Trigger Warning: Extreme Horror: Contains Strong Sexual Content, Violence, Drug Use, and Language. (4 page)

“FUCK!” I scream. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

I crawl back to the pillar, trembling, and I can feel Jennifer staring at me in the dim green light, from her little corner in the chamber.

The steel door squeals open and I suck in a deep breath, looking through hot tears, through black muddy fingers and blood. The Bunny enters…giggling.

“You’ve been a naughty boy,” it says, and points at me.

“What the fuck do you want?” I choke on my words. I have no spit.

“I want to make you suffer.” The Bunny giggles again, covering its mouth.

Jennifer cries.

“Welcome to hell,” the rabbit’s voice goes deep and gravelly, and then back to high-pitched giggling, as it frolics around the chamber, jumping up and down on all fours. It shakes its fuzzy tail at us and then slams the steel door shut.

The echo of that slamming bounces around the chamber for what feels like forever.

Erica

Oh fuck it’s dark in here. I can’t see. My hands tied behind my back. I’m lying on cold concrete. It presses into my face. I feel a cobweb on my lips but I can’t get it off. A door opens at the top of the stairs. I’m in a cellar, I think. I let out a raspy cry. My mouth is bloodied (I can taste copper) and my eyes are dry (balls of dust). Fear and revulsion and sickness are the only things keeping me warm down in this dank hell hole. The silhouette of the rabbit (the long ears) comes down the stairs, each wooden step creaking beneath its padded feet. That thing…it’s giggling. I try to get up, but my ankles are bound too…I can only roll around on the concrete, flopping like a dying fish out of water. The restraints bite into my skin.

“Yes, Jesus loves me, yes Jesus loves me,” the rabbit sings.

I start crying.

“The Bible tells me so.”

“Leave me alone!” I scream, my heart shredding into a million little pieces.

I can’t fucking stop shaking.

“Are you afraid of me?” the rabbit says. “If I were you, I’d be afraid of me.” The voice goes deep. “Because I’m one sick fuck!” Followed by the high-pitched giggling.
Hehehehehe.

“Oh God…please…leave me alone!”

“God doesn’t live down here, silly,” the rabbit says in its high-pitched voice.

The padded feet come off the last riser, and the rabbit stands above me, looming; its fluffy white chest, puckered cheeks, and buck teeth stained satin; its large dead eyes reflecting green pools of light.

“Yes Jesus loves me yes Jesus loves me.”

I’m crying, the back of my mouth aching. Everything aching. I want to puke but I can’t. I shit myself and it runs down my thighs (the thong I was wearing beneath my miniskirt—before that
thing
brought me here—has been removed; I was bare and sore when I woke up in the darkness). I gag on my stench, my filth. My rectum throbs, wet and itchy from runny shit…blood?

“They are weak,” the rabbit sings, kneeling down in front of me. “But He is strong.”

I’m crying so hard my whole body aches.

“SING IT YOU SICK FUCK!” the deep voice bellows and echoes.

“Ye-ye-yesss…Je-Jesus l-l-loves me…” I break down, my eyes pulsing in their sockets. “The Bu-bu-Bible tells me so.”

The rabbit snickers, grabs me by my bound wrists, and drags me across the floor. Hits a switch. A dim bulb flickers on, casting a sickly glow. I shriek when I see the dentist chair in the center of the room, spotlighted by the hanging bulb. The rabbit pushes me into the cold leather, undoes my wrists—I lash out and claw the rabbit’s face the moment my hands are free. But the rabbit is strong, and holds me down, giggling, as he/she/it binds my wrists again, but this time, in the chair’s leather restraints. I kick my bound ankles forward, punching the rabbit hard in the gut. It keels over, laughing, gasping for breath, and then clutches one of my fingers in its big paw.

Icy terror fills my veins at the thought of the rabbit bending my finger backward until the bone snaps, but instead: it buries a rusty tooth scraper into the nailbed. I scream.

“No one can hear you, bitch,” it says. “I hope you got your tetanus shot.”

