My Bestie's Dad Likes Me Wet-Chapter 83 PSYCHO

NOVA POV

Maybe God was punishing me for fucking my former best friend’s dad.

Or maybe because I hadn’t cared for my toxic godmother as much as I should have.

Or maybe he was punishing me just because he could. I wasn’t the religious type, and I sure as hell wasn’t trying to convert overnight, but if this was how I was going to die, could it please have been faster?

Hours had bled into more hours, then into days and nights that refused to separate. I couldn’t tell which day it was anymore.

There were no windows in that depressing room, no slit of light, no hint of the outside world.

It was just the same four walls breathing down on me, the same stale air thick with the tang of blood and bleach.

I didn’t know the day, but I knew death was close. I could feel it in the way my pulse stuttered, in the way my vision tunneled.

The picture in my head was vivid: me floating upward, weightless, toward my dad’s wide, welcoming smile and my mother’s gentle, open arms. That image smeared the edges of the room, blurred the pain, made the world feel distant and unreal.

I squeezed my eyes shut as tight as they would go, trying to zone out the sharp sting in my left hand where the IV needle sat buried in my vein.

Cold fluid pushed in slow, steady pulses, fighting to keep my failing body from collapsing completely. It was honestly a losing battle, but the drip kept going, like it didn’t give a fuck; it was indifferent.

Right on the razor edge of unconsciousness, a low, steady buzz cut through the haze. It was a machine, but I knew that sound now.

What else could it have been in that hell?

Curiosity flickered, but I refused to open my eyes. I’d rather have sunk into the fantasy of that reunion, let it wrap around me like a blanket, than stay trapped in that endless cycle of agony.

"It seems she fainted," my tormentor’s voice said with that machine buzz, closer now. "Let’s wake her up. Shall we?"

The buzz grew louder and closer, until I could smell hot metal and oil followed by the faint burn of electricity. Something cold brushed the exposed strip of skin just above my waistband, a deliberate graze that lit every nerve of my tired body on fire.

I exploded awake, screaming, thrashing hard against the restraints that bit into my wrists and ankles. The metal cuffs didn’t budge; they only ground deeper, drawing fresh blood.

"I’m awake... I’m awake..." my shaking voice cried as I struggled against the restraints and pleaded while I twisted uselessly.

"I know... I know."

His free hand came down, patted my hair with a gentleness that turned my stomach. Like I was a pet. Like I was a baby goat he was about to slaughter.

His eyes were wide, unblinking and glassy with something deranged and hungry. It scared me more than the blood-crusted saw gripped tight in his other hand, its teeth glinting under the harsh fluorescent light.

"Please... please... I’m sorry... I’m not—"

The words tumbled out, frantic, but they were cut off when he threw his head back and laughed.

It was a wet, tearing sound that ricocheted off the walls, filled the room, drowned everything else. He laughed so hard he doubled over, clutching his stomach, the sound manic and unhinged like the Joker tormenting Harley Quinn, except this wasn’t a performance.

This was real. He wasn’t acting. He was too scary, and damn if I wasn’t scared as fuck.

It seemed my tears were his drug. Every time I cried out, every time my face crumpled or my breath hitched beside him, he soaked it in like it was nectar.

His eyes gleamed before he twisted the knife deeper and scared me all over again like he was wringing a soaked fabric.

"Again," he said, voice low and eager. "Beg me again." There was something wrong with his laugh, something that scraped along the edges of sanity.

It was borderline crazy, borderline inhuman.

"Pl... please..." I watched him carefully now, cautious, as he closed his eyes and leaned in, bringing his head so close to my ear I could feel the heat of his skin, the sour wash of his breath. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

He wanted to drink in every syllable of me being humiliated.

"Please... I’m sorry."

I said it, but deep down in me I wasn’t sorry—not really. This time I wasn’t the broken, pleading mess from before. This time I was watching, waiting and observing him. Hoping and praying he slipped.

"Again. More energy." His growl rumbled right against my ear, and I couldn’t stop the shiver that raced down my spine. It was fear, reflex, hatred all tangled.

Fuck him.

Fuck him for every tear I’d cried.

