My life is a ss.
Well, it’s been a ss since about two months ago. Maybe three. I lost count in all the chaos that is happening.
I don’t usually journal, but I guess I find it useful since Emiliano got captive again.
Not on paper. It would be too risky to let this psychopath know how my train of thought is working.
He already has free access to my body. I would like to keep my mind to myself.
So what I am doing now is not talking to myself. It’s journaling. ntal notes. Totally what a sane person would do.
Living with Emiliano is not bad. Except when I am unconscious, but I’ve been dealing with that too.
After all, I’ve been grenaded, there is a bounty on my head probably and the police put i in police brutality.
It’s either with Emiliano or locked up.
And I can’t go to another jail. The last one ended up drowning in toxic gas, every inmate dead.
Traumatizing enough for to stay with this evil gno.
There is not much to do around except annoy him. I’ve been playing hot and cold with this guy like my na is Katy Perry.
I can tell I’ve been pushing his buttons.
Good.
So we both suffer.
"What do you want for dinner tonight, puppy?"
Silence.
Emiliano grew more frustrated with every second I stayed quiet.
He shifted in place, arms crossed, his foot tapping the floor with uneven rhythm.
His eyes narrowed, and he kept looking at like he expected sothing.
His mouth tightened, and the muscle in his cheek twitched. He let out a sharp breath through his nose and looked away, then back again. I could tell he was waiting for to say sothing, anything, but I didn’t.
The longer I stayed silent, the more tense he beca.
It was obvious that a brat that grew up to be respected and feared was not used to not being acknowledged.
Smart move, Luther!
"Tonight we have a big experint running. You’ll be out for a couple of hours. I wanted you to wake up to your favorite dinner, but I guess I’ll choose... again."
Emiliano was pacing at first, then he stopped in front of . I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the floor, arms still, mouth shut.
He left the room without a word and ca back a minute later. I heard the sound of a bottle, then felt sothing placed in front of . Pills. I still didn’t look up.
I took them without saying anything, swallowed them dry, and leaned back in the chair.
My head started to spin not long after. Everything felt heavy. My vision blurred around the edges. I let it co.
Just before I lost consciousness, I heard Emiliano’s voice, low and sharp.
"F-cking hell, Luther."
Then everything went dark.
The passing out was a common practice at this point.
He tried to drug my dinners at first. I went to sleep and woke up in the morning with another surgical scar or another needle hole in .
"At least have the decency to give the pills instead of treating like an idiot."
And so he did.
I took whatever he’d give , passed out, and woke up clean in a comfy bed he brought up in the small office. We would eat, then watch a movie and sleep again.
Today was different.
It was a reminder of the man I am truly living with.
"Please..."
"Note 56: Subject 43— male, around 170 lbs, was injected in the gums of his mouth with 0.05 milliliters of blood. The inside of his mouth started the rot process while the subject is still alive with the vitals steady. Currently, I am using the suction tool to clean his mouth as his teeth started to lt."
Emiliano pushed the recorder button to save the note and start the other.
"Note 57: Luther is breathing steadily with no further signs of withering as a compound of my pheromones at 25% concentration was released into his coffined room. It appears that the dopamine and serotonin play a role into the stability of my pheromones."
My eyes opened slowly.
The lights above were bright and cold. I tried to move, but straps across my wrists, ankles, chest, and forehead held in place. The surface beneath was hard and smooth. Glass walls surrounded .
This wasn’t a room—it was a box.
Across the transparent barrier, Emiliano stood with a notepad in his hand. He was writing sothing quickly, focused, his pen moving in short, fast strokes. He didn’t look up.
Next to him stood another man.
He wasn’t restrained. He was seated in a chair bolted to the floor. Straps held his arms and legs in place, but his head was clamped upright by two tal arms on either side of his jaw.
His cheeks had been sliced open. The cuts ran from the corners of his mouth to just before his ears. Jeff the Killer style.
His face was wet with blood and saliva. His mouth was forced wide open by a chanical device.
A suction tube hung from above, humming as it pulled thick, dark fluid from inside the man’s mouth.