The rabbit forces a steel contraption into my mouth that holds it open…

And then he/she/it starts up the tooth drill.

I thrash in the restraints…screaming so loud my head is vibrating and my ears are ringing and it sounds like a mad house down here as my brain cracks and my heart explodes and I think about my bloody bloated body in a dumpster somewhere and the rabbit giggles, I swear, even though I cannot hear it over the piercing noise of the drill.

The rabbit stares into my gaping maw with its dead mesh eyes and then shoves the drill bit into my back molar. The drill’s high-pitched scream rings in my tooth, my ears, my brain, and a sharp, hot pain instantly flowers in my lower jaw and I become light headed and start seeing things (demons in the shadows) and I’m screaming and crying and puking and pissing and shit is dripping down my thighs (itchy, developing a rash). The rabbit continues to drill, putting holes in my teeth and vacuuming blood and puke from my gaping maw with a suction tube.

At some point, the pain and fear blurs together and I don’t feel much of anything anymore…just acceptance. That this is it.

Then
it
stops.

My face sheathed in sweat; my eyes wide, darting around the room; mad, crazy…everything blurry; tears and sweat burn hot in my tear ducts.

“You’re sinner number three,” the rabbit says. Deep voice: “Welcome to hell.”

The rabbit giggles as it switches off the light, hops up the stairs, and slams the door shut—leaving me in darkness, bound to the dentist chair.

Saliva and blood fill the back of my throat and I feel like I’m drowning; having trouble swallowing due to the fact my mouth is being held open by the metal contraption. For a moment, I forget how to swallow and hot panic fills me…but then my throat goes into tight wild spams, and the blood and spittle go down. I cry: my tongue dry, my sinuses and throat burning with bile. The rabbit left me, left me down here, quivering, crying in pain, covered in shit and piss and puke and blood. Who the fuck is he/she/it? What the fuck do they want? Why me? God, why me? Why is this happening? What did I ever do to deserve this? Is it because I’m a whore? God, why?

The itchy rash on my shit and piss covered legs drives me even madder than the singing pain in my teeth and jaws.

In the darkness of the cellar, I feel something crawling across my face…tiny sticky feet tickling my cheek. A spider? I scream, fighting the restraints. I fight so hard I snap my wrists.

Jennifer

I hate men. All of them.

I hate this prick sitting across from me, crying his eyes out, drenched in mud water. I don’t know what he did, but I already hate him for it. I’m guessing rape, because he’s a man, and men can’t help but rape; they’re filthy animals (unevolved ape-men) that only think with their little heads. “Progressives” love to hate on the white male, but it’s all of them: red, yellow, black, and white—they’re all fucking rape-machines. And they call us whores? Ha.

But I guess I deserve to be down here with him. After all, according to the Bunny, we (the ape-man and I) are both sinners.

Then again, that Bunny (behind his mask) is probably a man. Only a man could be this cruel. Only men love kidnap and torture and violence. It’s the only thing they read about and watch on TV. And it’s always from their perspective. We watch through their eyes as they commit these violent, disturbing acts—and if we are men, we stroke our dicks. But the women are left out, only to ponder how anyone could be so turned on by such atrocities, and confused about what to do with our hands…maybe catch the rising bile from the backs of our throats?

I haven’t moved an inch from my spot: back against the wall, legs drawn to my chest.

I hear a muffled voice, giggling, screaming, a high-pitched whining (some kinda torture device?), followed by more screaming.

I quiver against the cold stone wall of this prison.

