Tag: Dark Drama

She Never Wanted to Escape

She Never Wanted to Escape

A Short Story By: Victor Villainous 

***Warning: Extremely sensitive subject matter, reader discretion is advised.***

Ever since Sandra became a teenager she had a peculiar fascination with the idea of being sexually tortured. Her depraved thoughts would reside within her mind as nothing more than a quiet, bizarre fantasy.

Sandra concealed a brief flirtation with watching fetish porn; a secret affair that she would abandon as she emerged into adulthood and started developing a feministic objection to graphic nudity.

Relieved by her adoption of principled morality, Sandra believed, now that she was 20, her unusual lust would become but an embarrassing thing of the past.

Her world felt suffocating. Society claimed a victorious, golden era for the age of women. Oppression and subjugation were becoming yesterday’s headlines. Everywhere she turned, however, she felt the menacing glare of predatory men who were consumed by desire and restrained only by well-sanctioned law.

She knew what they wanted. They wanted to feast on her innocence. They wanted to devour every scrap of her soul until her virginity was mutilated, befouled and tossed onto a rickety shelf like a 3rd place trophy, where lay the tormented lost virginity of countless other young women.

These men were wicked, she thought, not sinful, but cursed by their own nature; instinct that could never again be congruent with a civilized society. In a way she pitied them, as one would pity the confinement of an exotic creature far removed from their indigenous habitat and relocated to an unfamiliar, concrete prison.

Sandra believed she was free. Not from the lingering patriarchal oppression once handsomely felt by her foremothers, but from her own perversions.

Never again would she penetrate herself, embracing fantasy, which unknowingly gave satisfaction to the very same oppressors who once tore the skin of the women before her. No longer would she allow their hunger to haunt and entice her imagination.

Sandra became increasingly angry at herself for ever having fantasies about being raped and sexually tortured. In an effort to quell the maddening guilt she convinced herself it wasn’t her fault, it was their fault.

She wanted to hurt one of them. She wanted to penetrate them and emasculate them. She wanted to see the look on his face that so many men have seen from their victims; fear, humiliation, the frozen look of suicide contemplation caught in an unforgettable, unforgivable moment.

Wait, she thought to herself, I’ve never been raped.

It was true. Sandra had never actually been assaulted, raped or ever physically mistreated in anyway.

What could I possibly know?

Realizing there were some errors in her thinking, Sandra decided it would be best to relax, take some time and get herself together. She needed to stop thinking so much. She needed to put aside violent thoughts that would inevitably prove disastrous for her.

A hipster joint downtown that periodically housed 80’s pop shindigs was having a blowout party that Saturday. City officials deemed the place irreparable and their liquor license would soon expire.

The owners were taking a huge risk, but were planning to fall back on a flimsy idea that they had no preconceived knowledge of the party should anything go awry.  Young and rebellious, the owners went with their gut instinct: you only live once!

Anybody who was anybody was going to this party. They wouldn’t be checking IDs, no bouncers, no security; just a night of anarchy and debauchery.

Sandra and 3 of her girlfriends arrived fashionably late, which at an underground hipster club meant they were right on time.

Sips turned to swills and beers turned to shots. Before she knew it, Sandra was highly intoxicated and going on a wild tangent about female oppression to some uninterested onlookers. Her friends had abandoned her to dance with strangers.

“All you men are fucking whores!” she screamed.

A few dudes laughed and made fun of her, but they didn’t want to see her get hurt. One of the guys even went asking around to see if anyone knew who she was. He knew she was drunk and didn’t want her to get in trouble. The club was crowded and loud. He mine as well have been looking for the holy grail.

Sandra was stepping backwards away from the guys she was screaming at, for no reason, and bumped into someone. The collision caused him to spill his drink onto them both. Turning around to see the archetypal image of alpha-male superiority, she felt offended. She drunkenly scoffed, swung her hand around and struck him in the chest.

“Watch where the fuck I’m going!” she commanded him.

With a swift and thoughtless retaliation he slapped her.

They both stood still and just looked at each other.

Sandra looked at his pulsating muscles attempting to break out of his white, wet tank top and felt more aroused than she had ever felt in her life. Having lost all sense of inhibition she leapt towards him and passionately started to kiss him.

