DYING TO SURVIVE (Dark Erotica) (12 page)

“I am a worthless pile of fat shit. I will always be worthless. I will never amount to anything,” Ryan said as he fought back the tears.

“Again,” his father demanded.

“I am a worthless pile of fat shit. I will never be…I mean I will never amount to anything. I will always be worthless,” Ryan lowered his shoulders and looked at the floor.

“When you slump, it’s apparent just how fat you really are. Again,” his father demanded as he circled Ryan.

“I am a worthless pile,” Ryan paused and began to cry.

Ryan reached up and wiped his eyes. He bit his bottom lip, stopped crying, and began to speak again.

“…of fat shit. I will always be worthless,” Eleven, naked, hungry, tired, and humiliated, Ryan looked at the floor and cried.

“Oh Christ, Ryan. You think if you cry that God can hear you? God doesn’t listen to fat kids. God is so fucking ashamed of you. You create problems for God because you even exist on his earth. God is beyond ashamed of your disgusting fat little ass. God fucking hates you. Do you have any fucking idea how I know that?” his father barked.

“No sir,” his bottom lip quivering, Ryan fought back tears as he responded.

Daily, Ryan wished God would listen. He hoped that God listened to him as he said his prayers at night. He had already lost fifteen pounds, and when he looked into the mirror, the reflection he saw was not overweight.

“Because God talks to me. When I pray, God listens. Do you know why he listens to me?” his father bellowed as he stood at Ryan’s side.

Ryan turned and looked at his father, “No sir. I don’t know why.”

“Because I am not a fat pile of sickening shit. God hates fat kids, and God hates you. Make no mistake about it. God hates you. If you don’t believe me, pray for me to give you mercy. Pray for that. And when God doesn’t answer you, when he brings you down to the basement again for a fat inspection, you’ll know,” his father explained as he shook his head slowly and looked at Ryan’s naked body with disgust in his eyes.

“I imagine I will not be able to eat that fabulous dinner your mother prepared. Do you know why?” his father asked as he walked around Ryan, studying his body as he did.

As Ryan’s father circled, Ryan hesitantly responded, “Why father?”

“Holy shit!” his father screamed.

“Father?” he paused and shook his head in disbelief.

“You want to call me father? I do not claim your fat fucking ass. Call me father again, and I will cut you. Sir. That’s the word that better fall out of your fat mouth. Sir. Call me father again, I’ll take a finger. At least if I did, you’d lose a few ounces. Jesus, Ryan, looking at you is making me sick,” his father stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head.

“I won’t be able to eat that meal, Ryan because I will vomit. As sure as today is Wednesday, and God and I both know it is, I will vomit that roast your mother has so graciously prepared. I will vomit the roast. Now, do you know why I will vomit the roast?” his father asked.

“No…” Ryan’s voice cracked as he tried to speak.

“Sir,” the tears streamed down Ryan’s cheeks as he spoke.

“Because you have upset my stomach, Ryan. You have made me sick. I am sick at my stomach. I will be incapable of swallowing, enjoying, and keeping your mother’s wonderful food in my stomach. Because you won’t lose weight. One more question. One more, then I must get away from you. Jesus. I may vomit right here. I just may. Ryan, does God love you?” his father stood directly in front of him, and stared at Ryan’s bare crotch.

‘No sir,” Ryan whispered.

“Louder,” his father demanded.

Ryan straightened his shoulders and responded, “No sir,”

As Ryan spoke, he began to believe his response.

“Because?” his father asked.

“Ryan straightened his stance further, looked straight ahead at his father, and responded, “Because I am a fat, worthless, sickening pile of blubber. I am worthless, and I will always be worthless. God hates me, God doesn’t listen to my prayers, and he never will.”

“You’re correct for once in your life. Son of a bitch. Maybe you do know more than how to solve math problems. Well, sleep down here. I am going to try and choke down your mother’s dinner. If you’re quiet, and I have no reminder that you exist, I may be able to hold it down. Say a little prayer that I am able to eat my dinner,” his father said as he turned toward the stairs.

“Oh wait,” his father said as he walked.

“Never fucking mind. Don’t say a prayer. I’ll just risk it. God doesn’t listen to little fat kids. Worthless piles of vile shit. Fat kids that no one will ever want. I don’t want to take a chance pissing off God any more than he already is. Just keep your fat mouth shut,” Ryan’s father paused and coughed.

“I’ll do you a favor and tell your mother you’re exercising,” his father continued as he disappeared up the stairs.

Ryan waited for the footsteps of his father to fade away, picked up his clothes, and got dressed. Now sitting on the edge of the couch and staring at the wall, he began to second guess his self-worth, his purpose on earth, and his faith in God.

Now sitting in the parking lot, Ryan looked at Ami and wondered. As he bit his quivering bottom lip, he rubbed his hands on his slacks and stared through the glass structure into the coffee shop. Filled with admiration for Ami, Ryan struggled with the thought of going inside the establishment and risking rejection.

Ryan turned his left wrist and checked the time. The watch provided a reassurance that he was, in fact, successful. He glanced back into the coffee shop and watched as Ami smiled at the customer she was assisting. Nervously, he looked back down at his watch and checked the time again. After pressing the shirt cuff over the dial of the watch, he opened the door of the car and began to walk inside.

“Good morning, Ryan,” Ami offered with a smile as Ryan walked through the door.

“Good morning Ami,” Ryan responded as he raised his arm and looked at the face of his watch.

“The usual?” Ami asked as Ryan approached the counter.

“Yes, thank you,” Ryan responded as he reached into his pocket.