Fuck him for every drop of my blood that had splattered across his grimy floor.

Fuck him for dragging me through this nightmare, for turning my body into a canvas of pain.

Fuck him and everything he was.

"Do you happen to be deaf?"

The question was soft, almost curious, then his hand moved fast like a blur, and the slap landed like a gunshot across my face.

The impact snapped my head to the side, teeth slicing into my inner lip. Blood flooded my mouth, warm and metallic; it was a familiar taste now.

Tears spilled before I could clamp down on them, before I could fake any shred of control.

"Do you know why you’re being treated specially?"

His voice was mocking, syrupy sweet, grating against every raw nerve. I wished my hands were free.

I’d willingly have driven a blade through his throat and watched him choke. I wouldn’t even have blinked; he’d have been my first kill, and I’d have worn it proud.

I still didn’t answer. I refused to feed this psycho’s circus. I slammed my eyes shut again, tears leaking from the corners, sliding hot down my temples, but I swallowed every whimper, every sob, and let them fall in silence.

I would not give him more.

Another slap, this one to the other cheek; it was sharper and I could taste blood pooling under my tongue. My face was burning, swollen and throbbing.

"Answer me!" The shout was deafening, bouncing off the concrete, rattling the IV stand. Loud enough that someone outside might have heard. Might have come.

Might have saved me, but I knew it was just wishful thinking.

"No."

The word ripped out of me the second the sawing machine whined back to life, its motor snarling like a chained beast. I knew he was deranged. I wasn’t about to test how far by losing a limb.

"No, what?"

He was smirking now, leaning in so close I could smell the rust on the blade. The hand holding the roaring saw lifted higher, hovered inches from my face, the heat of the motor kissing the tip of my nose.

"No. I don’t know why... I don’t know why I’m being treated like this." My voice was low, teeth clenched so tight my jaw ached.

Fuck this man.

"Like this?" He pulled back an inch, eyebrows shooting up in fake shock. This man was crazy... you just couldn’t overstate it, couldn’t underline it enough.

"Why I’m being treated specially," I spat, the words tasting like blood and venom.

Just let me go. Let me die. Let me be.

The past few days stretched into a nightmare reel. It felt like weeks, maybe months, with no clock, no sun.

He had rotated through torments like courses in a meal: tough leather whips cracking across my back until skin split, different belts buckling into flesh with metal teeth, then the drip needles slammed into veins without warning, harsh and bruising, but thankfully they were always sterile, always clean, like that made it better.

"You are being treated specially because your lover butchered me." He said it slow and patient, like he was explaining rainclouds to a five-year-old.

"But... but you look complete to me." The confusion had gnawed at me since day one; I finally let it out.

"Do I?" His face inched closer. "Do I?"

With each "Do I?" his head tilted forward, eyes boring into mine, lips almost brushing, like he was about to kiss me. I knew better. I tensed, waiting.

"Do I look complete? Do I look okay?"

His teeth clamped down on his own hand; they clamped down hard with a wet crunch.

Blood spurted between his fingers, streaming down his wrist as he chewed the chunk he had torn off, grinning wide, red coating his teeth, dripping from his chin.

"Do I look okay?" he asked again, voice garbled around the meat, laughter bubbling up through the gore, more scary than anything before.

"No—no—" I thrashed as he leaned in closer, still chewing, blood flecks hitting my face. "No, you don’t look okay!" I screamed it, terror and pain clawing up my throat. God forbid he decided my flesh was next.

"Well, I’m not okay," he cried out, voice cracking like he might actually break, then his eyes locked on mine and the mask slipped back: evil, gleeful laughter, doubling over again, blood pouring from his self-inflicted wound.

That was when I saw the rest of the scars crawling up his arms, across his neck: some pale and healed, some angry red, some fresh and oozing, some crusted in the slow crawl of recovery.

"I’m sorry..."

The plea slipped out, raw. This time I meant it. This time the fear was deeper and honest, because now I understood the scale of the hate driving him.

He straightened, wiped his bloody mouth with the back of the saw hand, smearing crimson across the blade.

"Your lover will be sorry too."

The saw screamed louder, teeth spinning faster.

"When he gets your severed head."

Fuck!