“Fuck off, bitch!” he exclaimed as he pushed her to the ground and walked away.

Sandra’s friend Beth happened to see her from a distance being pushed to the ground and quickly ran over to aide her. Beth wasn’t as intoxicated as the other girls, so the position of babysitter would soon fall upon her.

Beth grabbed Sandra as she was screaming at the man who pushed her down. The things that Sandra was yelling at the man would later concern Beth immensely.

“Get the fuck back here!” she shouted to him, “Rape me you fucking pussy, rape me!”

Beth and her friends were finally able to calm Sandra down, catch an Uber out of there and get her home before any further travesty could unfold.

Sandra may have been fortunate not to sustain any serious physical injuries, but she was not fortunate enough to forget. She remembered the entire night and everything that happened.

Consequently, Sandra spent the next 2 days confined to her room, avoiding calls and texts, enduring crippling depression.  Laying around watching movies she slowly began to regain a sense of normalcy.  ‘Titanic’ was on as background noise as she finally started answering texts from Beth and her friends.

Looking up from her phone and gazing upon the television, she fixed her eyes on the scene where Cal had confronted Rose about her alleged philandering with Jack, the poor boy trickster who won his way onto the boat from a lucky poker hand.

Sandra breathed heavily as she watched Cal slap Rose.

She grabbed the remote control, rewound the scene several times, and then paused the movie.

Sliding her hand down her pants she felt herself becoming more and more aroused, and then began to masturbate. Slow fingering soon turned into vigorous, almost violent, penetrating.

In a hastened fury she rewound the film while she continued her aggressive masturbating. She erupted in a thunderous orgasm as she watched Rose being slapped once more.

Terrible guilt and shame flooded her as she looked at the saturated bed sheets. She cried and returned to the bottom depths of her depression.

The next day Beth came over and they talked for a while. Beth expressed some sincere concerns for Sandra and implored as to what was going on. Sandra broke down and told her everything.  Beth held Sandra in her arms as she wept, and told her that everything was going to be okay.

With Beth’s blessing and encouragement Sandra agreed to talk to a therapist and get some help.

Clinging on to the antiquated stigma of professional therapy, Sandra insisted that she go alone, despite Beth’s numerous attempts to tag along.

Reluctance was the only thing that accompanied Sandra into the office of her therapist, who was a handsome, 39 year old married man from Texas.

After Sandra had explained her situation to her therapist, he cordially asked her if she would feel more comfortable with a female therapist. He offered to refer her to one of his colleagues.

For some reason this bothered Sandra. Why can a man deliver so much pain, evil and suffering and then when he’s called to hear what he was done, he cowers?

Sandra became hostile and demanded that he listen to her and help her, because only a man can understand why men have such perverted desires. Desires which have twisted her mind into thinking that she wanted to be raped.

She talked about her vagina and how she likes to touch it when she thinks about a man having his way with her.

While she was talking she noticed that his eyes briefly lost focus to her eyes, and they descended for a moment. She felt him looking at her. She felt him undressing her.

She pictured herself pinned against the wall. Her naked, frail body being abused and used as if it were merely a vessel of pleasure–not human but human enough to fulfill a carnal satisfaction.

He felt himself becoming erect as she continued to talk about her wild fantasies. He tried, for but a moment, to resist.

His mind became uncomfortable and nervous as his body wrenched with excitement.

“I think it would be best if we ended today’s session for now” he pleaded.

Suddenly, as his eyes stayed focused on her, she lifted up her skirt and pulled her underwear off, showing him her naked vagina.

“Will you be gentle? I’ve never done this before” she said with a new level of confidence she never had before. “I won’t tell anyone”.

‘Nobody would believe her anyway’ he thought to himself as he justified a cautious advance towards her.

No foreplay. No kissing. No sense of love or bonding. No connection whatsoever except for his now rock solid penis throbbing inside of her, robbing her of her virginity.

She became detached. She thought about a time when she was a little girl playing outside with her friends. Her mother laughed as they carelessly played in the mud, convinced those days would never end. Convinced with the lie that her little girl would never grow up, like an hour glass whose sand had refused to fall anymore. They were such innocent times.  Times that were now gone forever. Lost to corruption, lust, and the invincible notion that someone else’s suffering never has to be their own.

