Mikey battles with himself in a violent manner
The basement air was damp and cold. The room was dim, the only source of light being a single, flickering light bulb. Though my surroundings should have caused me much apprehension beforehand, an eerie feeling did not sweep over me until you stepped out of the shadows.
I could feel your breath on my skin as you stood behind me. I felt your touch as your fingers slowly wrapped around my neck. The grip was loose, gentle even. Yet, I was still afraid. Your grip soon began to tighten though, and I found my fear had good reason.
You pulled my neck back with force before you threw me onto the ground. My face collided with the floor. I felt a wet substance underneath my nose. I placed to my hand to my face. Soon enough my hand was covered in a red liquid.
Weakly, I attempted to stand, but you merely kicked me back down. You then grabbed my leg and began to drag me across the basement floor. I clawed at the ground, but the effort remained futile. My body was next tossed a short distance so I would slam into a chair placed conveniently in the corner of the basement. You picked me up by the collar of my shirt and threw me into the chair.
A pocketknife was pulled out of you back pocket as you gripped my hand with your free one. You placed the knife on my wrist and slashed it. I winced with pain. Blood began to spill out as you carved more into my arm. You released my bloodied wrist before you grabbed my other one, to which you preformed the same routine.
You stared at me coldly for a few minutes after returning the knife to its original place. I glanced down, not desiring to see the hatred in your eyes. I only looked up when I heard the rattling of chains. You took my slashed wrists into your hands and violently forced them around to the back of the chair. With the chains you tied my wrists together. I could feel the metal digging into my cuts. It burned as the chains went deeper beneath my skin.
You walked around the chair so you would now be facing me yet again. With your right hand you stroked my cheek. Your hand soon began to travel upwards. You weaved your fingers through my hair. It was a nice gesture. And if not for the chains and the blood, it would have seemed as if there was compassion still left inside of you. But compassion never does last long.
Your fingers gripped a section of my hair and you jerked my head upwards. Our eyes locked. But there was not any hatred in your eyes as I had assumed. Instead, there was emptiness. And that was far worse than any emotion.
With your fingers still locked in my hair and without warning, you threw me onto the floor once again. I landed on my side, the chair still attached to my body. You kicked me. You spat on me. You beat me to a bloody pulp. And when you were finished you crouched down in front of me. You stared into my eyes for the final time.
I could not loath you for what you had done to me though, for I knew who you were.
You were me.