Finding a Yandere in Reverse World

My eyes snap open to darkness. Cold metal bites into my wrists and ankles. Panic surges through me as I realize I’m bound to a chair with zip ties.

“No, no, no. Not again!” I speak with genuine fear.

Memories flood back, Lyra’s haunting blue eyes, Lindsey’s cruel smirk. The pain, the humiliation. My breath comes in ragged gasps.

“Help! Somebody help me!” I scream, my voice cracking.

I thrash wildly against my restraints, the plastic cutting into my skin. The chair rocks but doesn’t budge.

“Please, I can’t do this again,” I plead to the empty room. “I won’t survive it.”

My mind races. How did this happen? Who took me this time?

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting back tears. “Keep it together, Jason,” I mutter. “You’re stronger now. You can handle this.”

‘But can I? The thought of more rape, more isolation, more torture... it’s too much.’

I struggle harder, and desperation gives me strength. “Let me go, you psychos!” I yell. “I’m not your plaything!”

My wrists are slick with sweat and blood now. Still, the zip ties hold.

“Fuck!” I scream in frustration and fear.

‘This can’t be happening. Not again. Please, not again...’

As I pant from exertion, a fragment of memory surfaces through the panic. Erica’s gentle smile, her warm arms around me as we drifted off to sleep last night. The stark contrast to my current situation makes my head spin.

“Erica?” I call out hesitantly, confusion coloring my voice. “Erica, are you there? What’s going on?”

No response. Just the echo of my own desperate voice.

“Someone, anyone, show yourself!” I demand, trying to inject bravado into my trembling voice. “What kind of sick game is this?”

Suddenly, heavy footsteps approach. My heart races, a mix of fear and desperate hope. The door creaks open, and a figure steps into view.

“Mon Dieu! What ‘ave we ‘ere?” Spoken in an exaggerated, almost comical French accent.

I blink in disbelief. A woman in the most ridiculous army uniform I’ve ever seen stands before me. She’s wearing a face mask that looks like the tragedy mask. The whole uniform looks like it came from a discount Halloween store.

“Who... who the fuck are you?” I stammer, utterly bewildered.

“I am ze great General Violeuse!” she proclaims, striking a dramatic pose. “And you, mon petit chou, are my prisoner of war!”

I stare, slack-jawed. ‘Is this some kind of twisted joke?’

My mind reels, struggling to process this absurd turn of events. The woman before me, this “General Violeuse,” continues her theatrical performance, prancing about the room with exaggerated military gestures. Her ridiculous costume rustles with each movement, the cheap fabric catching the dim light filtering through a high window I hadn’t noticed before.

“Silence, you insolent prisoner!” General Violeuse bellows, her voice wavering slightly. “I am ‘ere to... to claim my spoils of war!”

“I don’t know what that means.” I speak plainly.

She takes a dramatic step forward, then immediately retreats two steps back, maintaining a generous distance between us. Her exaggerated French accent falters for a moment as she continues, “Oui, I shall... ‘ow you say... ravish you thoroughly!”

Despite my fear and confusion, I can’t help but notice the tremor in her voice. Her body language is tense, and she is seems nervous, as if she’s the one who’s afraid. It’s a stark contrast to her bombastic words.

As she paces back and forth, careful to stay well out of my reach, a sliver of blonde hair escapes from behind her mask. The color and texture strike a chord of familiarity in my addled brain.

“Rachel?” I ask hesitantly, squinting in the dim light. “Is that you?”

General Violeuse visibly flinches at the name, her whole body going rigid for a split second. But she quickly recovers, puffing out her chest and waving her arms wildly.

“Non, non, non!” she protests vehemently. “I ‘ave no idea who zis Rachel is! I am ze fearsome General Violeuse, conqueror of men and... and... bringer of Violeuses!”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and I swear I can see her eyes darting nervously behind the mask. The height, the hair, the familiar way she moves... it all adds up.

“Rachel, what the hell is going on?” I demand, my fear giving way to bewilderment and a touch of anger. “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you, I am not zis Rachel!” she insists, her accent slipping further. “I am ‘ere to... to... claim you as my prisoner of love!”

As Rachel’s charade crumbles, something inside me snaps. The fear and panic drain away, replaced by an icy calm. My eyes grow cold and hard as I stare at her trembling form.

“Rachel,” I say, my voice devoid of emotion, “do you remember what I did to the last two girls who raped me?”

She winces visibly but stubbornly maintains her act. “I-I am not zis Rachel you speak of!”

A dark chuckle escapes my lips, echoing ominously in the dim room. “Let me refresh your memory then, Ms. Violeuse. Lindsey? I turned her head into a bloody pulp. Unrecognizable. I minced that bitch’s fucking skull.”

Rachel takes an involuntary step back, her ridiculous costume rustling.

“And Lyra,” I continue, my voice dropping to a menacing whisper, “For what she did, I stole that cunt’s eye.”

