tried to speak, only to gag again. Patricia coughed violently when Gaunt slid out of her mouth.

In a whispery, oddly fox-esque voice, Gaunt loudly commanded “Stick out your tongue.”

He, too, wrapped the leash around his fist a couple of times, and held his fist up threateningly when she did not comply.

“Stick out your tongue,” he insisted again, grinning at her refusal. Shakily, she did so – only for Gaunt to ram himself back inside her mouth, causing her to choke once again.

There is no hope.

“You can stop pretending that you’re not crying at any time, you know.”

Patricia only bit her lip harder, and her shoulders heaved as the tears fell. Not a single noise passed her lips, however.

Christopher silently washed her, running a fine toothed comb through her mane as he poured hot water over her. The lather of the shampoo was rinsed away, and he gently repeated the process. The heat trickled down her back and rejoined its kin, swirling in facsimile tranquility.

“Is this really how my life is going to be?” Patricia finally whispered pitifully, too exhausted to shy away from him anymore. She felt drained, wiped out.

“No.” he vowed quietly. “You won’t have to worry about anything for much longer.”

He bathed her in silence, noting the dejection and misery weighing on her. The crickets outside were their only company. The dim light of the bathroom was more akin to a blinding offense to Patricia’s blaring headache.

“I’m so tired.” She said softly, and the gnawing depression threatened to overwhelm her. Christopher pulled her in close, whispering soothingly into her ear.

“It’s okay. I’m going to take care of everything, Patricia.”

“… You’re getting wet,” she said pointedly at his absentmindedness, watching as his sleeves were dipped into the tub. He rolled them back up unsuccessfully, draining the water and assisting her in drying off.

“Come on.” Christopher said with an unreadable face. “Let’s get you to bed now, Patricia.”

She nodded slowly, following him down the hall after he tossed the towels into a hamper. It was a bit dark because he hadn’t turned on any other lights, but down the hallway she could see a couple of typical landscape pictures. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Opening a brass knobbed wooden door a short bit away, Christopher flicked the light on and revealed the bedroom. And, much to Patricia’s surprise, it was fairly…

Nice.

The second story room held a single bed, and the brightly lit miniature chandelier above basked the room in a warm, ruddy glow. Deep, royal violet silk sheets adorned the mattresses, and the single window overlooking the yard allowed in a shard of moonlight. All in all, it looked very comfortable.

At this point, however, Patricia was worn down enough to have gladly slept in dirt, so long as it meant sleep.

“Lucky I keep a guest room tidy,” Christopher said offhandedly, extending a hand to her in order to assist her in clambering atop the bed. The carpet beneath her was almost as soft as the blankets, and she made herself comfortable without too much trouble.

“Very,” Patricia stifled a yawn, stretching her aching muscles. “I’d really prefer to avoid sleeping in the basement again.”

Christopher wore a peculiar, haunted expression; the same one she’d seen before. And, just as before, it left just as quickly as it had come.

Startling her, he leaned in softly and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

“Goodnight, Patricia.” A small smile tugged at his lips, and he patted the top of her head kindly.

But by that point, she was already asleep.

If Patricia slept at all, it was only because of sheer fatigue. She tossed fitfully, and with little wonder why.

It wasn’t exactly as if her life had been perfect since she first awoke.

Her odds of being run over by people like this must have been phenomenally low. However, she tried to sleep a little easier knowing that Christopher had promised to help her with her amnesia problem. It was even luckily coincidental that he studied the brain in his spare time. How nice of him to lend his expertise. Perhaps it was just because she was tired, but the thought of coming to an acceptance of all of this and simply going with the flow sounded appealing.

… It was coincidental, though. Just as it was awfully coincidental that he just so happened to have had a guest room prepared for her to sleep in.

Patricia’s eyes yanked open, revealing their bloodshot hues.

Far, far too coincidental.

Thankful that the room had a carpeted floor, Patricia slipped out of the bed and carefully began to pace back and forth in the dark, thinking.

She was missing something.

Something she’d been too preoccupied to focus much on.

She had to think.

And not just about her horrible treatment.

Maybe that was the idea. Keep her too preoccupied, too caught up with the horrors she’d been assaulted with to think properly.

Her hooves skidded across the carpet, scuffling quietly.

It was too coincidental, there was simply no way for it to be possible. Too coincidental that all of his mates just so happened to show up early, all at the exact same time.

Her mind continuously traveled back to the basement, and she shook her head viciously.

What are you doing, Pat? She asked herself, forcing herself to focus through the headache. This was insane. She had to get out of here. It was better to face the Rottweiler; as a matter of fact, she could probably just get a running jump over the fence and bypass the dog altogether!

Listening at the door for noise and hearing nothing, Patricia fumbled with the doorknob for a moment. Seething that her hooves were all but useless against the instrument, she instead tried using her mouth on it.

It didn’t take her long to discover the source of her difficulty.

It was locked.

From the outside.

Patricia’s heart beat so loudly in her throat that she felt like her head would leak. She was locked in.

Desperately trying to keep her breathing in check, she thought rapidly and attempted to pry open the window. Thrilled that it was easily opened, Patricia undid the latches with her tongue and used her hooves to push it open. At first, it was resilient and stuck tight. With a couple of mighty shoves, she managed to noisily push the window upward.

She froze at the ruckus, ears swiveling around for fear that she had alerted Christopher.

She heard nothing.

Not daring to release a sigh of relief, she bit her lip and poked her head out the window.

Only to discover why nobody had bothered to lock it down.

Directly beneath her was a large, jagged and rocky outcropping, masterfully hidden behind a rosebush. From her location and thanks to the moonlight, Patricia could see the deadly trap quite clearly. She bit back her scream of frustration.

So much for just dropping out the window.

