Instead, he chuckles and you hear him step behind you, his warm, heavy hands weighing down on your shoulders. "Open," he breathes into your ear, making you shudder.

Slowly, your lashes begin to flutter open, and when they do, you gasp aloud, shocked by what you see.

Laid out on the table before you is a feast.

There's Italian bread, there's salad with freshly-chopped fruit, there's expertly sliced pieces of steak, there's pasta Alfredo, and then, finally, there's red wine, shining like freshly-spilt blood through the glass.

What is this?

It takes a moment for the scene to register and for you to realize what exactly is going on. This stalker—this madman—he's literally created a candlelit dinner for the two of you to dine over. That's why he's wearing a suit, you realize. Everything clicks into place.

You're not sure whether to feel relieved or horrified. You suppose you feel a little bit of both. Relived, because this is so much better than what your imagination had conjured, and horrified because you're realizing how completely off his rocker this man really is. He's been stalking you for God-knows-how-long, dragged you against your will to his home and tied you to a chair in his kitchen . . . all so the two of you can preside over dinner together? Is this some kind of sick joke?

By the look of utter bewilderment on your face, Jack seems almost embarrassed, as if you had been expecting so much more, and you had been, really, just not in the way he was thinking.

"I uh, I know it's a little much," he starts, and isn't that the understatement of the year, "but I . . . I've been planning this for a long time." He smiles at you then, and it's this creepy, off-kilter smile that hides hidden intentions, like he's trying to lull you into a false sense of security. Like a coiled snake, he's just waiting for the right moment to strike.

The 'right moment,' you fear, is coming soon.

Now he's standing behind you as he scoots your chair forward, the wood making an awful scraping noise against the tile, until you're placed directly in front of the table. Momentarily, he facades as the perfect gentlemen, scooting your chair forward and then unfolding the linen napkin on the table and setting it in your lap. His fingers gently but purposely brush against your thighs in the process, and afterwards he grins and winks exaggeratedly.

"Oops." His breath falls heavy against your neck, and, swallowing, you force yourself to turn away, instead gazing out over all the food in astonishment. You won't admit it aloud, but the meal looks absolutely mouth-watering. Did he cook it all himself or did he hire a caterer of some sort? Regardless, you come to realize that you haven't eaten since lunch and you're starving. The fact, though, that this very well might be your last meal makes your appetite vanish almost entirely. You're too sick to your stomach to even think about eating, let alone actually doing it.

Without warning, the pressure around your wrists suddenly disappears, and you immediately slump into the chair, finally able to fully sit down on it with your arms no longer behind you. You pull them into your lap and rub your wrists, wincing.

When he steps beside you, you look up with a questioning gaze. "We ah, we can't eat if you're all tied up now, can we?" You swallow and shake your head no, agreeing with his statement. "Now," he licks his lips, hungry, but not for food, "you're going to sit right here and be a good girl." The words slip of his tongue so mockingly you want to punch him. He's still standing by your side when he dips down to brush his lips against your ear. "Dig in."

Jack finally moves into your field of vision, and you catch him smirking as he rounds the table and slowly seats himself in the chair across from yours. His actions are stiff but his eyes are alert, as if he's just waiting for that moment when you'll try to get up and run and he'll chase you and catch you and then do God-knows-what. You shudder at the thought and look off to the side, still rubbing your wrists.

Okay, where's the nearest exit?

Your eyes scan the room and happen to fall on the small window above the sink. The curtains are drawn, but those can be easily pushed aside. Question is, can you actually fit through the window? You're not too sure, but one thing you do know is that you're not just going to just sit there contemplating the matter. You need to take action.

You just have to wait for the 'right moment.'

Jack hasn't moved an inch since he sat down, and you know his eyes have been on you the whole time. Hesitantly, your own eyes travel across the length of the table until you reach his gaze.

"Eat." His expression is blank, but the warning in his command is more than crystal clear.

Swallowing, you look down at the clear glass plate in front of you. It glimmers almost hypnotically in the candlelight. You stare at it in thought.

What if the food's poisoned? Would he actually do that?

