“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.