“Stop” she squeaked out as she lay on the couch with her therapist rapaciously pounding her fragile body.

“Stop!” she said loudly, hoping that her first attempt merely went unnoticed.

Terror welled up inside of her as she felt his hand grab her face, covering her mouth to silence her so he could resume his atrocity.

Panic replaced her terror and with her free hand she grabbed a vase from atop the end table that sat next to the couch and bashed it over his head.

He didn’t stop. He became enraged as he continued to violate her.

Blood rushed all over her as she jammed a shard of the broken vase into his neck.

She laid there with his lifeless body still inside of her. She felt something warm dripping out of her as she managed to push him off.

Trembling, horrified and bereft of any hope, she sat, unable to cry, stupefied by the ghastly scene that was now displayed before her.

Dazed and disconnected from reality, covered in blood, she didn’t know how she would get home. She fled to her car hoping that no one in the small office complex would notice her. Even if they did, she didn’t care, she just wanted to go home.

Bursting through the door of her parents house she flew to the bathroom and turned on the water. She was confused. Why did she go to her parents? Her parents would be home soon. She didn’t know what to do.

She stood in the shower, thoughtless until the water ran cold. She just stood there with the icy water caressing her body. She thought of her friends, her family, all of the people she was going to miss.

She touched herself, ashamed, guilty and with the agonizing realization that she now had a dead man’s sperm inside of her.

She trembled and whimpered with misplaced guilt, “what have I done?”

She went into her parent’s room, naked, cold and wet. Pictures of her family showcased a happy life. Happy marriage and a life filled with joy. She stood in contrast to the memories of her childhood.

She hugged a picture frame of her parents.

“I’m sorry God” she cried out.




~The End

The Last Cruise to Nowhere

The Last Cruise to Nowhere

A Short Story by Epicdelusion©

“Fair winds tell of treacherous seas” a man once told me when I was a child.  I didn’t quite understand exactly what he meant, although for some reason I’ve never forgotten it.

My name is Apollo.

Hardly knowing my grandparents, I was surprised to receive an invitation to board an extravagant private cruise in celebration of their 60th Wedding Anniversary. What was particularly confusing was the importance expressed that I was to be in attendance and the urgency of which I was instructed to RSVP.

Accumulating wealth from ambitious investment strategies in the late 1950’s, my grandfather became a successful businessman and husband by the age of twenty; utilizing a stowed away cache of funds from his father’s unaffected capital gains of the roaring 20s.

What started out as relatively conservative investments avalanched into more prosperous endeavors.

Eliza and Jacob, my cousins, who were lavishly absorbed in their New England high-society lifestyle, were far removed from the reality and the ills that plagued the common person. I, on the other hand, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, was not so fortunate.

Shortly after my mother met my father she cast aside her prominence and sacrificed a life of luxury in exchange for ‘true love’; with a man of a much less nobler ilk.  Career change would ultimately force them to leave Jamestown before I was born. Her brother, my Uncle Henry, would become sole heir to my grandfather’s vast fortune. I think she did it out of respect for my father and perhaps a drive to be independent and successful on her own.

My grandparents never housed any animosity towards my parents. Their departure was fairly tranquil.

At the risk of sounding envious, I firmly state that I am comfortable with having a somewhat normal upbringing and find high society to be rather confining, joyless and wrought with unadventurous peril.

Nevertheless, I accepted the invitation and looked forward to 3 days of drinking fine wine at the expense of my wealthy relatives.

Cousin Eliza, undoubtedly still high from her acceptance into Juilliard and her convoluted aspirations to be the next Mozart, actually called me. I didn’t know 17-year-old girls even knew how to make phone calls, let alone stomach a brief distraction from their highly important schedules to contact a lowly peasant such as myself.

Later I would discover that she was prompted to call me because my Aunt Jennifer, Uncle Henry’s wife, pawned off an instruction from my grandmother to secure confirmation of guest attendance–for money.

That’s right, my Aunt Jennifer, the idly rich and extraordinarily lazy, paid her daughter to call me.

Oh well, right?

“Bon Voyage” as they say, 3 days from Florida to the Bahamas here we come.