"I—I'm not very hungry," you manage, tearing your eyes from the plate to meet his own.

You're only met with silence and the steely gaze of his acidic black eyes.

"Ex-cuse me?"

Oh, God. That was not the right thing to say.

"I'm sorry—I . . . it's just that I ate not too long ago," lie . . . again, "and my stomach it—it really hurts."

When you're met with a considerably long pause of silence, you blink rapidly, dazedly, wondering what he'll do next. After a few, heart-pounding moments, his concentration finally breaks and his gaze wanders around the room. He looks bored. "You're not a very good liar." He shakes his head, disappointed. "I've been 'stalking' you, remember?" He smirks a little and stares at you from beneath his brows. "I know when you last ate."

You have nothing to say to that last comment, because you knows it's all but too true. To placate him, you take a small sip of wine from the glass in front of you and close your eyes, letting the liquid wet your dry, tight throat. You swallow a bit uncomfortably—the drink was a lot stronger than you initially thought—and shakily set it back down on the table.

Your stomach is a roller coaster of emotions. One minute you're terrified with panic as he straps you to a chair, and the next minute your stomach is twisting in nervous knots of anxiousness during a relative moment of calm, just sitting and waiting with dread for whatever he plans on doing next. God, this is the sort of stuff you find in poorly-written horror novels and cheap, straight-to-DVD movies, not real life.

As he continues to stare at you, his mouth pulled into a thin, straight line, you begin to feel even sicker than before and you have the sudden urge to throw up. You can't just sit there and not do anything, though, that would only make him angrier. And with this in mind, you slowly pick up the shiny, silver fork next to your plate and then let your eyes sweep over the expanse of the table, taking in all the food.

Too much. It's all too much.

You can't do this. You can't just sit there at the table with this psycho and fake pleasantries, as if he hadn't just kidnapped you and taken you against your will. It all feels so wrong and contrived—he's only toying with your mind for the moment, but for how long will that last? Why won't he just do what he's going to do and get it over with? Why must he insist on dragging out the suspense?

When Jack sees your eyes glaze over and your fork falter, his knee starts to bounce anxiously under the table. He's obviously impatient, and perhaps even a little offended that you haven't started eating. "What's the matter?" he demands, his voice rather brusque, and the very sound of it makes you crumble into your chair. And that's when you finally break down, right there at the kitchen table.

Your tears fall hard and fast, and you can't stop them from pouring down your cheeks. Placing your hands on the table, you scoot your chair back as you sob, and Jack tenses, thinking that you might make a run for it. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He's watching you through hooded eyes, but you can hardly see him through your stream of tears. "I just can't do it. I'm sorry, I can't." Your emotions have finally become too much to handle, and you stumble blindly through the kitchen, desperately seeking an exit but suddenly finding yourself too incognizant to locate one. Why are you so dizzy? Did Jack put something in your drink? No, no, he couldn't have . . . .

"What—what did you give me?"

Jack is still sitting at the table, watching you fixatedly as you stumble throughout the kitchen.

"Give you?" he asks incredulously. "Nothing, yet," he responds, "but I don't need to slip drugs into your drink to get you to do what I want." He laughs as if the very idea is absurd. "No, I can make you do what I want without them."

His words just barely process through your head, and you dizzily collapse against the countertop, clutching at it with all the strength you have left. Your limbs feel like jell-o and you can hardly hold yourself up. You lift your eyes to the window above the sink, but it looks strangely far away and impossibly out of reach. If you could just gather enough strength to pull yourself up onto the counter maybe you could squeeze through it . . . .

Vaguely, you hear Jack's chair scrape against the floor, and the sound rouses you to action. You reach out for the window, but your limbs are much too weak and suddenly he's standing behind you, the warmth of his body all too acute. Why is he pressing into you like that? You groan at the contact as he softly, calculatedly forces you up against the counter, bent at the waist with your elbows to prop you up. He leans over you and places his elbows on the counter as well, trapping you as he leans over your back, his mouth teasing your ear. "Where are you going, sweetheart?" He laughs softly and the sound, if only for a moment, is almost pleasant, but you know better than that. "Don't you want to stay for a while?" When you don't answer, he suddenly groans and too-slowly grinds his hips against your backside, unable to contain himself. "Mmm." He smiles against your neck, his ripped scars puckering against your skin. "I want you to stay for a while."

