“Wake up!” Agony and a wash of spots flourished in her vision. She blinked them away, waking.

A ghost of trepidation entered her mind, knowing she should’ve tensed, but the willpower evaded her. Julie scarcely mustered the strength to raise her head, to breathe, her mind numb from enduring the sufferance and torture. She couldn’t remember a time before this room, this chair, or Mr. Pleasure.

Through the fog of misery, in the undiscovered reaches of her mind, she tried to recall who she was. At the core of her soul, she sensed what he represented, some morbid part of her psyche lashing out in punishment for her weakness, her defective qualities. Her face stung. She didn’t care if he permanently disfigured her with abusive slaps. All sense of self vanished; her identity, her name, all figments aloof. The only part of her that refused to fade was the silent animosity.

Her mind railed against the abuse she received, breaking apart and fortifying, saving herself from his torture. She rarely felt his inflictions anymore. Only the mind numbing question tumbled in her head: Who am I?

In the seldom moments of clarity, she recalled a time before, like a fevered dream, the vague impressions repressed. Another life, another time. In the flicker of flashing images, she recalled magic and the violent aftermath. Without the sense of passing time, the burden of recollecting the memories in the correct sequence eluded her, but she noticed that Mr. Pleasure’s cruelty enhanced after she rallied to discharge herself. In the backlash of her actions, the pain increased exponentially. That much she could recall.

A part of her ached to know how she’d fallen into Mr. Pleasure’s clutches. When she reached out for the elusive memories, they recoiled and skittered away, never answering when she needed them.

But the voice did.

The voice simmered, demanded justice, revenge; each time the voice visited, the desirous sense of empowerment washed over her, promising aid to escape. The voice waited patiently to take over; the eagerness was palpable, poised for the proper moment to strike. She was horrified to learn it was her voice. Caged, locked away, a side of her seethed with malevolence. The malignity suffused her, its claws digging deep.

Escape-less.

A man’s face loomed in her mind, and the pernicious voice recoiled, fled to the dark recesses of her mind. Details about who the man was bilked her, but she could examine every line with resolute clarity. His eyes were kind, wise, and azure, soothing during times of greatest angst. Each visit, the blue eyes brought her a measure of peace. Safety washed over her every time she gazed at him. Above his eyes, his hair parted down the middle and cascaded down, nearly touching his shoulders. A neatly trimmed goatee hugged his fatherly smile.

“My name is Mr. Pleasure,” the droning voice interrupted her thoughts. She didn’t care anymore, couldn’t he understand that? “You shall call me by no other name than Mr. Pleasure. If you call me by that name, I’ll release you.”

She blinked. A spell of time trickled by as the words gestated. Her heart beat faster, the words sinking in. She desperately desired what he promised.

Freedom.

Giddiness flourished through her like a rampant contagion.

Hope.

It must be a trick!

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Her languid cognitive abilities tried to ferret out the ruse. Julie’s stoic exterior belied her inner turmoil. Desperation gnawed at her insides, but she didn’t want him to notice how badly she wished to leave, giving him no cause to detain her further.

“Mr. Pleasure,” she said, her voice quaking. The tremor in her voice wasn’t of fear but acrimony, the bringer of silent fury. The voice in her head tensed, the moment at hand.

He smiled, leering at her as he lumbered forward, bending to untie the straps holding her. “You may go.” His smile never faltered.

Cautiously, she stood, wary of any trap he might spring. Her legs shook to hold her upright. He made no move to impede her halting steps. When she reached the door, she paused, looking back with a mixture of anguish and mistrust. The malicious smile lingered as he folded his arms across his chest.

Somewhere within her core, she snapped, the voice taking command. With a renewed strength, she stormed towards him, snatching up a sword from his table as she closed the distance. She swung with all her might, cleaving his right arm at the shoulder. He didn’t fight her, nor did he scream; he stood resolutely, the smile never fading.

The smile.

The all-knowing smile that held her darkest secrets, the times she broke and cried, when he defiled her. The grin mirrored that of a guilty man who knew he’d walk free, unmolested. And her rage hated him for it.

She hacked at him, the blade swinging with all her might behind it until there was nothing left of him but pieces on the floor, broken like a porcelain doll. Her chest heaved, her hair a tangled mop around her face. Sweat trickled like tear streaks. Pausing, she gazed at the remains, but she could still see the smile.

It wasn’t enough, not after what he had done to her.

It’ll never be enough!

She hacked at the pieces—his arms, legs, and face. Deep gashes appeared in the floor as sparks flew from her relentless swings. The sword, riddled with nicks, snapped during one of her overhead swings. She screamed out as she relived all the horrors he inflicted.

Still, it paled in the wake of his atrocities.

She scooped up the pieces, dashing between the broken shards and the fire, tossing them into the flames, watching them burn. When the last fragments were safely blazing, she collapsed to her knees, unable to contain the torment a moment longer. Tears of anguish rolled freely down her face, and her shoulders heaved.

A hand fell on her shoulder.

She gasped, her tears stifled. Resignation coursed through her. She wanted to die.

“Kill me,” she breathed.

Not bothering to look at the hand, her sobs surged anew, harder than before. Her lungs burned, her weeping refused to let her breathe. She should’ve known this was a trick, a ploy to get her hopes up. It worked. Julie let the other side of her out, the portion controlled by the voice, and missed her opportunity to escape.

The hand was soft and warm against her skin, the rags of her robes allowing for the flesh on flesh touch. The gesture was comforting, the antithesis of Mr. Pleasure.

Slowly, she tilted her head and saw the face she vaguely recollected: the man who had made the voice go away. He smiled at her—a sad smile, no doubt, but a smile nonetheless.

“Come, Julie,” he urged gently, his hands holding hers, pulling her smoothly off the floor.

Julie. That’s my name! She remembered that now.

“Let’s go,” he beckoned, his voice ennoble.

The seething voice vanished in his presence. The barriers that blocked her mind crumbled, and the wave of flashbacks came crashing in, retaining everything.

He held her as she sobbed. After suffering all the vile things she had, she’d never be the same. She shivered in his embrace, crying with relief and joy and sorrow. Her heart fractured beyond reformation. Memories returned, both real and fanciful, the walls of the room she’d come to know faded away. They stood just under the doorway, the threshold she once entered, and as Judas hugged her, her eyes climbed upward until they fell on the words etched in the bark.

Here Madness Dwells.