Ryan removed a ten dollar bill and held it in his outstretched arm as Ami pressed the keys on the register. As Ami reached for the bill, Ryan admired the tone and color of her skin. As she took the bill from his hand, he contemplated touching the skin of her hand.

“Here’s your change, Ryan,” Ami said as she attempted to hand Ryan the six dollars and various coins.

“Drop it in your tip jar,” Ryan said as he searched Ami’s neck for a glimpse of the tattoo.

“You’re too kind. I hate to even ask but. Well never mind,” Ami lightly shrugged her shoulders in embarrassment as she dropped the money into the jar.

“What? Ask, Ami. I have no secrets,” Ryan assured her as he placed his wallet back into the pocket of his pants.

“Well,” Ami started with a tone of embarrassment, “what exactly do you do? You know, for a living. How do you make your money?”

Ryan crossed his arms and admired Ami’s striking appearance. Hesitantly, he responded and waited for her acceptance.

“I invest money,” Ryan responded.

“In what?” Ami asked as she started wiping the countertop with a rag.

Ryan thought about his investments - his means of making money. He had, as an adult, become obsessed with making money. His successes were a reassurance that he was, in fact, worth something. He was not worthless. He was intelligent, and was a person that was able to plan, prepare, and implement just about any plan to make more money. With his arms crossed across his chest, he turned his wrist and glanced at his watch.

“Well Ami, it depends on what presents itself,” Ryan responded.

“Do you ever do anything shady?” Ami stopped wiping the countertop and waited for Ryan to respond.

Ryan began to feel uncomfortable. His hands began to sweat. He thought of the women in the room in his basement. He recalled the internet discussions with his Japanese investors regarding the abductions and the game they were going to play – all for financial gain. He began to perform the mathematical calculations in his head regarding one of the women actually choosing death over dismemberment.

Slowly, Ryan inhaled a breath through his nose, uncrossed his arms, and pushed his hands into his pockets.

“Define shady,” Ryan laughed dryly.

Ami looked puzzled. She studied Ryan, smiled, and tilted her head as she reached under the counter and dropped the towel onto the bottom shelf of the cabinet.

“Well, some people will do
anything
for money. You know, they’ll do whatever it takes to make a buck. You’re young and obviously successful. I just wondered if you got your successes from weird stuff. I was joking really,” Ami responded as she stood and wondered what it was that Ryan invested his money in.

How he succeeded to the degree that he did.

“No,” Ryan responded, “I don’t. I primarily invest in stocks and some real estate.”

Ami reached toward the bar and retrieved Ryan’s drink from the barista.  As she handed it to him, she smiled and spoke.

“Interesting, very interesting,” Ami responded.

Ryan smiled and reached for the drink. He had hoped to talk about other things, but accepted the conversation as sufficient as he accepted the cup. He raised the cup to his mouth and took a slow sip.

“Taste good?” Ami asked cheerily.

At this instant, Ryan felt as if some things tasted good in his mouth, and some things did not. He lowered the cup as he continued to admire Ami.

“The coffee? Yes, it tastes fabulous,” Ryan assured her.

But you must excuse me.

I have women to torture.

For profit.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WORTHLESS? I THINK NOT.

ELEVEN.
With every mile that he drove, Ryan became angrier with his father’s treatment of him as a child. His father had constantly reminded him of his weight. Additionally, his father repeatedly explained of Ryan’s being worthless. In time, Ryan became to believe his father, and his grades in school were in support of his belief of worthlessness. He had, however, excelled at math - algebra, trigonometry, and calculus. Math, to Ryan, was natural.

Ryan attendance in college as a young adult produced acceptable grades. His earning of a doctorate was never acknowledged by his father. The refusal of the police department to employ Ryan, of course, was acknowledged – repeatedly. Ryan strove to be worthy, physically fit, and successful. His father, however, never recognized him as such.

Ryan pressed the button on the steering wheel with his thumb, turning the volume of the music to a higher level. Music had always been an escape for Ryan, and provided a certain comfort when nothing else could. As the music played, he removed his cup from the holder and took a drink of his coffee.

As he drove, he struggled with thoughts of Ami and what she may believe regarding his investments. It troubled him that she wondered, asked, and had a genuine concern about his means of income.

The women that remained in his home weren’t
shady
in Ryan’s mind, they were
necessary.
There were no other means that Ryan could use, over any period of time to earn the potential millions he would earn if the women chose the options he had predicted.

Ryan’s understanding of what the women should choose to do from a psychological standpoint, in his mind, would be accurate. His doctorate, although not applied to his day-to-day activities, allowed him to have a vast and accurate understanding of the women and their respective decisions.

His Japanese counterparts had no such training or opinions.

Ryan believed that he was superior to them in all respects, and the game he was playing would prove his intelligence, understanding of human nature, and his ability to devise and implement such an intricate plan without fault or failure.

CHAPTER TWELVE

FUCK IT, I’LL GO NEXT.

TWELVE.
Standing outside the door, Ryan took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled out of his mouth. He looked at the pad on the wall, and slowly raised his left hand to the screen. He pressed his left ring finger to the pad, and he slowly inhaled another breath. As the magnetic striker released the door, he cautiously pulled it open.

The three women were seated on the bench as far away from the open door as they could be. An unexplainable calm filled the room. The women weren’t crying or talking. Quietly, in a huddle, they sat and stared at Ryan as he glared into the room.

“Good morning. Have we made a decision?” Ryan exhaled and waited to continue speaking.

“I’ll allow sixty seconds for the response,” Ryan turned his wrist and looked at his watch.

“Fifty,” Ryan looked up from his watch and into the room.