text: So I posted this to r/nosleep a few days ago, and if you aren't familiar with that subreddit here's the basic idea; every story is assumed to be true, kind of like role-play meets found footage movie. The problem is, that doesn't allow for anyone to critique your story, since it's not a story it's a true event. So if I could get some constructive criticism or reviews or anything at all from you guys it would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading. This may not be your typical r/nosleep story, but it’s the only place where I thought anyone would believe me, or at least pretend to believe me. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter. I don’t have a lot of options left and I just needed to tell someone. I just.......... fuck it. I guess I should start at the beginning. Please bear with me here.... I don’t exactly know where to begin, but right here is as good a spot as any. I’m 23. I come from a bit of a rough background. My parents worked their asses off to provide everything my brother and I could want for, but every boy has a knack for finding trouble, and that rings especially true in my family. My older brother was an oxy addict and a drug dealer. And I mean a weight mover, not a corner pusher. He got clean the November after I graduated high school. My parents tried their best to hide it, but they were heartbroken with disappointment. I never went down that road. Sure, I messed around with drugs, but a few run-ins with the police that could have led to my arrest and an overdose scare set me straight. No, my issues were different. I struggled with depression and anxiety my whole life. Shit, I almost killed myself and wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for a friend who unknowingly intervened that night. So I know what it feels like to look up and not see the light at the end of the tunnel. So did she though. But I guess I’m getting ahead of myself. She was my girlfriend. She was a recovered addict also, and she’d been down before too. I guess that’s why we worked so well together. We’d both been so low that we couldn’t see the way out anymore. But somehow we found our way. And found each other. She had dealt with depression and anxiety her whole life as well. We understood one another; we really just got each other. We lived in this little studio apartment together. It was tiny but it was all we could afford. It didn’t matter though; in our minds we were rich as long as we had each other. I worked nights bouncing at this bar downtown, and she worked there as a bartender. Maybe a bar isn’t the best place of employment for people of our background, but as weird as it was it just worked. Kind of a metaphor for us really. During the day I went to community college so I could learn how to run my own bar one day. And she worked retail all day to pay for my classes, even though she hated it. But that’s just how she was. She was self-less, thoughtful, and passionate. I loved her. God, I loved her so fucking much. We had a great gig working at that bar. We got to spend all night together, spend an hour after closing with our best friends, and then go home and really spend the night together. Not many couples can do that. There was this customer though. He started coming in a year ago. He was nice enough, quiet type. I didn’t really ever think much of him. He would only order drinks from my girlfriend, but it didn’t bother me. It was kind of cute actually; he was 21 and shy and had a bit of a crush. I kind of felt bad for him in a way, always alone, never really talking to anyone. When he did talk he was nice enough. Well-spoken, seemed pretty smart. Things started getting weird though. After a while, I would catch him giving dirty looks to me, as if he was jealous or something. There was something about these looks though. His eyes were so full of hate. This guy must have had a serious problem with me. But I let it slide, she asked me not to make a thing out of it. Later though, she told me he started giving those looks to other customers, anyone who tried flirting with her, which if you know anything about a babe tending bar that’s pretty much every patron. Still, I didn’t make a thing out of it. Until one day, someone was getting a little too fresh with her. This guy, he quietly asked the customer to stop, but the customer wouldn’t listen. Had a few too many drinks I guess. Anyway, this guy, he just snapped, and smashed a beer bottle right on his nose, knocking him to the ground. The customer falls down with blood just gushing from his broken nose, and the guy jumps on him, punching him over and over again right in his already fucked up beak. I rush over to pull him off, but he put up a fight and I ended up breaking the rules a bit and catching him on the chin with a hook hard enough to send him reeling back. I swear to god the customer he was beating looked like fucking Voldemort his nose was such a mess. I called an ambulance for the guy, and started to ask for the cops but my girl interrupted. She begged me not too, said that he was just defending her. So we kicked him out and told him never to come back. Meanwhile he just smiled, staring with those hate filled eyes. I fucking hated those eyes. The next morning I left her sleeping peacefully and headed off to class. She started work a few hours after me, and I knew how much she loved her sleep. I can still see her now, lying there without a care in the world, naked and beautiful. I just wish that was how I could remember her. I came home that afternoon to find our apartment exactly as I left it, including her still in bed. Except it wasn’t exactly as I left it. There was blood everywhere. I never knew there was so much blood in a person, but I swear man it was fucking everywhere. She was tied to the bed posts with