"Please," you're breathless, eyelids heavy, and still crying hard, "please let me go."

Suddenly, something rings nosily, and you're so startled by the sound that you jump, your body giving a sharp jump. Jack presses more tightly against you to keep you still, but you can tell that he was surprised by the sound as well. The object in question rings again and it suddenly dawns on you that it's your cell phone in the other room. I guess I didn't leave it on vibrate, is your first thought, and then you start to realize that you might be able to get out of this if you could just get to it and call the police. They could track your phone and save you. They could save you. . . .

The thought lingers in your head and helps to clear the fear-induced haze that previously occupied it. Your muscles suddenly don't feel so weak anymore, the glimmer of hope creating an electric spark within your veins. Your cell phone continues to ring, and there's no time to lose.

Without warning, you suddenly bring your elbow backwards as hard as you possibly can. You nail him right in his gut, and Jack lets out a deep, muffled groan in surprise as he stumbles backward. Immediately, you straighten off the counter and twist around, sprinting into the living room. Your legs are shaking so bad you can hardly stand, but you try to pull yourself together, realizing that this is your probably your last and final opportunity to try and get help. The room is pitch black as you run through it, and you silently pray you won't stumble over any furniture in the process.

You follow the sound of your phone and quickly retrieve your bag, falling to your knees on the floor as you tear through it. Momentary relief floods through you when you have the phone encased in your palm, it's right fucking there . . . but your heart suddenly slams against your chest in fear when Jack rips the phone away and tackles you to the floor. You're pushed flat on your stomach, letting out a cry when he wrenches the phone from your grasp, your fingers slipping from your phone and with it your last shred of hope.

"No!" you cry, practically hysteric as you flip yourself over and wrestle him for it. The phone has stopped ringing at this point but you don't even care. Jack only laughs and puts up half a fight while you scratch him and dig your nails into his skin, trying to retrieve your phone even though you know your effort is futile. He lets you push him around for a moment, smiling at you while you throw punches at him, but you're not doing much. When your nails suddenly dig into his neck, leaving a trail of blood in its wake, he quickly takes the initiative and straddles your legs, grabbing your hands in one of his and pulling them above your head.

"Oh, I love it when you put up a fight." His laughs rumbles in your ear as he leans over you. "What am I going to do with you? Hm?"

When he softly tangles his fingers in your hair, removing the clear rubber band that had been holding it captive in a ponytail, you let out a small whine and try to turn your head away. He only snorts through his nose in response and continues to comb his fingers through your hair, his nails lightly scraping your scalp. It almost feels good for a moment, but you don't let yourself be deceived. He leans in closer as he begins to grip your hair more tightly, suddenly giving it a sharp yank and bringing your face closer to his when your cell phone begins to ring again.

The blue light flashes repeatedly in the darkness and the ringing blares in your ears as Jack retrieves it from the pocket he had placed it in. He doesn't even glance at it.

"Now, here's what's going to happen, doll." He sets your phone on the ground and searches through his jacket again until he's retrieved his knife, placing it snuggly under your throat as he releases your hands. "You're going to answer the phone and assure the babysitter, uh, Jaclyn, that you're okay. Tell her you'll be home later than ex-pec-ted. Tell her . . ." Jack looks skyward and then suddenly smiles, "tell her you gotta a little . . . tied up. At work. Think you can do that?"

Oh, God, he even knows your babysitter's name. He actually knows Jaclyn's name. He's probably been stalking her, too. You're sick to your stomach at this realization, and your head begins to spin.

As the phone continues to ring, Jack grabs it, shoving it in your hands as he pulls you into a sitting position, still straddling your legs. "No time to lose," he mumbles, licking his lips.

He reaches over and clicks the talk button for you, clearly impatient, and then puts the phone on speaker so he can hear too.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you answer, your hands shaking as you grip the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey! I've been trying to reach you all evening." Jaclyn sounds relieved and you long to feel the same emotion.

