It was the far 2004 when a young and aroused OfixN decided to write his first snuff story. It evolved into a small series of stories about a club that kidnapped girls and had them killed by wealthy clients. Then Hostel came out in theaters, goodbye millions of takings. A bit rough story but I reread it after a long time and it's less worse than I remembered. I would be lying if I said that the victim is not inspired by anyone in particular. I leave this story here out of nostalgia. Something else coming in tomorrow (she's a bit slow, she's five months pregnant). Enjoy it!


Dark


Dark. Yet she had opened her eyes. Of one thing she was sure: she was not in her room. The stone floor beneath her, a strange taste in her mouth, was nothing familiar to her. Had she been drinking? She wasn't the girl who drank a lot. She vaguely remembered that the night before she had gone out with some friends: they had gone to a pizzeria and then to a nearby pub. Had she been drinking? She thought again. A little something, even if she didn't think she had exaggerated. Had she been drugged?

As soon as her mind had formulated this thought a cold shiver ran down her back. She had seen too many similar stories in the newspapers, girls drugged and locked up in dark closets to satisfy the sick sexual appetites of some maniac.

She stood up abruptly. She felt no pains except for a slight headache and therefore she excluded to have suffered violence. "So far," she found herself thinking. Perhaps she had really drunk too much and was now simply unable to recognize the place that at other times would have seemed familiar. Maybe it was because of too much glasses of beer or maybe darkness … darkness? Now that she thought about it she realized that the room was not as dark as it had seemed at first: torches were lit on the walls and illuminated the room with a faint light. The walls looked like stone as did the floor.

A shiver. She seemed to be the victim in Jigsaw who wakes up wearing a contraption that would have robbed her of life in a few moments. She almost expected to hear at any moment a deep voice that would have greeted her by calling her by name "Hi Marta" and then starting to list the sins for which she would be punished as the voice of a fanatical preacher who wanted to teach her own victims the joy of life. She quickly dismissed this thought: first, she was not imprisoned in any diabolical mechanism and then no reason came to mind for which Jigsaw would have wanted to kidnap her. She was a good girl, 17 years old, a high school student, with no connection to drugs, suicide attempts or anything like that behind her …

She realized again that she did nothing but say bullshit: that was just a movie and there was no Jigsaw looking for victims. Not that it made her feel better, there were psychopaths who didn't need a reason to kill you, they meet you on the street and begin to desire your death. Even if they manage to hold themselves at the moment this desire begins to gnaw at the brain like a worm until they can't take it anymore in the middle of the night and get out of bed to vent their instincts by surprising their victim in her sleep and then torturing her and then finally killing her.

She stood up. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and she looked around "Is there anyone?" She said. They were her first words since she had woken up in that room. No one answered her. She estimated that the room was large enough, about as much as a medium-sized room only in a circular shape. She touched the wall with one hand and was almost surprised to feel it warm to the touch. She imagined it was a cold rock and instead emanated a pleasant sensation of warmth. And indeed the room was neither cold nor humid. Indeed, it seemed to have been recently cleaned.

"Can anyone hear me?" She said again. At those words a figure advanced from darkness. Marta had not noticed him before, perhaps because he was in the least illuminated area of ​​the room. He didn't say a word, he seemed impassive in front of the astonishment and terror of the girl. Marta observed his features: a black suit that covered the whole body, including hands. The suit didn't seem made of a normal cloth but sturdier stuffed stuff, kevlar or something like that occurred to her. A white mask with skeletal features covered his face, while in his hand he held two small swords held low as if he wanted to be admired.

At this vision the girl felt a wave of pure terror and barely managed to hold back a scream. She felt a primordial sensation coming from her stomach and heading towards her brain. Fear. Terror. The animal fear that pervades the prey in the moment of need, in the moment in which it must face its predator, in the moment in which it is chosen whether to live or die (Jigsaw comes back to mind again) to succumb to the adversary or not.

