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Your eyes gazed lamely at a spot on the floor - not any particular spot, just the spot your eyes happened to land on. Your head held up with your hand, elbow on the counter. The sound of gunshots and screaming outside seemed to fade into the back of your head. Nothing you hadn't heard before. As long as whoever was shooting didn't take their business inside...
A ginger-haired man kicked the door open, shattering the glass door and stomping in, gun in hand, with a snide expression. His grip tightened on his gun - a large one, you wished you could've identified it, but you really weren't educated on the topic. He paced around for a moment, seemingly looking for something. Then he disappeared down an aisle. You listen with a tinge of... not necessarily anger, or sadness - suppose it was a familiar disappointment, as the cacophony of various products that were swept off the shelves rang through the store. The man looped back around. His glare drifted to you. And you felt it. You blinked a couple times, quickly switching on your best customer service smile. Well, the best one you could muster through your mind-numbing boredom.
"...Do you need anything, sir?"
The man narrowed his eyes, scrunching up his nose.
"I need... fuck, what did I come in here for?" He put a hand to his goatee.
The man dropped his hand, bringing it back up to hold his gun as he stashed it away, strapping it to his back. He stood completely still in contemplation for a moment. Then he whipped his head back up to look directly at you, placing his hands on his hips.
"I'm just fuckin' with you, I know what I came in here for."
"Oh... haha, okay..."
If he was making a joke, it didn't seem all that funny.
Before you could ask whether his previous statement was meant to be a joke or not, he was scrambling across the counter and slamming you into the wall. Your ears rung as your head made contact, and you felt the wind get knocked out of you. So you couldn't scream in protest, the man parted your lips with his fingers, forcing your mouth open and firmly pressing a finger down on your tongue, much to your discomfort. He tasted distinctly, disgustingly of dirt and dried blood. With his free hand, he fumbled with a pocket on his pants for a moment before pulling a small pistol out of it. He sneered at you, pressing the slightly cold muzzle of the weapon between your eyes.
"Turn around."
You weren't about to find out if the gun was loaded or not, so you obliged, hastily turning around, the redhead's fingers slipping out of your mouth as you did so. He sighed, casually pressing the gun to the back of your head while he unzipped his fly. You quickly deduced what was happening. And the despair followed. You froze in place, too scared to turn around - and you definitely weren't stupid enough, this guy had a gun pressed to your head. And hearing the carnage outside earlier, it was pretty fucking obvious that he was of the trigger-happy variety.
You felt cool air hit your lower half as your pants were basically ripped down, exposing not only your less-than-ideal downstairs situation, but also the still-healing scars from the night before. You choked back a sob, clenching your hands into fists. You could only pray he didn't notice the scars along with your pussy.
"Didn't take you for the faggot type. Or... what's the right one? Tranny, right?"
You felt something press against your hole. The head of his dick, surely. It throbbed against you. You anticipated his entry, but nothing came of his previous actions. The silence stagnated in the air, until you felt a heavy breath against the back of your neck, and he held you tight at the waist while he pushed his tip against you. It was gonna fucking hurt.
Tears pricked the corners of your eyes when you felt his tip press itself against you, until finally it was inside you. The guttural groaning behind you didn't help. You felt the gun shake a little on your head. Was he overdue for a lay, or just eager?
You felt nails dig into your side as he rolled his hips, agonizingly slowly, until you hit his base. He wasn't girthy - or sizable by any means, but truth be told, you were also far overdue for any type of sex, so anything would suffice. Not that you wanted it to happen this way.
"Stay still if you don't wanna die."
The redhead's breath hitched with the first thrust. Pull-out was sloppy, and his pace was terribly uneven. Maybe he wasn't overdue. Just inexperienced. Why were you so focused on this, anyway? Before you could continue with that rumination, your train of thought broke, and you whimpered when he hit that particularly sensitive spot inside of you. A smirk, twisted and nasty, spread across his face. So, he hit the same spot again, and you bit your lip so hard you swore it could draw blood, just so you didn't make any more noise. When his attempts proved futile, he became frustrated. He made a sound that could only translate to 'pissed off,' as he pressed the muzzle of the gun firmer into your skull, a reminder of the power he currently held over you.
