Psychiatrist's Puppet (Loftry University Playthings 3)

Chapter 2

Jane Doe

The dreams are changing.Instead of pain and shadows, it’s morphing into lighter colors and golden landscapes. A voice calls out to me often. It’s not my name, but it’s meant for me. I’m sure of it. I keep turning, trying to find whoever it is, but it’s never him.

I’m still stuck with my monster. In one moment, he brings me both the most crippling pain and also the most exquisite pleasure. Even now, arousal gathers at my folds to drip down my inner thigh. I hate it and crave it. The duality of my imprisonment is not lost on me. This was the very thing my parents warned me about when I sought to “rebel.”

But there’s no way they could have even imagined one-tenth of the pleasure that being with these monsters could bring. Everything is pale now. Even if I manage to escape my personal demons, there is no going back to my simple, suburban existence. It just isn’t possible.

I kneel, closing my eyes, anticipation curling in my stomach like butterflies with razor-sharp wings - fluttering and annihilating all in the same flap. Now is the time for his twisted pleasures. I shouldn’t know that. I shouldn’t be able to comprehend the fact I can still think, feel, and reason. From the bits of conversation I caught in those rare moments of lucidity, I should have no concept of anything other than the fantastic dream that tries and fails to sweep me completely under.

I can imagine that if I let it, if I were weaker, I could succumb like all the others - hundreds, if I’ve heard correctly. But I don’t trust it. Just like I don’t trust the soft fingers on my arms and shoulders or the mellow murmur of a different voice - not kind, never kind. Lord knows I’ve never earned that sort of redemption. But his voice is quiet and soft. It’s not laced with anger or lust. But what do I know?

Could it be that I’m finally cracking? As much as I hold onto my last bit of awareness, it could be slipping from my fingers. Sand, sifting through my hands, like the time Billy took me to the beach to surprise me. I’d never been before that. Too many people showing off their bodies for my parent’s comfort.

Not Billy, though. The moment he found out I’d never been to a beach, he gathered me up into his LeSabre and drove me out straight away. That’s the moment I knew my parents were full of shit. That was when I stopped giving a damn about what they thought and about their twisted sense of morals. But where did that get me?

Turning my head in my mind, I run my fingers along the sordid scene and jagged rocks willing it to change into the beach I so fondly remembered. It takes a bit of time, much longer than it usually does, and the butterflies turn lethal. No longer do they just flit about. Now, they slice with every motion with a pain so intense I look down to make sure I’m not actually bleeding.

What happens if I die in this nightmare? Does that mean I die in real life? A montage of eighties horror films flashes through my brain at the speed of light. This isn’t good. I don’t need a literal nightmare killer finding his way into whatever hellscape I’m currently in. I turn my concentration to finishing my beach, needing relief from this mental agony.

Eventually, everything melts. Gone is the terrifying backsplash that acts as a prison for my monster to do his worst. The umbrellas, the sand, the waves, all of it is perfect. I breathe in a sigh of relief as I scrunch my toes deep into the sand, letting the grains sift about. Billy isn’t here, but that’s to be expected. There had to be one major drawback - a give and take - to possess the ability to mold my prison. I can’t change my warden.

My eyes dart about as I look for his blot, so out of place in the serene landscape I’ve created. A frown turns down my lips as the butterflies once again beat at my stomach lining, forcing themselves up into my throat. Something is wrong. He’s always here.

He doesn’t have a face - just a skull. If I didn’t know I was stuck in my own brain, I’d swear it was the grim reaper himself that fucked me into oblivion night after night, unleashing his dark passions on me until I finally give up and join him wherever the whores go to die. I assume my own personal hell would be similar to this, only I wouldn’t be able to craft at least bits of the story.

He hasn’t touched me in what feels like eons. He just stands there, stroking my face or murmuring nonsense in harsh, clipped tones that I have no way of translating. Every moment I see him, my body responds. I’m a bitch in heat, just waiting for my master’s command. Why isn’t he touching me? Why isn’t he relieving me of this infernal burning that’s settled under my skin with a need so fierce I can barely breathe?

“Where are you right now? Where do you go when you leave me?”

The soft tones pierce the caws of the seagulls, ruining the solitude of the moment. I’m grateful and scared at the same time, trembling in my mind as the voice surrounds me, cocoons me, promises safety without any way of delivering.

Wrapping my arms about each other, I sink down into the sand. I deserve this hell. I know I do. But a new voice means a new master. This time, I have no idea what’s coming. I’m stuck, a prisoner of my own mind. I can’t protect myself from anything he chooses to do. Lying down, I let the sand bite at my cheek, giving myself a bit of discomfort that I can control.

Perhaps if I lie still enough, I can stay here. Nothing he does will be able to penetrate. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? What’s the point of crafting an illusion if you can’t live there and shove out the pain? Or maybe I’m wrong, and I don’t understand any of this.

I never claimed to be a brain surgeon. I never claimed to be the smartest girl in the class. What I am is a survivor, and that grip on my sanity is slowly peeling away. It’s like hanging from a ledge while one finger at a time pulls away from that safety until the inevitable finally happens and you plummet to your death. I’m so perilously close. I don’t know if I have the strength to hang on much longer.