Twisted Victim? - MM Dark Psychological Thriller

Yuri

“Don’t look away,” he threatens. “Stare at them and tell me if you think you deserve them.”

He thrusts.

I shake my head.

Sobbing softly. “I don’t,” I whisper in my low voice, trying so hard not to cry.

“Good,” he croaks—another thrust. “No one deserves those but them.” Thrust. “They deserve nothing but the best.” Thrust. “They deserve the world and I detest them,” he groans.

I moan through soft sobs.

“Louder,” he orders, still moving.

Without hesitation, I go louder.

Moaning, screaming, giving him the reaction he wants because it gives him pleasure and I don’t want to make him angrier.

He keeps going.

Thrusting.

Back and forth until he finishes with the loudest groan, teeth grinding against each other, making that annoying sound I can’t stand—but can’t say anything about.

Gasping—

Fuck...

And I wake up.

Same dream. Every night for a year now.

Before I shower, I stand in front of the mirror in my bathroom, naked, staring at my reflection. My face shifts into the menace from my dream… clenching my fists, jaw tight.

The first fist lands on the side of my stomach, hard enough to make me whimper. The second follows on the other side. I don’t look away.

Whimpering—

I don’t give up.

“You deserve this,” I imitate.

Punch. Another punch.

Both fists now.

Punch. Punch. Punch.

On and on until bruises bloom across my stomach.

Breathing hard, I give myself one last look before turning away. I step into the shower stall, reach for the faucet, let the water run. As soon as it hits my skin—cascading over the bruises—I wince. But knowing I deserve it, I bear the pain and scrub my body until I’m done.

An hour later, I grab my car keys and lunchbox and stride out the door to the garage.

At work, I park, kill the engine, grab my things, hop out, and head into the government law building.

Inside my office, I remove my coat, hang it up, and sit.

The magistrate’s office handles minor cases—petty theft, harassment—nothing big, but spacious enough for files and breathing room.

I open the first file, I see Misha, my judicial assistant, has already organized everything for the day.

I read. Something stirs in my chest, but I ignore it and continue.

A boyfriend slapped his girlfriend across the face. She reported immediately.

When I’m done, I move to another: petty theft.

A knock makes me jump slightly. I tug my sleeves down, trying to hide what no one should see.

Clearing my throat. “Come in.” Probably Misha.

Not Misha—my best friend, Arseny, the court clerk. He got hired last year and we’ve been close ever since.

He’s smiling—he’s always smiling. Soft round cheeks, a gap between his upper front teeth. Always wearing a light brown belt with his formal trousers. Shirt ironed, neat, tucked in.

Tall, slender, lean. The opposite of me.

I’m the kind of man other men say they’re jealous of because I “possess masculinity.” Broad-ish, medium athletic build, faint stubble I keep carefully trimmed. I don’t like long hair on my face. My face isn’t strong but sharp, with dimples but only appears when I smile—I still don’t understand why anyone would be jealous of that.

I’ve been told a few times I’m not that attractive. It’s the truth. I’ve never seen myself that way.

Arseny’s grey eyes always light up when he talks. He’s adorable.

“How are you doing?” he asks, sitting across from me.

“I’m good. It’s very cold today.” I push my sleeves closer to my wrists, hiding everything. “And you? How was dinner with your family last night?”

He gives me a bored look, brushing back his shiny ashy-grey hair.

He’s not old—he was born with that colour. I’m 29. He’s 28.

He rolls his eyes, stares down at my desk, sighs. “My mom… that woman is so difficult. Always bringing up marriage. She doesn’t care about my feelings because what the f—” He swallows the word. “I’m gay. My whole family knows.”

I rest my hands on the desk, stare at them, then hide them under it again. “She’s just scared… you know how this country is with us,” I say softly.

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t want to ever go back there. My dad didn’t even speak to me. The only one who did was my niece. Can you imagine?”

I can’t imagine. But I can’t tell him that, so I simply nod.

He stands. “Don’t run away at lunch. I have to get back before I get fired.”

