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You tell anyone who asks that the last thing you remember were the headlights flying directly at your face. You tell them this because you would be in serious trouble if you didn’t.
His fingers were clammy and his nails were sharp. He smelled like smoke and whiskey. His breath was in your face and you couldn’t move. Not your head, not your legs, not even a twitch of your fingers. One eye was open, a dull black orb, or so you assumed. Maybe it took longer to fill in with blood. You couldn’t see either way, not in your comatose state. You could only feel him and hear him. If you weren’t alone with him, you were surrounded by his friends, people who partied in his apartment while you lay limp on the couch. Men and women alike bent over your all but lifeless body to pass each other drinks, spilling on you, laughing at you and sometimes worse.
After a few parties you attended as nothing but a limp doll, the guests quickly stopped seeing you as a person at all. By the third party—or at least, the third you could recall—drunken scrubs began taking off your clothes. The drunker they got, the more clothes came off. They leave hot handprints over you, amplified by horror and stress. You remember that well.
Murdoc Niccals. The man that has taken over your life. He tells you that those were dreams and there’s no way you could remember what happened in those months, you brain dead waste of space. You learn quickly to stop talking about it, because you don’t need to press the subject at all to piss him off enough that you have a hand flying at your face.
Sometimes, while you are lying in your bed at night, staring blankly at the ceiling, you start to believe him. You were in a coma. It all could have been a dream. Maybe this rationale would be enough to let it go, if it weren’t for one thing: You used to have a dick.
Your memory of that night is fickle and fleeting. You picture the horrific event occurring in a dark and dusty room, lined with candles and chalk pentagrams, but in reality, you couldn't see shit. All you remember is the hot blade pressing between your legs. Slicing. The searing pain that filled your paralyzed body with electricity, the cackling, the chanting and the roar that you know didn't come from Murdoc.
You hear his words echo in your head again, in such dissonant contrast to how they fell flat against the walls back when you lived through that moment. You remember him explaining to... to somebody that you were probably never going to wake up.
"Now I'm stuck with this sodding, limp dipshit who I'm supposed to be taking care of!"
He did take care of you. He opened your mouth to feed you every day. Even though it felt strange and unpleasant as the weird liquid diet he chose for you slid down your throat--you couldn't consciously swallow in your state--you're sure it wasn't nearly as bad as starving would have been. He even cleaned you up whenever your unconscious bladder soiled your trousers. What a guy.
You could feel your blood puddle on the floor under what is left of your crotch-- that being nothing at all. Your penis, even your testicles, they were removed from you and were used as barter by Murdoc with the... thing.
"Ain't this payment enough? I had to get my hands dirty cutting it off. You've got plenty of blood here! Always thought you were into this kind of business."
You couldn't hear the beast speak, but it knew you were listening. You could feel it vibrating through the marrow of your bones.
Suddenly Murdoc's voice was in your ear. You could even feel the tip of his tongue brush over the outer ridge of your cartilage as he spoke.
"I'm gonna have my own little cuntboy, heh heh heh. Gonna make one right outta you. Won't that be some proper thanks for how well I've been taking care of you?" Murdoc touched you, right in the raw gore between your legs. He was gentle, as though it would feel good to you. It just stings horribly. You wish you could have told him.
The pain was so intense that you were grateful when you started healing. Changing. Your crotch came back in one piece, but it was not one you were familiar with. Your manhood was gone, replaced with what you later discovered was a fully functional vulva.
No one could ever tell you that you’d imagined this. No one, not even Murdoc, could convince you that you’re dumb enough to forget your own body. You had been very familiar with it before that night. You wouldn’t deny, had someone asked, that it was without competition, the worst night of your life, but... you just can’t fucking help it. You forgive Murdoc. He didn’t think you would ever come around, and he took care of you anyway. The court had put you in his care and without him, you’d be dead.
That didn’t make it any easier when he decided to test out your new parts.
His fingers went in first, the middle, and then the index. You made no sounds, no signs of life as he stretched you out. Then you heard his zipper drop, the ruffling sound of his pants coming off. His member, strangely flexible and inhumanly ridged, pressed against your new entrance, pushed in. You remember the sharp pain of it, how you had no way of telling him to stop. He couldn’t have known it was hurting you.
Eventually you discover that the people who come to his parties aren’t really his friends. He’s always well stocked with drugs, booze, and loud music, which was enough to make the scum of the city feel right at home. You had become quite the selling point, too. The party’s very own living sex doll. The guests and crashers alike marvelled over your newfound cunt. You were certainly built much differently down there last time they’d touched you. They argued over how it happened-- surgery, twin brother, aliens-- none of them guessed ‘Satanic Ritual.’ You wouldn’t have told them even if they did (assuming you could speak.)