"Who are you? What the fuck do you want from me? "

She found the strength to scream at that apparition even with her voice broken with fear. The apparition did not reply, did no gestures of any kind, merely observed her, looking her up and down. That silence terrified her even more than any threats. Did that silence mean that he didn't consider her anything? That it didn't matter at all to answer her questions since he would soon kill her? She groped for the wall behind her, reached it and began to look desperately for something, a window, a door, a brick that moved to reveal a secret passage, anything. The person present in the room kept looking at her without moving a muscle. He knew, like her inside, that there was no exit from that room. Marta turned slowly; the figure had not taken a single step. She caught her breath and asked again in a calm voice

"What do you want from me?"

Not even this time the figure said anything but, kneeling down, he placed the sword he held in his left hand on the ground and pushed it firmly towards Marta. The sword stopped at the feet of the girl who looked at the man questioningly. He waved his sword to her and she took the sword from the floor. She looked at the weapon in her hand: it looked like the classic ancient weapon. It looked straight out of the movie "The gladiator", it was about a meter long and very well sharpened. It was perhaps a couple of pounds heavy and her inexperienced hand could move it without too much difficulty. She was well balanced and concluded that it could hit with the tip and both cuts. She looked away from the sword and looked the man in the eye. The mask prevented her from seeing the expression on her face but his eyes were visible. They were young eyes, certainly not belonging to an adult man. What she had in front of her must have been a boy, perhaps of her age or a little more. The eyes betrayed not fear but almost fun.

Marta jumped when a flash of madness crossed those eyes. At the same time the man's body was placed in a fighting position with his right hand, which held a sword equal to that of the girl, forward. He sprinted towards her without making a sound, vibrated horizontally with the blade but stopped before he hit his victim who hadn't even had time to realize the attack. Marta, after looking death in the face, awoke as if from a dream and, although she had never used a sword, she prepared herself to fight. It was an absurd feeling, she would never have thought of fighting for her life against an unknown, armed with a sword she had only seen in movies so far.

The figure, pleased that Marta had agreed to resist, began to launch attacks against her. The girl was forced on the defensive but the man's blows were neither too fast nor powerful and she managed to avoid them or intercept them even though she feared that her opponent was capable of much more skill.

Even in that way the clash was still uneven: she had to act if she didn't want one of those shots to finally hit the mark. Her brain was like it didn't think, the body reacted automatically to the lunges. Moving to the right she managed to dodge. The man did not expect such a move and leaned forward while she made a complete rotation of the body and found herself behind the opponent to whom she hit the right shoulder inflicting a showy wound. The man walked away quickly to avoid a second blow, got on his knees and brought his left hand on the cut. He looked at the blood on his fingers and then again at Marta. Her enthusiasm soon turned to regret when she saw the small amount of damage inflicted and wished she had put more strength into it or aimed at a more vulnerable point: if the blow had reached his neck, just higher up, her aggressor at that time would have been grounded in agony. Probably he also reached the same conclusion as a movement of fear seemed to shake him. He stood up again before the girl could take advantage and, taking up the sword in his hand, returned to the assault.

He did not seem to feel the slightest pain from his shoulder and his attacks were not affected, indeed, fear probably increased his enthusiasm. This time Marta found herself in difficulty in blocking his attacks. She began to back away quickly, always under the pressure of her opponent. The two began to spin around the room like a pair of dancers engaged in some kind of deadly dance.

The girl, taking advantage of a successful parade, tried to counterattack that was easily dodged. She began to get tired: her arms hurt and more than once her legs risked to intertwine making her fall to the ground and condemning her to death. How long have they been fighting? An hour? A minute? Several hours? She was unable to say. She began to despair of being able to win. Began? She had always known that she would never be able to win, she had accepted the challenge only to not tacitly surrender to fate. Her opponent, on the other hand, seemed to suffer from no fatigue nor from shoulder injury; indeed, his speed continued to increase. He was obviously bloodthirsty.

He struck a quick shot from above with violence, the girl managed to catch the impact by holding the sword with both hands but remained unbalanced for a moment. He took advantage of it and made a quick gesture with his left hand. He didn't strike with too much force because he didn't want it to be fatal. The blade penetrated for a few centimeters in Marta's flesh, she gave a cry before falling backwards. She stood up bent over in pain, her left hand resting on the wound. She was beginning to sob. She had believed that it was all over, that the fight had ended when she felt that pain in her side. Instead he hadn't moved. He stood watching her as she writhed in pain. He didn't seem satisfied. He wanted the duel to continue. He still wanted to play. Marta stared at him still bent over. The bloody left hand. She realized that it would not be a quick death. Her eyes were still full of tears when she got up to continue the fight.

