Author's notes: This is the sequel to the slash version of "Insane". Yes, I plan for it to be as dark as the original; yes, I'm evil. Enjoy...
Judas (Part 1)
Judas.
As in Judas Iscariot. That’s what he calls me now. Not beautiful or angel or baby. And, God forbid, not Chris.
Judas.
The name frightens me. Its implications bring a fresh stab of terror into my heart; terror that has been building steadily ever since I saw him again. At first I thought he was a flashback, or an image from an incredibly realistic night terror. But this is all too real. I stare down at my bound hands and legs and I have to fight the urge to cry. This is real. This is real. Neil came back for me.
As I gaze at the back of his head my mind tries to wrap itself around the fact that I am here again with this man. The concept is slippery, however, and my mind finds no purchase. After all, wasn’t he supposed to be in a mental hospital for the rest of his life? Wasn’t I supposed to be safe now? That’s what everyone told me. They told me that so often and with so much conviction that I began to believe them. The nightmares had lessened; the fear had begun to ebb. I had begun to live a normal life again.
And now…he is back. And he has me. And as I stare at his big hands on the steering wheel, hands that will soon claim me, I can no longer hold back the tears. They come quietly, but each one is borne out of deep despair. Each one burns as it makes its way down my face.
"Are you comfortable, my Judas?" he asks me in an even voice.
My emotions and surprise at his question do not allow me to answer.
Am I comfortable? No, I am not. My wrists hurt from the biting twine that encircles them. My jaw and cheek hurt from the anger of his fists. Nausea continues to try to overwhelm me when I picture what is in store for me, and I am so frightened that my heart feels as if it will pound its way through my chest. No, Neil. I am not comfortable.
"I asked you a question!" His voice thunders and rages and I can feel it reverberate off the confining walls of the van.
He is angry again. God help me, I have made him angry. Through a throat that is closed so tightly that I can barely breathe, I manage to whisper, "No, Neil. I’m not comfortable."
He laughs and the laughter is harsh and quick, more like a rabid dog’s bark than a human noise. "Good. You don’t deserve to be comfortable, my Judas."
I turn my head away from him and his laugh and am not surprised to hear that music is now filling the confines of the van. Neil loves music. He loves to sing. He does not realize that he cannot sing. I listen as he butchers the song, "On the Dark Side", and I think how appropriate it is for this moment. You and I Neil, riding into the dark side. You, dragging me into your hell again.
As he continues to sing, I thank God silently for the one small mercy that I have been given. At least he has never made me sing for him. He has taken everything else from me, but he has not taken that. If he had stolen my voice, I know I would have killed myself long ago.
I listen to his voice and I listen to the rapid beating of my heart and I close my eyes in an attempt to escape my reality. It has never worked for me before, and it does not work now. Through it all, I have always remained and always will remain; painfully, torturously aware.
As the tears continue to fall in silence from my eyes, I turn towards the only other option I have left.
I begin to pray.