"I—I'm sorry I just got a little . . ." you look up to meet Jack's eyes and he nods his head, signaling for you to continue, "I just got a little tied up at work. I'm going to have to stay for a—a little bit longer." You just barely hold back a sob at those words, but Jaclyn doesn't seem to notice.

"Oh, well, that's okay. I've got school in the morning, but I'll just call my parents and let them know that I'll be here for a little while longer."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Okay, well, I guess I'll see you in—"

"Jaclyn, wait."

Jack suddenly tenses at your sudden interruption and you wince as he digs his knife deeper into your neck, a silent warning that draws a sliver of blood. You meet his eyes through the darkness as you make your next request.

"Can I speak to Riley, please?"

Jaclyn pauses, confused. "Um, are you sure? I already put her to sleep."

"Could you wake her up for me? I would really like to talk to her."

"Oh . . . sure. Hold on."

After a few moments of silence, Jaclyn returns to hand the phone to your daughter. "Here she is."

The sound of bed sheets rustling and then static reaches your ears, and you cradle the phone closer as you eagerly wait to hear her voice.

"Mommy?"

"Hey baby," you say as sweetly as you can manage, tears immediately springing to your eyes at the sound of her tiny, fragile voice. The pressure of Jack's knife disappears in your mind and you forget it's even there as you sniffle. "How are you doing?"

"I can't sleep."

"Why not?"

"You haven't read me my bedtime story yet."

You pause for a moment, taking that in and closing your eyes in an effort hold back a fresh stream of tears. Oh, God. You put a hand to your forehead in utter despair, thinking of what you would do to just be with her right now.

"Mommy's working late tonight, honey."

"It's okay momma, I'll wait."

You smile a little, your first of the night, and cradle the phone closer to your ear even though it's on speakerphone. "You don't have to wait up for me, sweetie. You need to go to sleep because you have daycare in the morning."

Riley yawns, and you can tell she's tired. "Okay. Bye mommy."

"Riley? I love you. I love you so, so much. Always remember that, okay?"

"Okay," she chirps, blissfully oblivious of your current predicament. "Love you too momma. Bye!" She makes a kissing noise over the phone and you choke on a sob, covering your mouth to try and stop it.

"Bye, baby." The last words are whispered after the phone is clicked off, and suddenly the room is eerily silent. You let out a shuddering breath and hang your head wearily as Jack quickly removes his knife and confiscates the phone from your hand, hiding it somewhere within his jacket.

"See, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

You can tell he's grinning devilishly at you in the darkness, and you're sickened by the very thought of him smiling over your despair.

"You sick bastard," you manage through clenched teeth, your jaw tight. "How can you be so . . . so heartless?"

Jack clicks his tongue thoughtfully and you notice that he seems put off by your words; irritated, perhaps. "I'm not heartless. I have a heart," he insists, working his mouth as he stares hard at you.

"You could have fooled me."

"I have a heart," he says again, more fervent this time but still angry, "it just doesn't care about the same things that you do." Jack suddenly stands and wipes the spittle from his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. "And apparently that makes me some kind of monster." He cocks his head as he looks down at you, briefly running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "What do you think, doll? Am I a monster?"

You let several seconds pass before you answer, but when you do, your voice is a mere whisper.

"Yes."

Jack laughs, but his smile turns to a grimace when he suddenly bends down and hoists you up the lapels of your blouse.

"Wrong answer," he snarls.

Your eyes go wide and you let out a gasp as he starts pulling you towards the stairwell. "What are you doing?" you cry, starting to pant furiously. "Please, no! Wait, please wait!"

"Wait?" He snorts. "No, I've been waiting for far too long," he says as he drags you up the stairs, you clawing at his shirt. You glance up at the darkness that awaits you at the top of the stairs and your stomach gives a sickening lurch. You furiously try to twist out of his hold, but he only grips tighter and pulls harder. "Consider your warm welcome officially . . . overdue."