Cruise ships, although never having seen one in person prior to boarding, were mysterious to me. What secrets a ship like this must have concealed? I wondered.  Each echoing memory of copious jubilation, each spontaneous affair mired in wanton betrayal. Every half-smoked cigarette flicked over its rails from drunken passengers alight with careless ecstasy, liberated in their thoughtless reveling. Every wish whispered to a glimmering star from a child who lay quietly tucked away in their cabin, unperturbed by the world’s sorrow, unhindered to dream of the day when the helm firmly rested in their able hands, proclaiming “I am now the Captain!”  Oh, mysterious ship, I suppose your secrets you shall keep.

I had enough weed to last me a few days, however, judging by the general stuffiness of the crowd I didn’t anticipate a lengthy survival of my stash.

Brokers, employees, executives, friends of old, some of which I’m sure were required to be there and were probably ‘on the clock.’  I felt awkward among the ample turnout, as I didn’t really know anyone there except for my parents.

My father, with his laptop in hand, would likely confine himself to his room and work through the duration of the trip. This wasn’t out of any specific disinterest in the cruise or the people attending, but rather because he and his brother recently started their own company and his work was consuming his life.

Once upon a time I would spend a week or two up north with my grandparents as a child during the summers. The family, despite inevitable failure to upkeep arrangements, did display an effort to stay connected. By the time I reached Middle School, however, I developed an indifference to taking those summer trips, and with sports, activities, friends and what not, eventually stopped going altogether.

The sun fell, the shoreline long vanished and a steadily increasing release of inhibition overtook the previously stiff and cumbersome crowd. Which was okay with me, as a 24- year-old unemployed artist I acquired a fondness of drunkenness and late night debauchery.

2 glasses of wine, 3 beers and a shot of bourbon later I found myself perusing the party deck and mingling, hoping to find a girl, who wasn’t either a family member or an exemplary finishing school graduate, to share the evening with.

I spotted my grandfather from a distance. I haven’t seen him in years but he recognized me and started to make his way over.

“So glad you could make it” he smiled and nodded his head, directing me to come and sit down with him for a moment.

“I want to apologize to you.” he adjusted his suit as we sat on a ledge away from the music and the dancing. “It takes a lifetime for a fool to realize that the most precious gift he had was time.” He reached into his pocket. “This was my fathers and I’d like you to have it.” I raised my eyebrow, slightly intoxicated and confused as I laid my eyes upon a 9 Karat gold Rolex watch, circa 1930’s.

I didn’t speak.

“I wanted you to know that I loved you ever since you came into this world. I wish now that I had made a greater effort to be a part of your life.”

He looked at the floor and took a deep breath.  For a moment I didn’t see him as my forgotten rich relative, but as a man. A man with emotion. A man with regrets. A man like me.

“It’s okay” I reassured him. “I could have made a better effort too.” I shook his hand and thanked him for the watch.

“Keep it to remember that wealth is not measured by mere possessions.” He placed his hand on my shoulder and told me to enjoy the cruise, then faded back into the party. I noted the irony of remembering that wealth was not measured by mere possessions through a possession, but I was happy to receive his beloved watch anyway.

Curious how such a brief conversation could have had such an impact on me. So much was said in so little words. There was something about him that was unique. People loved him and aspired to be like him.

Remember my thinking that some of his employees who were in attendance must have been paid to be there? I was wrong. They were honored to be there.

My warm and pensive mood was interrupted…

“Hey there Rembrandt” Eliza’s sloshed sarcasm surprised me. Not surprised that she would address me in a pejorative manner, but because she would even condescend to speak to me at all.

“You’re drunk.” I said with little humor.

She rolled her eyes, confident because she knew that she could do anything she wanted to with impunity.

“You know my Mother paid me to call you, right? I just needed you to know that.”

I stared at her, not amused and somewhat offended. It’s interesting to me that someone who had everything they could possibly want would happily accept an offer to make even more money, even if it was only a menial task of calling a few relatives. It shows the nature of the exceedingly wealthy, their appetite knows no satiety. She couldn’t bare the thought of me thinking that she called me on her own volition, she detested me.

