The door slammed open. She only had one split second for her eyes to widen and turn towards the dark wooden door that was holding her captive. She only say the necessary details of what was rushing towards her, but it was more than too much for her to cope with. With only a minute, reserved sigh, she was hoisted up and carried out. This had happened before, yet never with such force; something had happened. This man who had tortured her so would never rest until the pact he had created, with her body and blood, was complete.
He took her to the only other room she had been in inside the house of Hell and cast her down, with all the force he could muster. With a cry she landed on the ground, hoping against hope her misery would end at that moment. But she had never been favored by the Almighty, and why would anything change now?
"Who is he?" His fury was apparent; she had never seen him this enraged, even though she had done him many wrongs, at least, they were wrongs in his eyes. He seemed ready to murder her, no matter how subservient she had been of late. A surge of fear rose over her, but with it came a trickle or hope. There was the prospect of freedom. The thought of a life of possible happiness that had retreated into a dark corner of her mind glowed with light for a moment until a thought dawned on her. She would never live to see the sun again, for this man would end her life in a heartbeat rather than give her up. This sadness in her had lasted her whole existence save the short time she had found one to bring safety and love to her, and it showed no prospect of leaving. With her head hung down and her eyes tearing, this man never failed to covet her. He loved the way she was when she was sad; it drove him to heights he had never known with anyone else. He touched her chin and brought her face up to look at him.
It was heartbreaking to her. She had known this look before, and it had never ended without severe pain. He was going to have her, she knew. He would tell her sick comforts while he was torturing her, say he loved her, and whisper in her ear how pretty she was. She hated being called pretty; it was what had gotten her into this monotony that she hated more than anything.
He touched his lips to hers, but got no response from the broken girl. He struck her for refusing him, as she knew he would do. He tried again, and this time she forced her mouth to open and receive his taste. So disgusted with what she was allowing him to do, she couldn't do it any more. She pulled away, but he would never permit motions like she was making.
He forced her down, just as she knew he would in the end.