The room seems to darken around me as an almost palpable aura of malevolence emanates from my still form. Rachel’s breathing grows ragged behind her mask.

I lean forward as far as my restraints allow, fixing her with a predatory gaze. “If you touch me, Rachel, I’ll make you wish I only took your eye.”

My words hang in the air like a curse. Rachel stands frozen, her theatrical bravado completely shattered. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken horrors.

Rachel stumbles backward, her ridiculous “General Violeuse” costume rustling cartoonishly against the tension-filled silence. Her trembling hands fumble for her phone, nearly dropping it in her haste. She glances at the screen, her eyes darting nervously behind her mask.

“Zut alors!” she exclaims, her exaggerated French accent wavering. “Perhaps what you say is true, mon petit cauchemar, but you forget, ze great General Violeuse is ze strongest rapist known to womankind!”

Her bombastic declaration falls flat, undermined by the visible tremors wracking her body. The cheap fabric of her costume shivers with each quivering breath she takes. Sweat glistens on the small patch of exposed skin near her neck, betraying her mounting fear.

‘This would be really funny if I was in on it. But as it stands, I think I might actually kill her.’ I stare at her.

She checks her phone again, fingers tapping frantically at the screen. The blue glow illuminates her mask, casting eerie shadows across the room. For a moment, the tragedy mask seems to come alive, its expression morphing from theatrical sorrow to genuine terror.

“Any moment now, my... my army of croissants will arrive!” Rachel boasts, her voice cracking. “Zey will ‘elp me ravish you thoroughly, you’ll see!”

But her grandiose threats are belied by her actions. She keeps glancing at the door, then back to her phone, as if desperately awaiting rescue. The once-imposing “General” now looks small and pathetic, cowering in the corner furthest from me.

“Come now, mon prisonnier,” she says, attempting to inject bravado into her trembling voice. “Surely you can see ze futility of resistance? General Violeuse always gets ‘er man!”

Suddenly, a thunderous crash reverberates through the room as the door explodes inward, wood splinters flying. Through the cloud of dust emerge two figures clad in tactical SWAT gear, their imposing silhouettes backlit by the hallway lights. My heart leaps as I recognize Erica and my mom, both wielding intimidating paintball guns.

Rachel’s theatrical facade crumbles instantly. “Oh, thank God!” she cries, her ridiculous French accent evaporating.

Before anyone can react further, Erica springs into action. With a fierce battle cry, she unloads her paintball gun, peppering Rachel’s chest with a barrage of colorful ammunition. The rapid-fire assault is relentless, far exceeding any reasonable amount of paintballs needed to subdue a target. Each impact elicits a pained yelp from Rachel, her once-proud “General Violeuse” costume now a Jackson Pollock canvas of vibrant welts.

Meanwhile, my mom rushes to my side, her movements precise and efficient. She places a comforting hand on my head, her touch grounding me amidst the chaos. “Time!” she yells, her voice cutting through the cacophony of Rachel’s groans and Erica’s continued assault.

“What the fuck?” I mutter, lost in the sauce.

Rachel, now a crumpled heap on the floor, fumbles for her phone with paint-stained fingers. She squints at the screen, wincing from the effort. “Thirty-two minutes,” she croaks, her voice a far cry from the bombastic General Violeuse persona.

Mom nods approvingly. “Pretty good time, all things considered.”

Rachel, still sprawled on the floor in her paint-splattered costume, manages a weak grin. “Pretty good? I could have raped him 20 times in that period.”

My mom’s eyebrows shoot up, her tactical gear creaking as she turns to face Rachel. “How in the hell could you have raped him 1.6 times per minute?”

‘Wait, what the fuck? How did she figure that out.’ I am suddenly consumed with a new mystery.

Rachel’s grin widens a mischievous glint in her eye despite her disheveled state. “Oh, I could definitely do it. You underestimate my powers, mon amie.”

My jaw drops, a mixture of disbelief and indignation coursing through me. “How the fuck could you possibly do that math in your head that fast?!” I scream at Mom, the absurdity of the situation momentarily overriding my fear and confusion.

But my outburst goes unacknowledged. My mom simply nods thoughtfully as if seriously considering Rachel’s outrageous claim.

Erica, still gripping her paintball gun tightly, huffs in frustration. “Thirty-two minutes is too slow,” she declares, her piercing blue eyes narrowing. “We need to work on our response time. What if this had been real?”

“Were you always good at math?” My voice like a bullet hitting an impenetrable wall. No one responds.

I stare at them all, slack-jawed. The room seems to spin around me, reality-warping into some bizarre funhouse mirror version of itself. Here I am, still bound to a chair, while my girlfriend, my mother, and my would-be assailant casually discuss the logistics of my hypothetical repeated rape as if debating the finer points of a sporting event.