“I’m just surprised you knew how to make a phone call” I said in an embarrassing attempt to make a come back.

She scoffed contemptuously and walked away from me.

Eliza was brilliant. Brilliant and vicious. Those are the characteristics of a true leader. She was the type who would happily devour a feast in front of a starving family just to see the looks on their faces, to reap a depraved sense of satisfaction, and then just before they died give them food so they would praise her as their savior.

Me, well… I am only brilliant, which alone is the single ingredient of the recipe for certain failure.

I never told my Mother of our encounter that evening as she was attempting to exhibit herself as a worthy guest; embarking upon some strange attempt to ‘last minute’ social climb as if her chance of success hadn’t long since eluded her.

She was content in her efforts, so I let her be. Admittedly I was happy to see her smiling and talking with her parents. My father, as predicted, was hidden away working in solitude.

I decided that another drink was in order and made my way to the bar, taking careful precaution not to run into my cousin Jacob, who would undoubtedly be devastated to learn that our grandfather had given me his father’s sentimentally priceless watch.

I was feeling a bit heavy after my brief run-in with Eliza. Against all of my reason and logic I allowed her arrogance and pompousness to get the better of me. I shouldn’t let myself feel like that but I suppose that’s how we’re all conditioned. The elitists call the shots while the hoi polloi scrounge for leftovers.

“Hi sweetie” I heard a voice behind me as a hand touched my shoulder. ‘Who the hell is bothering me now and why wont they just let me get another god damn drink?’ I thought to myself as I turned around with a look that expressed precisely what I was thinking.

“Oh,  grandmother.” I said. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

“You’re too young to look so down” she chuckled as she gave me a hug.

I smiled.

My grandmother was from a poor family. She grew up in the Bronx and through her own merit was able to attend ‘Wagner College’ and eventually met my grandfather at a party on Staten Island. He was smitten by her charm, as the story goes.

I liked her. Of all my mother’s side of my family she was the one I knew the best. Which isn’t saying much, but is of note. During my summer visits she was the one I spent most of my time with, as my grandfather was often detained by business.

We talked for a bit. She expressed much of the same sentiments previously divulged by my grandfather. I must have been the topic of lengthy conversation between them. That became apparent when she told me how important it was to appreciate the time we are given.

I wished her well and finally made it to the bar. I ordered a ‘Staten Island Iced Tea’ in salute to my grandparents, who I was happy to be on board with celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary. I drank as I quietly made plans to see them more often after the trip.

The evening was intoxicating and ripe with magnanimous allure. Fireworks from atop the ship resounded a thunderous roar in conjunction with the fanfare and the indecipherable chatter; a symphony of harmonious perfection.

My grandfather and grandmother had delivered a spectacular speech and received a standing ovation like I’ve never before witnessed. They retired for the evening and granted us, and encouraged, a late hour party.

Their love was undiminished as they danced alone in their cabin, graced by the moonlight and the savory concertos of Arcangelo Corelli.

I had forgotten about Eliza. I stopped worrying about who I was or who I was supposed to be. I’m not sure if it was the Staten Island Iced Tea or the unexpected rambunctiousness of the party, but I was feeling absolutely fantastic.

You never want a moment like that to pass by too quickly, but alas, “fair winds tell of treacherous seas”.  I finally understood what that meant…

I awoke with barely any sleep. Morning had come sooner than I thought it would, but never had I imagined it would come with a blood curdling scream from a few rooms down.

I just wish it wouldn’t have been my mother who found them first.

There, surrounded by the vastness of eternal waters, lay two lovers, husband and wife for 60 years, whose story had now ended.

I knew now why it was so important that all of these guests were to attend this magnificent and sorrowful cruise.

They gathered all of their loved ones together for one last party, one last chance to say goodbye.

Diamorphine. Known on the street as Heroin. They laid together in that bed, on that cruise ship, frozen in time, charmed and smitten, holding hands as they were on that night they first met at that party on Staten Island.

They didn’t want to linger on and wither away slowly. They had decided that their lives were complete and this was their final voyage.

The culmination of lives well lived, a glorious and marvelous salutation. An epic tale that would someday be forgotten, a ghost of the past, only to live on as another secret well guarded by that mysterious cruise ship.

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