I chuckle and nod faintly. “I won’t,” I whisper. He hears it, smiles, and leaves.

I take a deep breath.

Arseny loves people. He eats in the canteen—packed, loud, full of eyes and energy.

Those eyes weigh me down. Their presence makes me feel exposed, like I can’t think or eat in peace. So I eat alone. Not in my car anymore—somewhere private. Somewhere no one will find me.

I can even bear the cold so no one finds me.

After an hour, Misha knocks. “Your hearing starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Misha.” She leaves.

I stand, put on my black judicial robe, my square glasses with black frame, grab the file, and walk out.

When I enter, Arseny is already seated and waiting, and everyone stands on command.

I sit. “Please be seated.” I open the case file. “The hearing of Magistrate Court District No. 3425 of Moscow is now open.”

I fix my glasses.

Reading…

“We are considering an administrative case under Article 7.27 of the Russian Code of Administrative Offenses regarding the charge of petty theft against citizen Pavel Dmitrievich.”

I look up at the accused.

He looks both scared and guilty.

A short man stealing useless things.

Fixing my glasses again, I ask, “Do you plead guilty?”

He nods. “Yes.”

Ten minutes of assessing evidence later, I return.

The bailiff announces, “All rise. Court is in session.”

I begin, “Having reviewed the case materials and having established the guilt of citizen Pavel Dmitrievich, the court rules as follows: To find Dmitrievich guilty of committing an administrative offense under Article 7.27 of the Code of Administrative Offenses of the Russian Federation, and to impose an administrative fine in the amount of 3,000 rubles.”

I glance at him. He looks like he’s about to cry.

“This ruling may be appealed within ten days. The hearing is now adjourned.”

I bang the gavel and step down.

__________

The club.

Yeah… I couldn’t handle being alone at home. I needed something to distract my mind—and this is where it happens.

The voices were getting too loud after the assault case.

“What would you like tonight, handsome?” the bartender asks, smiling, almost flirting as I step up to the counter.

I sit, phone in hand. “A double whiskey. No ice.”

He moves away. I stare at my phone—Arseny texted earlier, asking why I keep avoiding lunch with him.

I block the voices in my head and type: next time. Then lock my phone.

My drink slides to me. Without hesitation, I pick it up and gulp.

My face pinches as the liquid slithers down my throat, burning into my lungs, making everything feel aesthetic—my brain especially.

My body relaxes. I take another gulp, then another, and finish.

I glance at the bartender. “Another.”

He fills it. I drink the moment it arrives.

Two sips at once.

Burning, sour heat racing through my veins, all the way to my nipples, fingers, knees, toes—pushing me away from the counter and into the crowd.

I go.

Phone still in hand.

Slightly wobbly, vision softer, but I see enough. The floor, the lights, the bodies. The music pounding louder, the beat firing through my body.

“Yeah…” I scream, slipping into the crowd, dancing.

Hands up high. Eyes watching them. My body swaying with the beat. The music taking control. I feel like I could do this every night and finally forget the shitty voice in my head always trying to take control of my body.

Fuck, I’m tired.

I laugh as I dance because I feel good.

It’s been so long since I felt this good.

Dancing.

Alone.

Enjoying.

Never wanting this to end.

Then a hand—rough, manly—slips under my jacket and touches my skin.

I wince, flinch, and run without even seeing who touched me and reminded me of my bruise.

Running. Crossing the street without looking back.

Slipping into the darkness between buildings.

My house isn’t far from the club, so I didn’t drive. No need for a taxi.

I slow, wheezing as I stop. I turn—no one is following.

I’m still drunk. Not tipsy. But I can see.

“Oh fuck…” I just kissed— A man. A stranger. Because I was walking and looking back.

“Hey,” he stops me by catching my hand.

I tremble. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, pulling free.

He lets go.

“Are you okay? You look drunk… can I give you a ride?”

My eyes stay lowered as he speaks. When he glances around—maybe looking for his car or someone—I run.

Disappear into the valley.

A few minutes later, I reach my place.

And that’s it. No more clubbing. No more drinking.