At the top of the stairs, he kicks open a door and pushes you inside. Before you can scramble to your feet, the door closes with a loud bang and is locked. You're suddenly swallowed in darkness, and the air, if possible, is even hotter and more stifling than it was downstairs. On your hands and knees, you gasp for breath, feeling suffocated beyond belief and not knowing what to do.

You hear footsteps and suddenly there is a dull light coming from the corner of the room. You crane your neck to see an old, wilted lamp, the lampshade partially ripped and titled to one side, shading the light and hiding most of it from the room. The window next to the lamp is boarded and sealed tight, not a sliver of outside light peaking through. There's a door in the opposite corner, probably a closet, but the rest of the room is oddly sparse.

You let out a whimper of surprise when Jack suddenly grips you by the back of your neck, pulling you backwards so he can whisper in your ear. "Say my name," he murmurs, his nasally voice sending shivers down your spine. Warm exhales of breath fall against your ear in excited pants, sending a fearful, chilling jolt of electricity surging through your body. You whimper as he secures his long, thin arms around your waist. He's kneeling behind you, pulling you in between his thighs as he nuzzles your neck with his face, closing his eyes and indulging in your scent.

Shivering despite the heat, you try in vain to squirm out of his grip. You turn your neck away in disgust as he wets it with his mouth.

"Stop," you gasp, twisting in his arms to push his face away. Your hands brush against one of his scars in the process, and you're surprised when he grumbles low in his throat at the contact. You recoil in disgust but it's too late. Suddenly, you're picked up and Jack roughly flips you onto your back, slamming you into the floor. You let out a cry at the impact but he doesn't even acknowledge it. He pauses to look into your eyes, his gaze alone enough to force you into the floor. Slowly, he groans as he encloses you in his wiry arms, locking you to the floor as he lowers himself over top of you.

For a moment, he just stays there, his weight pinning you to the floor, his taut stomach and chest pressed snuggly against your own.

"I want you," he breathes, lips hovering near your jaw.

In that instant, you can't help but think that, had Jack been any other man and this situation almost entirely different, your heart may have fluttered at such words of endearment. Seeing as how it was not, however, the words only serve to frighten you. You don't want him to want you. You want him to let you go.

"Let's play," he giggles against your neck, his breath humid and hot. Your body gives a sharp jolt when you feel his tongue languidly laving at your neck. He swirls his tongue almost reverently against your skin, mesmerized by your taste.

Crying out in frustration, you try to free your arms but quickly find the task nigh impossible. You writhe instead, twisting your body this way and that, but he only settles his weight more heavily on top of yours, completely pinning you to the ground.

"Get off!" you scream, arching up in an effort to push him away.

Jack only laughs against your neck, truly elated. "You don't even know what I'm going to do to you yet!" His voice is all electric excitement, and your heart pounds faster when he starts toying with the buttons on your blouse with his teeth.

"I have a pretty damn good idea!" you shout back, abruptly crying out and jerking when he pulls a piece of flesh in between his teeth and bites down, hard. He laughs at your reaction, a low rumbling in his chest, and then rests his forehead against yours, breathing deeply.

You stare into his dark eyes, frantically searching them back and forth, trying to determine what he's going to do next as he stares into yours. You can feel his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, and you know he's just as excited as you are, although for entirely different reasons.

When you look away for just a moment, just one mere second, his lips are suddenly on yours, your eyes growing wide at the unwanted contact. You're shocked, and you try to wiggle your arms free of his to push him away, but he only wraps them more tightly around you as he did before. His eyes are open as he forces his lips down on yours, grinning maliciously.

Enraged, you viciously clamp your teeth down on flesh of his bottom lip. He rears back instantly, and it's then that you start to think about the repercussions of your actions.

Fuck.

"You wanna play it like that, hm?"

And that's the last thing he says before he's at your mouth again, viciously prying it open with his fingers as you cry out in confusion. In response, he hooks a finger inside your jaw and pulls your mouth open. He leans forward then, and the next thing you feel is his hot, wet tongue invading your mouth, licking everywhere and trying to delve as deep as possible. Spit trickles down your chin as he forces his tongue farther, practically choking you and not caring in the least.