The ape-man starts pounding on the wall near the source of the noise (the next room, maybe?), crying, “STOP IT!” Probably the same thing your victim cried out, but you refused to listen, didn’t you, ape-man? You know what you want and no one is going to tell you to stop. You don’t care that she was a child once, just like you, you don’t care about her feelings, her hopes and dreams, her parents and brothers and sisters who love her…just that wet, squishy spot between her thighs. You don’t understand the importance of consent because you always want it. You don’t understand
not
wanting it. You want what you want and you’ll take it no matter what. You don’t think about how it’ll hurt her, damage her; destroy her confidence and self-esteem, her fucking life. You don’t think about the years of therapy she’ll go through after; the times she’ll break down crying when she tries to be intimate with another man (they all remind her of you), the apologizing and the excuses she’ll make up trying to make the men stay, not think she’s crazy, not leave her for not putting out at the appropriate time (man-time, which is always
now
; of course, some of the ape-men will promise to wait for her, but that waiting period will usually be two to three days; by then, they will
take
what they want or leave), but they only want what you want, don’t they?…her fucking cunt. They don’t care about the pain and hurt and PTSD and triggers, the constant struggle she goes through every day to exist in a callous world ruled by raping and killing machines. And it was foolish of her to think there would ever be a man who cared, who understood, who would be patient and wait as she nurtured her damaged sexuality back to health…the sexuality you took and destroyed with your angry phallus. It never crossed your filthy mind again, but she lives with it every day you fucking pig. You swine. Hope you die.

“STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!” the ape-man cries.

I want to kill him. Make him shut up.

I’m wondering how I’m going to die and my stomach turns. I need to puke. I want to, but I can’t. The back of my throat keeps going into spasms...but nothing.

I stare down at my hands. At the chipped purple fingernail polish. I don’t know why, but I think about the time I gave a guy a hand job down at PUSSY CATS. The club I was a stripper at before I met the Bunny.

…YESTERDAY

The hot pink neon sign above the strip club floor winked: PUSSY CATS—except the C, A, and T bulbs had burnt out, so the neon simply flashed PUSSY   S. And that’s what they (the ape-men) were here for. The girls danced and the “gentlemen” watched, hooting and hollering. Stupid, simple-minded beasts. One of the girls at the club, think her name was Erica (stripper name: Candy Cane), argued that it was empowering to be a stripper: the women are in control because their sexuality renders the ape-men into slobbering, idiotic fools. It’s a lie some of us girls tell ourselves to feel better about our pasts: rape, assault, torture—all from the hairy hands of ape-men. We want to believe we have power over our abusers, that our broken sexuality can be healed by using it to abuse the ape-men back. But the ape-men will always have the power. It doesn’t matter how stupid or idiotic or unevolved they are, they will always have the fucking power because of that pathetic piece of flesh that hangs between their legs. Society acts like it’s a goddam scepter, instead of a stick and balls. Very fragile—only an unevolved fuckhead would have their reproductive organs hanging outside their body. But it doesn’t matter. These callous violent idiots rule the world and have their hairy ape-fingers on the Mass Assured Destruction button. That’s really our only hope: that someday, these fools will put us all out of our misery.

That night, I was swinging on the pole, wearing a G-string and nothing else (if this was from a ape-man’s POV, I’d be describing my routine in gratuitous detail: how my breasts jiggled, how the fabric of  the G-string nestled into my nooks and crannies; sexualizing the ugliness and grittiness of the shit I had to deal with day in and day out just to make a living, to feed my girls, to support the drug habit I had acquired to manage my PTSD: the result of multiple abusive relationships; how hot!), and there was this ape-man in a suit, slick hair, watching me. He held out a Benjamin. Code for: private show, also known as blow or hand job; if it was five Benjamins, he’d be getting his condom wet.

I strutted toward the edge of the stage and stuck my ass out at him so he could slide the money into my G-string, as if I were some kinda fucking cash register (so empowering!)

I did a dance on the edge of the stage for him.

In the mirrored-walls, I caught a glimpse of myself: on my haunches, touching my skin (tinted by green neon lights), looking sick and dead inside. How could anyone be turned on by this green, sickly woman with no life behind her eyes? Oh, right. The ape-men didn’t care.

The ape-man in the suit smiled; a predatory smile (didn’t matter if you dressed an ape-man up, he was still an ape-man).

Later, behind a red curtain, the ape-man and I sat in a private booth.