Then again, from this height, she probably would have been severely injured anyway.

Fighting back the panic of her situation, Patricia swiveled her head back and forth, searching for some alternate means of escape. Not too far away from her position was another window.

Gauging the distance and weighing her options, Patricia very, very carefully leaned out the window, and began using her hooves to drag herself toward the window nearly ten feet away.

Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god.

If she slipped; if she so much as trembled in the wrong direction, Patricia was likely to slip to a rather unpleasant death.

Or at the very least, an extremely painful breaking of most of the bones in her body.

Sweat beaded over her eyes, and she resisted the urge to wipe it away as she vainly tried to grip the slick tiles of the roof with her hooves. She did, however, manage to make progress.

Inch by painfully slow inch, quivering centimeter by centimeter.

But she was doing it.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod!

Patricia was breathing heavily by this point, but the window was in sight. Maybe if she just slipped here, she might have a chance of missing the rocks.

What kind of whack job hides a bunch of jagged rocks behind rose bushes, anyway?

Oddly, the mad urge to giggle resurfaced. Mentally brushing it away, her relieved hooves touched the windowsill. She inhaled deeply, having not noticed that she’d been holding her breath.

Silently begging; praying to any deity that would listen, she bit her bottom lip in trepidation and gave a little tug upward on the window.

It eagerly rose.

“Yes!” she whispered in victory, slipping in through the window and landing lightly on the carpeted floor. She simply lay there for a minute, giddy and breathing heavily.

She was alive.

But she still had a mission. She needed to get out.

Blinking and allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark, Patricia took in what details she could. Fortunately, the small amount of moonlight helped with this.

She appeared to be in some kind of small study, as the still computer atop the old writing desk portrayed some kind of business area. A couple of bookshelves were filled with paperbacks and hardbacks alike, although she couldn’t see the names very well.

Rogers? Pavlov? Freud?

Ignoring them, Patricia curiously eyed the top desk drawer, which stood slightly ajar. Poking at it and pulling it open with both hooves revealed something that should have been obvious to her from the beginning. It made her want to retch, and she almost vomited then and there. Partially from disgust and horror, and partially from her own stupidity.

It was just so obvious.

Patricia’s scream caught in her throat as she gazed down at the plethora of pictures. Even in the shoddy light, there was no mistaking it.

Christopher even told her himself.

I’ve always been a fan of photography.

I help lots of women, just like you.

Stupid. So, so stupid.

The way they’d all arrived simultaneously, from the comfortable and practiced fashions they acted it to the precise methods they’d used to attempt to control her more accurately.

The basement.

The metal loops, screwed into the basement floor, rusted.

Rusted and worn with use.

“Oh, god.” Patricia dropped the pictures of all the young women, and the tears of fear stung her eyes.

She had to get out.

She had to get out now.

“Patricia?”

She jumped, terror evident in her eyes as the study door swung open. Christopher didn’t look angry, or confused.

He didn’t even show any expression at all when he looked at her.

“Patricia, what have I told you about going in my study?” he asked her, slowly stepping into the room. He cupped something obviously in one hand, but she couldn’t make out what it was.

“Y-you-you didn’t-“ she cleared her throat, speaking more boldly. “You never said anything about the study.”

Christopher slowly snapped the door shut behind him, never dropping his blank gaze from her.

“Oh, Patricia.” He moaned quietly, and he looked a little sad momentarily. “You know you have to stay in bed. You’re sick, remember?”

Patricia slowly began backing away from him, creeping steadily toward the window. Her heart pounded in her chest, slamming against her ribcage. Christopher’s head was tilted at an odd angle, and he just kept moving forward…!

“Chr-Chris…!” Patricia said quickly, tottering backwards. She’d take her chances with the rocks below.

Not awaiting any response, Patricia threw some of the pictures at him-

-and dove directly out the window.

Just one single instant.

For just one fleeting, joyous instant, she was finally free.

Patricia’s body swung with the motion as Christopher grabbed her tail, and she screamed in pain as she was violently dragged back inside through the window.

“No, no!” she screamed in despair, flailing wildly and gripping at the windowsill in desperation. Powerful arms yanked her back, though, and she shrieked in fear. “Please! Please, no!”

She quickly found herself thrown to the floor, with Christopher straddling her as her breathing was suddenly stopped short, and she discovered what he’d been cupping in his hand.

She was being strangled with a line of piano wire.

Patricia fought and struggled, but to no avail. She simply wasn’t strong enough to push him off.

The wire cut around her throat even tighter as Christopher leaned over her, crying softly as he caressed her face with his own.

“I’m sorry, Patricia. I’m s-so, so sorry.”

The pain in her throat was gradually dulled as the darkness around the corners of her eyes began to grow and coalesce.

“I’m sorry. I still love you, Patricia. I'm sorry. I’m sorry, Patricia. This is for your own good,” he wept openly atop her as he pulled the wire tighter, and her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Weakly, she pushed one last time against his chest, against his hands; anything to break free.

Christopher pulled the wire tight with all his strength, so much that it caused his fingers to bleed.

By that point, of course, poor Patricia had stopped breathing a long time ago.

Of course, he had to put her with the others.

Christopher silently swung the shovel over one shoulder as he walked away, tramping through the grass quietly as he mourned.

And he would continue to mourn, just as he had done for years.

At least he managed to get some good pictures first.

Author's Notes:

This story made me ill.

I mean it. This story literally made me physically sick.
And I WROTE it.

However, I wanted to write a story that really stayed true to the Dark and Tragedy tags. Not just mindless smut or a grim thought. I wanted a story that would create believable characters, with dynamic personalities. I wanted a story that would stick with someone, the lingering feeling still plaguing the reader long after the horror initially set in.

In short, I wanted to write a good story.
I'm not certain if this one was worth it, though.