He groans obscenely as his tongue continues to probe your mouth in the most inappropriate manner, grinding his hips into yours with unnecessary ardor as you struggle beneath him. Apparently, he's not getting enough friction, because he breaks away from your mouth long enough to gasp out a few words.

"Mm, come on." He thrusts his hips, angrily. "Move." His voice is breathless anticipation and the sound of his growl sends goose bumps rising all across your flesh even though the room is swelteringly hot. He licks his lips and rests his forehead, slick with sweat, against yours as he slowly, ever so slowly, rolls his hips against yours, panting heavily as you do the same. He continues the same hard, slow rhythm for far too long and now you can't seem to catch your breath. The pain of his hips rolling so fervently against yours is enough to make you cry out, and you do, repeatedly. You're terrified of not giving him what he wants, however, so you halfheartedly arch your hips up to meet his, and the foul grin that stretches his wrangled mouth is enough to make you cry. He closes his eyes and slams your hips back down to the floor with his own. "That's it," he breathes, trying to encourage you but succeeding in only the opposite. He's like a machine, you think, his body rigid and wiry like a steel rod, entirely unpleasant with jutting hip bones and hands that grip too tightly. You can feel the muscles in his thighs tensing against your own, electricity coursing through his veins instead of blood. Everything about him is wrong.

When he starts moving faster, you know he's close to finishing. An unexpected sob claws past your throat at the thought, and you turn your head to the side, unable to watch him even as he watches you.

You can't do anything but lay there as he continues to violate you, tears gathering in your eyes, blurring your vision. You know you should try to fight back, scream, yell, do something at the very least… but you can't find the strength to even move, knowing that it would only anger him further.

With an exaggerated groan, he finishes with a gasp and finally slumps against you, burying his face in your neck as his excitement fades, his heartbeat a shuddering drum. His tongue snakes out to swirl against your neck, and you whimper pathetically and try to turn your head in the other direction, only giving him better access.

He stops and simply lies there for a moment, willing his breathing to slow, and you're too terrified to ask what he plans to do next. He hasn't taken off your clothes yet, and you fear that he must be planning to do that next.

"Please," you suddenly whisper, "please get off."

You feel Jack smirk against your neck, but he doesn't look up. "I uh, I think I just did."

Hearing those words make your gut wrench sickeningly. You're more angry then you have been all night, and it takes only a mere second for you to snap.

Like a rocket suddenly set aflame, you arm swings out and collides with Jack's jaw faster and harder than you had anticipated. The satisfying crack that resounds from the blow sends a wave of adrenaline washing over you, and Jack is momentarily knocked off balance, cradling his jaw.

Your stomach drops to the floor as you scramble to your feet, knowing that Jack isn't going to be too far behind. You reach the door and pull it open—except, it won't open. With a terrified cry, you jiggle the knob, but it just won't budge.

Without warning, you're pushed into the door from behind, and you scream when Jack roughly grabs a fistful of your hair, pulls back, and then slams your head into the wood of the door. The blow nearly knocks you unconscious, and in the dim light of the room, black and purple blocks of dizzying color flash before your eyes. Jack maintains his grip on your hair and rears your head back, snarling like an animal in the hollow of your ear. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Our little date's gonna be over soon."

With his other hand, he grabs hold of your neck and pulls your backwards, shoving you to the floor on your knees. You sob at the pain that's exploded in your skull and struggle to keep consciousness. Trying hard to hold back the tears that threaten to wrack your body, you cradle your head in your hands and bend at the waist, feeling completely helpless and sick to your stomach.

You can hear Jack doing something somewhere behind you, but you're too weak to turn around to look. Jack's voice is nothing but a dull echo in your head, and you strain to hear what exactly it is that he's saying even as your body trembles in fear.

"You know, doll, I was expecting this night to go a bit differently. You just didn't have the stamina I was looking for. But you are . . . you are dangerous. Dangerous like gasoline." From behind you, the sound of liquid splashing rings in your ears. What is that?

Suddenly, Jack's behind you and is nuzzling your ear, his thin, spidery fingers splaying across your stomach. "And you know the thing about gasoline? It burns."