Chunks of sothing soft and red passed through the clear tubing—pieces of flesh. His tongue was visibly rotting. The surface was black and green in patches, and large pieces of it were gone entirely. His teeth were dissolving. They bubbled faintly at the roots, thinning and bending under so kind of chemical damage.
He was awake. His eyes darted around the room, wide and wet. He tried to scream, but only gurgling ca out. Blood dripped from his open cheeks onto the floor below.
I wanted to look away. I couldn’t. My neck wouldn’t turn. I could only stare straight ahead.
My breathing quickened. I tried to control it, but panic had already set in. My chest strained against the strap. I could hear my own pulse in my ears. I wanted to call out, but my throat was dry and tight.
Emiliano was still writing. He looked up only once—to check a monitor mounted on the wall—then back down at his notes.
He didn’t see that I was awake.
I stared at the man in the chair again. His lips were trembling where they remained intact. One of his eyes was swelling shut. The clamp holding his head was stained red. His fingers twitched against the restraints.
I tried again to move. The straps held firm. I felt sweat forming on my skin. My hands were cold. I swallowed, but it made no sound.
The suction device slowed for a mont. A chanical arm lowered beside it and injected the inside of the man’s mouth with sothing red.
Was that my blood?
Oh God!
He scread again, soundless, as the fluid made contact. More blood surged into the tube. Another tooth dropped into the collection tray below with a soft clink.
I didn’t understand what I was seeing. I didn’t know what they were doing to him, or why. But I knew one thing— this was my fault.
My heart pounded harder. My vision blurred slightly, but I forced myself to stay conscious. I had to find a way out.
I had to make Emiliano see .
I had to stop this.
Emiliano finally looked up again, eyes focused on the man in the chair. He wrote a few more lines, then adjusted a dial on a panel beside him. The suction increased. The man’s mouth shook violently under the pressure.
I made a sound. A whimper.
Emiliano didn’t notice.
The man in the chair turned his head as far as the clamp would allow. His bloodshot eyes locked on mine.
He saw .
His mouth stretched in a way that looked like a scream, but no words ca out.
Only a loud, garbled noise filled the room—wet, broken, more like an animal than a person. It was a desperate sound. I knew what he wanted. He was begging.
Emiliano stopped writing. He looked up slowly, brows drawing together. His eyes shifted from the man to the monitor, then back again. Sothing about the sound had caught his attention.
He stepped forward and tapped the screen beside the chair. A waveform appeared, unclear and distorted. Emiliano’s brow arched. He set his notepad down and walked to a tal tray on wheels. From it, he picked up a long, flexible tube. A small cara was mounted at the end.
He checked the display on the handheld monitor connected to the tube, then turned back to the man. Without hesitation, he stepped behind the chair and tilted the man’s head back.
The man’s eyes widened again. His fingers pulled against the restraints. He tried to shake his head, but the clamp held him still. Blood ran down his chin.
Emiliano didn’t speak. He brought the tube forward and forced it past the man’s rotting tongue, deep into his throat. The man gagged hard, his entire body jolting in the chair. The suction device shook from the movent.
A dry, retching sound echoed through the room. Emiliano’s face stayed calm as he studied the screen on the monitor. His thumb tapped a control button, and the cara image zood in.
The man kept gagging. Thick strands of blood and mucus leaked from his lips. His breathing beca louder, desperate, strained.
Emiliano leaned closer to the screen. He adjusted the angle of the tube carefully, then tapped a button on the side. The device took a snapshot. He pulled the tube out slowly, letting the man cough and gasp through the ss now covering his chest and lap.
Then Emiliano cleared his throat. Not out of discomfort, but out of habit. He picked up the notepad again, pressed a button on the recording unit at the desk, and spoke.
"Note 58: It seems like the pain increased in the patient despite local numbness being injected into his mouth, throat and upper part of his digestive system. Check the autopsy to see how deep the effect of the blood took over! Vocal cords seem slightly damaged with about 40% still of usability. Subject 43 scread for no apparent reason at exactly 18:47."
Emiliano clicked again.
"Note 59: Luther— Luther? Puppy, are you awake?"
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