She plunged full of anger on his opponent: he would kill her, she knew it and for this she was furious with him. She thought that everything he had done up to that point had been useless: friends, school, her family, nothing mattered anymore. She was about to die. She didn't even think for a moment of asking for mercy: she knew her murderer would never give it to him, his eyes sparkled with excitement. It was funny: she talked about that man like her murderer even though he hadn't killed her yet. Was she the first? Or had others already known that fate? Would there have been others? This was wondering while her body in an almost automatic way still fought for survival with parades and lunges while the mind had already resigned itself to the end. She would never have expected it that way, fate sometimes plays tricks.

She swerved a direct blow to the heart and tried to counterattack. Her adversary moved easily, sending the attack to nothing. Marta cut the air with her sword and found the man behind her. Without thinking, she turned abruptly and screaming directed a violent diagonal blow to his neck. He parried the blow without getting upset and with a quick movement he hit her with his shoulder, sending her violently into the wall. Trying to recover from the blow Marta looked the weapon with her hand and realized with horror that she could not find her; she looked around and saw that it had been knocked off in the collision. She saw that the masked man approached the sword and, after having looked at her, thrown it away with a kick, he was heading towards her. At that moment all the courage Marta had supported so far disappeared. Now she was helpless. She stood up and leaned against the wall. He put his sword down, pulled out his dagger and came to her front. The girl could not move, she was paralyzed with terror: she stared at the ice eyes of that figure and he returned her gaze. Perhaps he was beginning to pity his victim? Perhaps she would eventually be saved?

With a lightning-fast click the man grabbed Marta by the throat with his left hand holding her locked to the wall at least ten centimeters from the ground. The poor girl was terrified: that hand was like a vice that prevented her from breathing; she tried to speak but only a whisper came out. She kicked frantically and tried in vain to free herself. The time seemed to slow down: the man was impassive and watched her struggle to find some air. Suddenly she felt a cold pang in her stomach. She knew what it was before she saw it. She looked down and saw the knife penetrate her all into the flesh. He loosened his grip and brought her back to the ground.

Marta looked at the figure in front of her with a surprised air. She was trying to figure out what he was feeling behind that mask. She felt the cold blade inside her depriving her of the strength she had left. The murderer (now she could really call him that) took out the knife and sank it again and again. Marta's eyes widened and her mouth fell open in front of those new stabs. She felt the body of the man on her, she almost kneeling, looking over that white mask: why was this happening?

The man turned the knife in the wound. The girl made a gurgling noise and felt blood flow up her throat and out through her mouth. The killer took out the dagger and dropped the girl to the ground. She fell on her side: she waited for that being to finish it. More blood came out of her mouth, forming a small puddle on the floor. At that point, seeing that the man did not move, she summoned all her strength and managed to kneel.

She laid her hands on her stomach in an absurd attempt to stop the wounds. The pain was tremendous; she began to cry: "I don't want to die" she thought "not now, not like this. I have so many things to do, so many projects … all lost! "She looked at her hand and found it gross with blood. She began to crawl forward trying to put a few feet between her and the killer. She suddenly felt his steps: he was approaching. "No, please," she said between sobs, still moving. The man grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and and raised her to her knees. She felt that with one hand he held her head high and with the other he rested the blade on her neck. She was unable to react "No no no no … please no, don't …" With a slow but firm movement the blade passed from left to right tearing her throat and interrupting that plea.

The killer let her go and she fell forward holding her hand over her throat. The blood flowed copiously from the wound, first wetting the neck and then smearing the top of the shirt red. She turned around and with energies that she did not believe she possessed, she got up and walked towards the one who had just wounded her to death. He was still, he only moved his head to observe her. Marta reached him a few centimeters but then her legs gave way, dropping her on her knees in front of the man. She clung to his shoulders and stared into his eyes. She was dying, the energies were leaving her. She seemed to feel another stab in her chest but she wasn't sure: by now the body was no longer responding. She fell with her face turned upwards. She kept on spitting blood. Here, she was finally dying. Dark.