Bump in the Night

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​Pain becoming pleasure is an interesting phenomenon. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and so it goes that once the mind becomes conditioned to the whipping and the piercing and the scouring, once it comes to crave it, so pleasure thus turns into pain. Soon, the simplest things, such as breathing, feel like you're inhaling glass dust; every swallow, every thrum of the adam's apple, feels like a rock is trapped in your throat, pressing into the glottis and threatening to burst. Even blinking, you can feel your eyelashes threading and splitting again like rows of sharp knives. Soon, the sensation of mites digging and nesting into your eyebrows gives way to a spread of imaginary maggots on your forearms, a hallucination that only be beaten back with more cuts, more whips, more chains. It's a virus that consumes the mind first and travels on to the flesh. After the last deep slash was made on the last untouched vein, their pounding heads drenching the pillows with vile blood, they knew they were damned to circle the endless drain into the afterlife. But it didn't matter. An eternal prison in the attic meant nothing, so long as they were finally set free from the chamber of skin.


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