“Is anyone going to untie me?” I ask, my voice a mixture of exasperation and lingering fear. “Or are we just going to keep talking about how many times I could have been violated in half an hour?”

Erica’s eyes snap to me, softening instantly. “Oh, babe,” she says, rushing to my side. Her tactical gear clanks as she kneels beside me, her hands gentle as they work to free me from the zip ties. “I’m so sorry. We got caught up in the moment.”

As the plastic restraints fall away, I flex my wrists, wincing at the raw skin. “What the hell is going on?” I demand, my voice hoarse. “Was this some kind of... test?”

My mom steps forward, her expression a mix of pride and concern. “We needed to see how well the gps we implanted in you last night worked. Erica and I have been discussing doing a live training exercise for a while and Rachel said she needed to practice a french accent.”

The chair I was bound to stands empty now, the zip ties scattered around it like fallen leaves. The metal legs gleam dully in the low light, silent witnesses to my ordeal.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “My ignorance doesn’t seem that important in the grand scheme of things.”

Erica scoffs, her blue eyes flashing with a mixture of pride and frustration. “I wanted to see if you were going to give yourself up easily or if you’d fight back,” she explains, her tone matter-of-fact. “It needed to feel real for you to react authentically.”

Rachel, still sprawled on the floor, chimes in. “You didn’t give up at all,” she says, her voice filled with a mix of admiration and lingering fear. “You threatened me so bad I almost shit my pants. I mean, seriously, that whole ‘I’ll make you wish I only took your eye’ thing? Terrifying.”

My mom nods approvingly, her tactical gear creaking as she shifts her weight. “That’s my boy,” she says, a hint of pride in her voice.

I look around at these three women, my fiance, my mother, and Rachel, all watching me with varying degrees of pride, concern, and amusement. The stupidity of the situation hits me anew, and I can’t help but laugh, a slightly hysterical edge to the sound.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “You kidnapped me, tied me to a chair, and terrorized me with a fake French general... all to test a GPS implant and to test my ability to resist capture?”

Erica nods enthusiastically, her blonde hair bouncing with the movement. “Exactly! And you did great, babe. I’m so proud of you.”

I stare at Erica, my eyes burning with an intensity I’ve never felt before. My jaw clenches, muscles twitching beneath the skin as I struggle to contain the maelstrom of emotions threatening to explode from within me. The air in the room seems to crackle with tension, heavy and oppressive.

“Erica,” I begin, my voice low and controlled, each word carefully measured. “I love you with every fiber of my being. That will never change.”

Her eyes light up for a moment, a flicker of hope dancing across her features. But then she sees the storm brewing behind my gaze, and her expression falters.

“But we are SO fighting right now!” I declare, my voice rising with each word until it echoes off the walls of the dimly lit room.

Erica’s eyes widen, her mouth falling open in shock. The paintball gun in her hands suddenly seems heavy, and she lets it clatter to the floor. “What? But... that’s not fair!” she protests, her voice tinged with disbelief and a hint of indignation.

I take a step towards her, my hands trembling at my sides. “Not fair?” I repeat, my voice cracking with emotion. “You can’t just play on my trauma like that, Erica! Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through?”

The room falls silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air like a tangible presence. Rachel shifts uncomfortably, her ridiculous “General Violeuse” costume rustling with the movement. She looks like she wants to disappear into the paint-splattered walls.

My mom stands rigid in her tactical gear, her expression a mixture of concern and dawning realization. She clears her throat, breaking the tense silence. “The Rohypnol was probably a tad much in hindsight,” she mutters, almost to herself.

My head whips around to face her, eyes wide with disbelief. “Rohypnol?” I sputter, my voice rising an octave. “You drugged me?”

Erica’s eyes widen, a mix of panic and betrayal flashing across her face. “But you said I could!” she exclaims, her voice pitched high with desperation. “Don’t you remember?”

“You said,” Erica continues, her voice taking on a dreamy quality, “that you trusted me so completely, you’d let me roofie you whenever I wanted. You said it would be like a trust fall but more funnier.”

The memory crystallizes, and I feel a rush of embarrassment mixed with a strange sense of pride. “Oh shit,” I mutter, “you’re right. I did say that.”

My mom’s jaw drops, her tactical gear creaking as she shifts uncomfortably. “Jason, that’s a terrible thing to offer someone! Even if it is your future wife.” she admonishes me, her voice a mix of shock and disappointment.

I turn to her, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “Mom, you’re literally complicit in Erica drugging me already. You enabled a kidnapping.”

She blinks, then sighs heavily, her shoulders slumping under the weight of the realization. “Fuck.” she echoes my earlier sentiment. “You got me there.” Mom looks at Erica and mutters to herself. “Fuck, we lived too long and became the villains.”

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the lingering effects of the Rohypnol, making my thoughts slightly fuzzy around the edges. “We’re still fighting, though,” I mutter to Erica, but I can feel my resolve weakening. “But... you can still roofie me whenever you want.”