"What are—what're you talking about?" you barely managed to gasp out, hanging onto to your last thread of conscious as strongly as you can.

"You don't get it, do you?" Jack slowly moves around to crouch down in front of you, carefully lifting your chin and forcing your eyes to meet his. Leaning close, he disguises his voice as a deceptive whisper, hot breath fanning against your face. "You're going to burn, sweetheart. You're gonna burn for me."

Suddenly, the room shifts into acute clarity, the sharp sting of gasoline assaulting your nostrils and stinging your eyes. Mouth dry, you weakly let out a cry of protest, but the sound only emerges as a tangled web of fear.

"Ja—Jack." You hope that by using his name, you can draw some sort of sympathy from the black pit that is otherwise known as his heart. "Please Jack, oh, God, please don't do this." Tears flood your vision as your heart slams against your ribcage like a thousand-ton mallet. It feels like it wants to break free of your chest, even as your breath escapes your lungs in short, panicked gasps.

Jack only smiles and goes to stand. In utter desperation, you cling to his leg, sobbing, disregarding your humiliation and not caring in the least. This was life or death now, preserving whatever dignity you had left didn't matter anymore. "Please, don't. I'll do anything!"

Laughing, he unwinds your arms from around his leg, like one would with a small child, and then scoops you into his arms, holding you bridal style. You grip onto the lapels of his jacket, suddenly dizzy, and let your eyes adjust in time to find yourself in front of the closet door.

"Jack," you plead, breathless, "what are you doing?"

Jack stops and looks down at you almost adoringly, save for the arrogant smirk. "You're so cute when you're scared shitless," he laughs darkly and then opens the closet door.

Whipping your head around, you're surprised to find it empty, but your heartbeat only quickens in your confusion. You open your mouth to question him when he all but throws you into the closet, letting you fall to the floor with a painful thud.

"Wait, Jack—!"

The door is shut in your face before you can even finish your sentence, your heart dropping into the pit of your stomach when you hear the sound of the lock turning.

God, no.

"Let me out of here, Jack, please! Let me out!" Your fists pound against the door until they throb, and even then you don't dare stop.

From beneath the crack of the door, you can see Jack's shadow; he's standing there, listening.

"There's no use begging," he says, voice cold and devoid of emotion. "You see, when I want something… I get it." You hear him click his tongue against the roof of his mouth thoughtfully. "And what I want," he continues, "is for you to burn."

That's the last thing he says as you watch his shadow disappear and you're left alone to your own devices, sick to your stomach with unadulterated panic and locked in a closet.

You immediately start banging on the door again, pressing your whole body against it and sobbing pathetically. You never stop, can't stop . . . that is until a strange scent wafts from under the door and catches you off guard.

Gasoline.

He is really going to burn me alive, you realize.

Gasping, you pound even harder against the door, screaming for help, praying that someone will hear you even though you know the odds are all against you.

You can't believe this is happening to you, it doesn't even feel real . . . but that all begins to change when the closest starts getting hotter, and you realize with horror that you can smell smoke.

The room is burning, and you're trapped in a closet.

The smoke is unbearable and accumulates quickly, already it becomes difficult to breath. You swallow hard as tears stream down your face, nails bloody from scraping against the door.

Sweat gathers at your neck and drips down in-between your breasts and the shoulder blades of your back, the heat intensifying. You scream out for Jack, knowing he won't come but doing it regardless.

After jiggling and fighting with the knob countless times, you start body-slamming the door, your survival instincts kicking in. Orange flames are already licking their way around the edges of the frame, lighting up the dark as a new kind of terror kicks in. You've never been more desperate in your life than you are now, and you're crying hysterically even as you slam into the door with all the strength your weak body can muster.

As the smoke gathers and the flames erupt from outside the door, crackling loudly, you let out a cry and slam your body one last time into the door.

Your breath catches in your throat when the bottom hinges give way only slightly, and you shove yourself against the door one more time to give it a final push.

The door gives way just a little bit more, but the gap is just big enough for you to squeeze through.