our own fucking sheets. Her legs were splayed open by the restraints, the bedding between them soaked with blood. Christ, how was there so much blood? Her eyes had been gouged, pushed into her skull by thumbs. Her nipples had been bit off, her tongue bitten out, and according to the police the motherfucker must have ate them because they couldn’t find those..... those pieces of her.... they couldn’t find them anywhere. The autopsy said she drowned on the blood from her own severed tongue. It was a mercy, the doctor said. She was already dead for most of the rape. He had fucking raped her, tortured and killed her, raped her some more, then had a fucking coffee. That was the only evidence they could find. The sick fucker had made himself a pot of coffee and drank it in our bedroom, with her ravaged body as company. I don’t remember much after seeing her. I called the cops, gave them a statement when they arrived. They asked if I knew anything, and I told them. I don’t know how but I just knew it was that creep from the bar. I gave the police his description and let them do their job. Turns out they weren’t very good at their job. The police found the guy that same night, at our bar. He was drinking a beer, quiet and alone as usual. They tried bringing him in for questioning and he went calmly. Only he never made it to the precinct. They found the bodies of two cops in their cruiser a couple blocks away. Their throats had been opened, fucking torn out like deer that fell prey to a wolf. I couldn’t sleep that night. My boss let me crash at the bar, but I stayed up all night drinking. There were a couple of cops outside in case he came back, but it wasn’t any comfort. There was no way I could sleep. It’s kind of fucked up in a way, because if I had been able to sleep I would’ve met the same fate as my girlfriend. He came back. It was 3AM and I was almost halfway through a bottle of Irish when that sick fuck walked in the back door. He had the smallest hint of a smile on his lips and such malice in his eyes. I’ll never forget those eyes. If I were a better man I would have killed him right there with my bare hands, but I was drunk and all I could do was run outside and bang on the squad car window. Thank god those cops were more useful than the last two. He came out the front door as they were running in, and they managed to wrestle him to the ground. They were smarter too, because they didn’t even try to take him in. They just cuffed him, keeping their guns trained on him while they waited for backup. Once they got him back to the precinct, the guy admitted to everything. I don’t know how he could speak so emotionless, yet have such hate flow from his eyes. He told them how he watched our apartment building, waiting for me to leave. I’ll never forgive myself, because I left the fucking door unlocked. All he had to do was walk right in. I fucking hate myself. He described in gross detail, with that little fucking smile and flat detached voice, how he tied her up and how she screamed as he raped her. How he pushed his thumbs into her eyes sockets because she wouldn’t look him in the eyes. How she tasted of iron as he chewed her. How she wouldn’t stop whimpering my name, so he bit her tongue out. How she gurgled, the blood flowing out faster than she could swallow, slowly drowning. How she fell limp, and no matter how hard he fucked her lifeless body he couldn’t cum without her putting up a fight. How he put a pot of coffee on while he cleaned himself up, then sat drinking it for half an hour while gazing upon her pallid corpse. The trial began months later. He pled insanity and they bought it hook, line, and sinker. He was sentenced to a cushy psychiatric rehabilitation center. Too good for scum like him. How could they not see how he played them? It was obvious. I saw it, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him living a long, comfortable life in that place. No. I don’t believe in God but I prayed that there is a hell, so he can burn for eternity for what he did to my baby. Even that is too good for him. I still knew a few of my brother’s old contacts from his dealing days. It took me a couple weeks, but I got in touch with the right people and they hooked me up well. Snub nose .38, serial numbers grinded off. The gangster special. This cozy psyche ward didn’t even have metal detectors. Lucky me. I interrupted his session with the therapist. Some fat old man, eating up whatever lies this fucker was feeding him. I walked in there, hammer cocked, my mind thinking of everything I wanted to say to this piece of shit. But I couldn’t say a damn thing. My heart was in my throat, but I had come too far to go back now. With tear filled eyes, I stared into his, still so full of rage. To the very end he had that little fucking smile on his face. I pulled the triggered and watched his brains decorate the sterile white wall behind him like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting. It was beautiful. I can hear the cops pulling up now. I knew they would find me here, where it all began. I’ve been sitting here typing this up, drinking my Irish. I just needed to tell someone, to get it off my chest. I need my story to be known. But I’m running out of time. I don’t know what’s coming next but I’ve ceased to feel any fear. Either I’ll see my baby again, or I’ll watch that fucker burn for eternity. Or nothing. I’ve felt far too much in this dreadful life and nothing would be pleasant in its own kind of way. It doesn’t matter. It’s funny how calm you are in the end, that quiet acceptance of your fate. I keep thinking how alive these cops will feel when they’re staring down the barrel of a gun, adrenaline coursing through their veins. They won’t be hurt though. It’s not their time. But it is mine. Thank you for reading.