You don’t think Murdoc was around for any of this, always off in some other room. Occasionally he’d come in and shoo them away like seagulls from loaf of bread-- “Get outta here, you dirty perverts! That’s my blue doll!”--and they would scatter. You wanted to jump up and hug him in those moments, thank him for protecting you.
After a few nights of Murdoc finding you in strange places and even stranger positions, pumped full of who knows whose spunk, he started locking you in his bedroom during the parties, only to be disturbed by himself and whichever lady of the night he’d brought in with him. Your body was included in his playtime more than once, but you’re glad it’s him and not those monsters outside.
“Oh, wha’? Old Dent here? Trust me, he doesn’t mind one bit. Braindead, he is. I don’t know why they haven’t come to collect him yet, but as long as he’s here and I’m getting my community service hours in, we might as well have some fun with the poor sod.” Murdoc’s voice floated into your head through the darkness. There was a woman with him, smoking a cigarette and probably examining you.
“You say ‘he?’” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Stuart Pot, that’s what his form says.”
“Well, he’s got a cunt, here, Niccals.” You remember feeling the woman’s fingertips exploring you between your legs.
“Oh, well, just call it a favour from an old friend downstairs,” Murdoc said dismissively. “Trust me, he’s a he.” If that response confused her, she didn’t voice any more inquiries to show it.
“You get started without me?” she asked him, sticking a finger straight into you and drawing it back out again.
“‘Course not, love, wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Well he’s bleeding already.” The woman popped something in her mouth loudly. “And it ain’t like any period I’ve ever seen. You know what it looks like?”
You didn’t hear anything else but her leaning over on the bed and whispering something to him. Then she left, and you’re pretty sure they didn’t even have sex. Murdoc was in a mood after that, muttering to himself anxiously. He smacked your face a few times, your limp neck bending to the side with every strike. He tended to use you as a punching bag when he was stressed about something, but in his defense, he didn’t know you could feel any of it.
The next day he forced three bottles of water down you in a row, leaving you full up with it. Not an hour later, he put you on the toilet and pressed the heel of his palm into your bladder. It came out in a hiss, and you heard it hit something Murdoc was holding underneath you, and then sprinkle into the toilet.
Fifteenish minutes later, Murdoc was yelling and punching pillows and punching walls and punching you, right in the stomach.
"It's not good enough, not bloody GOOD enough!" was one of many things he shouted out as he paced angrily through his apartment. "What am I going to do?" was another.
Had he been talking to you? He did that sometimes, sit next to you and just ramble about his day, or his week, or his life. You couldn't say anything to him, couldn't offer anything but whatever imaginary support he pretended you gave him. Still, he started to really feel like a friend when he did that.
This, however, was frightening and you had no idea what was going on. He snarled and snapped and swore to Hell and back. Then he pulled your pants up and threw you over his shoulder and then into his backseat.
You had no idea where he was taking you and no way to ask. In fact, you don't remember most of that day. But you do remember being laid out on a table, your legs spread, a tube sent up inside you. You remember Murdoc's mix of anger and of relief.
You try not to think about that day too much. You don't know what happened. You don't know what it meant. That's what you tell yourself.
Murdoc's long fingers curled around the collar of your shirt, lifted you and held you close to his face.
"You'll never know how much you owe me for this," he hissed into your ear. After that, he fucked you with a condom. At least until he started giving you shots.
Months went by. You got your period. You stopped getting your period. Murdoc celebrated by throwing out all his condoms. He said the shots were working. You weren’t sure you understood.
As time dragged on, you began to panic in a way you didn’t know coma patients could. It had been so long... you were so young! Were you doomed to be trapped in your own body like this forever? Was this even what a coma was supposed to be like? Would you ever be free? There were so many things you wanted to do, like... like.... Well you didn't know, but did it matter? You couldn't do shit now!
Days dragged into weeks and into months. Your head hurt all the time. You needed your medication but had no way of asking for it. You would do anything to wake up. Anything.
That old vibration in your bones came back, and was gone again.
One night, there was a miracle. Murdoc brought you with him as he went out driving, looking for drugs or whores or just trouble. He found it too, which didn't surprise you at all. He always got what he wanted.
You weren't sure where you were when he started doing tricks with his car. You could hear the jeers and chants and whistles of a small crowd watching him. Judging by Murdoc's gruff chuckle to himself, there were some women watching him. He was really like a peacock sometimes.
Donuts were his trick of choice. Tires screeched in your ears, the stench of burnt rubber filled your nose, the car door hit the side of your head as you flopped around. Murdoc paid you no mind. He revved his engine and howled in adrenaline, turning the car to do his biggest, fastest turn yet.
You were flying. You crashed through his windshield, hitting your head painfully as you did so. You hit the ground face-first, pain shooting through your skull from your good eye. Your body skids at least ten feet over the pavement. Then, finally, you stand.
Blood dripped down your face. Your eyes were dark and black. Empty. You turned and stared at Murdoc. He stared back.