But for some reason, you couldn't find it in yourself to let him have his way. You knew exactly what he could - and probably would do. This was an incredibly stupid idea. It was dumb, dim-witted, outright moronic. Yet, you made no noise as he picked up his pace in efforts to evoke the sounds he wanted out of you. So when he pulled out, you thought you won.
No - you were so, so terribly wrong.
"You're being a fucking cunt. I know you're doing that on purpose."
"You know what - don't even bother to respond. Turn around. Now."
And you did just that, facing him directly. His brows were furrowed, and his face was darkened, pistol at his side. He looked you up and down, pupils stopping at your thighs.
"You're a fuckin' cutter too. Guess I shouldn't be surprised, given your... everything else."
You wanted to sink into the floor and die.
You couldn't do the first part, obviously.
But the second part... that, that was possible. Quite so.
You spat in his face, and he reeled back, wiping the saliva off his eyes and nose. He glared at you for only a second before gearing up his arm and right-hooking you directly in the temple. You fell to the floor, sobbing abhorrently loud now, clutching your throbbing head as you curled up into the fetal position on the cold tiles, pants still down at your knees. Put simply - you looked fucking pathetic. The man gave you a couple kicks to the side - holy fuck, were those boots steel toed? You thought you felt a bone snap inside of you. He stomped down directly on your ribcage as a finishing blow before stepping back, crossing his arms and scrutinizing the scene in front of him. You wailed, writhing on the floor like a dying animal.
"Why'd you do that? Fuckin' retard."
He muttered the last part of that; however, you heard it clear as day.
"Kill me, please."
"Why should I let you have what you want?"
"Just kill me," you mewled at his feet.
The ginger kneeled down and peeled your hand, sticky with snot and tears, off your face. He grimaced, wiping snot off his hand onto his jeans. He seemed almost... proud? Of what he had done, the look on his face was incredibly off-putting - not that you could see it fully with his sunglasses on. He spat directly on your face too, before standing up to his full height again. Every part of you hurt, and breathing was torturous.
"You know what?"
"Sure, I'll kill you."
"You never said how fast, though."
He pulled a serrated blade out of its holster on his shoulder, kneeling down again and tracing your jaw with the edge of it. You looked back up at him with teary, red eyes. Then he pulled the knife away from your face, gesturing for you to move your arms. As you did, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through your entire being, and you began to sob again. He seemed to take little note of it as he brought the knife up to your thighs.
"You won't care if I do this, right? I mean, you've done all this to yourself... you should be used to it."
He neatly sliced the flesh of your thigh, and crimson drooled out of the slit and onto the floor, staining the white tiles. The cut was small, and he was right; it didn't burn that bad. You were quite used to the sensations. He cut another slit into you. And another. Then he went over one of the nastier-looking keloid scars with his blade, opening it up and watching with some sort of twisted fascination as your blood ran down you. Then he jabbed the knife into the wound, opening it up. And before you could scream, he slammed his palm over your mouth, gripping your face. But he didn't look at you - too focused on shifting the knife inside you.
Fat tears rolled down your face and onto his fingers as you bawled into his hand. He pulled the knife out of the cut, but the pain felt even worse after. Not that any of your reactions were of issue, or even mild concern to him. He moved his gaze up to your stomach. You could only watch on, helpless as he carelessly stabbed the knife into your stomach, dragging it through you and opening your abdomen up. The sound of the knife clattering to the floor was harsh, well, you thought it was, until you felt fingers around the laceration. He stuck four inside, pulling the flesh back to reveal your entrails.
Your vision went a bit blurry at this point, lightheaded from blood loss. You laid limp as he squished his hand inside your viscera, pulling your intestines out to lay like bundles of fleshy ribbons across your stomach. He yanked one up and brought it to his lips, leaving a kiss on it and letting the organ slide off from his fingers. His lips were stained with your blood. You felt your life slowly drain out of you with each second blood pooled out of the jagged wound.
The stranger, with his bloodstained lips and fingers, looked over at you once more.
"I'm bored. There's only so much I can do with one set of organs."
He pulled the pistol out of his pocket again, and before you could say anything, the sound of a bullet being unloaded into your skull reverberated through the convenience store. Your head splattered on the wall you were leaned against. He stood up, dusting himself off, zipping up his fly and picking up his weapons to store on himself again as he turned around without a second look at you, strolling out of the store with his hands in his pockets as if nothing happened.