Heart pounding, you squeeze through it, the back of your shirt catching on the hinges and ripping slightly. Your heart's beating much too fast and you're too frightened to care as flames dance around you, igniting the room in sanguinary and orange hues. Flames chaotically slither up the walls like tangled vines, smoke engulfing the room in a tight blanket.

The air is asphyxial and you cough uncontrollably through the cloud of black smoke. The air burns your lungs and eyes, and for a moment, you're disoriented. There's too much fire, too much smoke, and you don't know what to do or where to go.

It vaguely dawns on you that Jack must have drenched the whole room in gasoline before he left, and you hate him for that even more than you hate him for violating you and bringing you here in the first place.

It only takes seconds for the room to become completely encased in fire. Flames begin hotly licking a trail up your legs, burning them, even as you scream and try to run from them. But you can't escape from fire, not as it crawls after you and teases the soles of your shoes, the rubber melting faster than you could have ever imagined and making you scream shrilly.

Through the black smoke and the flames and the unbearable, torrid heat, it's impossible to locate the door, and even then you know it's probably locked. With something akin to an animalistic cry, you try to barricade yourself in the corner of the room where the flames have yet to reach, all the while knowing that you only have so long before they reach you. Already your skin is starting to burn, and the pandemonium of swirling smoke intoxicates your lungs.

When the onslaught of flames finally reaches you once more, you move out of the way, only to realize that there is nowhere else to go. You desperately want to cling to that small vestige of hope you once had earlier in the evening, but it's utterly lost now, burning in the ashes of the flames.

So you scream. You scream in agony until your lungs burn, you scream until your voice is a mere whisper and you can't scream anymore. But even then you don't stop.

The room is burning in rampant, unstoppable chaos, and you along with it.

As the flames slither up your body and your clothes begin to burn, you let out one final, animalistic scream and collapse to the floor, succumbing to the smoke and the suffocating heat.

And then, suddenly, a loud, sharp bang resounds in your ears, your head jerking upwards.

Eyelids fluttering open, you're abruptly assaulted by a blinding white light.

Am I . . . am I in a hospital? Did I actually . . . survive?

Desperately, you look around, utterly confused and drunk on a mixture of emotions. You look down quickly and feel your arms with your hands, touching your soft skin, reveling in the sight of the unmarred flesh. You're not burning anymore, your skin isn't melting off your bones, and your lungs aren't filled with smoke. In fact, you feel perfectly fine, as if you hadn't just been left to die in a burning building.

What the hell is going on?

Panting heavily, you will your heart to slow and dazedly look around, stunned to find yourself in the same subway car that Jack had taken you from.

Is this . . . is this really happening? Was that all . . . was that all a dream?

God, no, it couldn't have been. It was all too real, it couldn't have just been a mere dream.

But as you inspect your surroundings, you gradually come to realize that, as bizarre as the conclusion is, it's true. It was all just a dream.

Your gaze lifts from your lap when the train begins to slow to a stop and the doors slide open. You're too stunned to move, so you stay rooted to your seat, staring off into nothing and mesmerized by your own rampant thoughts.

Right before the doors start to close, however, a man steps inside, immediately drawing your attention. He seats himself on the other side of the car, facing you, but keep his head bowed, not looking up.

Something uncomfortable and sharp settles in the pit of your stomach upon seeing him, goose bumps scattering across your exposed skin. Swallowing, you reach up a hand to touch your neck, wanting to soothe the tense muscles there, when suddenly, you feel something warm and slick coating the tips of your fingers.

Slowly, curiously, you lower your hand and stare in shock, terrified by the wet, crimson blood.

No, no, it can't be . . . . it fucking can't.

Mouth parting in horrified awe, you slowly lift your head and immediately meet his hooded eyes from across the car.

His lacerated mouth and fleshy, puckered scars knowingly pull tight.

And then he grins.

Author's Notes: I hope you all have thoroughly enjoyed this story. It was so much fun to write and through this experience I have learned a lot of great writing techniques. Thank you all for the continuous support and stunning reviews. This is the first multi-chapter story I have ever completed, so any final comments you may have I would be more than delighted to read and respond to. Thank you all again for making this story so worthwhile!