Page 1 of Psychotic Nightmares

Let the torture begin …

Part One

Prologue

Natalie

Ican’t take it anymore.

My life isn’t worth living.

No-one would miss me if I died.

I think to myself as I pack up the equipment I require.What is the point in me trying anymore? It’s not like I make a difference in anyone elseslife. I’m not part of anyonesstory.I lock the door behind me when I leave, not like anyone would find anything if they do break in. Apart from the necessary furnishings, my home is completely empty as of this morning when I took all my personal belongings to the thrift store.Well, almost everything. I hold on tight to the silver chain bracelet as it threatens to slide from my wrist. I have no idea who gave it to me, but I know exactly who it's from. Yes, I know that doesn’t make sense. The only thing I know about this guy is the gorgeous Cerberus tattoo on his left forearm and he drives, or drovea grey Mustang. He is the one who gave it to me, I saw it on his own wrist when I was pulling him out of the burning car, yet I didn’t see his face, only the mask, it had green crosses in place of his eyes, a smile lights up at the bottom near where his chin should be. So that’s all I know of my gifter - his tattoo, his car and his choiceof facewear.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper, willing the wind to pass on my message to the masked stranger. “I can’t do what you askedof me. I can’t survive.”

Finally making it to the lake, I check the time on my phone - 02:34AM- and get to work. By 02:58, I am walking into the cold water. I shiver as I walk deeper in, the water now reaching my chest.Just a little more.Soon it reaches my chin and finally I’m fully submerged, a little further and I can no longer penetrate the surface when I lift my arm up.

Perfect.

Slowly the burning starts taking over, the burn of my lungs trying to pull oxygen back into them, the burn of the dirty lake water in my eyes as they startto sting. But the heartbreak burnsmore. As my body tries to fight with me, willing me to empty the rocks out my pockets, to untie the ropes cutting into my wristsand float back up to the surface, I fight back. I can’t live this life any more, I can’t keep going back to them and let them break me over and over again.

I. Just. Can’t.

And as I feel my life slowly fading away, a familiar tattooed arm reaches for me. I hear my name being called - over and over again. When I open my eyes, I am no longer at the bottom of the lake, but on my couch. In my home.Did I dream it all?No. The marks from where I attached the weights with the ropes are still raw on my wrists. And beside me on the coffee table is an envelope addressed to me. I don’t recognise the handwriting, I open it slowly, not knowing who it’s from or the contents. And inside the envelope, a bloodied watch, the same watch my foster father used to wear when he abused me. When he used to sneak into my room in the middle of the night and touch me. To this day I can’t stand the sound of a ticking clock.

Why am I here? Who brought me back? Closing my eyes again, willing this headache away, I remember the tattoo.

3 heads.

3 sets of eyes glaring at me.

3 sets of teeth snarling at me.

Cerberus.

Here is a little token of my appreciation. You saved my life once and now I have returned the favour. If you ever think about hurting yourself again, treasure, I promisethe next time I won’t be taking you back to yours. I’ll be bringing you home with me and everything you thought was your worst nightmare will seem like adream.

One

Natalie

Someone is screaming at me. Sirens blare in my ears. What is happening? I can’t breathe. Flames lick up my arm and chest. Blankets get thrown over me. I’m being lifted onto a bed. White ceiling lights flash past my vision as I am rushed into a room. A mask gets put over my face. “Count backwards from five.” I hear a voice say and then everything goes black.

I wake up screaming, sweat drips down my face and I throw the duvet off my overheated body.Not again.I hate thesenightmares. I hate not knowing what happened. It comes to me in pieces, yet I still have missing memories. Where was I beforehand? Why did the doctors ask if I was with a man? Why did the police ask me if I had any sexual encounters that night? And finally, why was I even in that area? I couldn’t answer any of the questions, still can’t, because I lost all memories of what happened six months before that accident. The accident that left me with burn scars all up my right arm, chest, neck. And just under half of my right cheek. Luckily, I can cover most of it with my work uniform. That doesn’t stop my colleagues saying anything though.

“Freak.”

“Ugly.”

“Scarface.”

“Quasimodo.”

And the worst one,

“Slut.”