"partialtoknives89" © 2014-2025 Zisco M.
​a short story.

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"Don't save anyone that doesn't want to be saved."

August 2008, Present Day
Peel off your light, I have no interest in it, her voice resonated in my head. It was one of those moments when you’re in the middle of something and a single thought pulls you into another scene and suddenly seconds seem like hours and when your attention finally snaps back into reality you realize how boring your life really is. As boring as standing in line to get an unnecessarily expensive coffee with enough extra shots to jump start your heart. The only problem was, I wasn’t dead. I only felt like it. I was never a morning person, and being up this early was a definite struggle, more so driving to work than it was getting up from bed. Luckily, I made it in one piece, no harm no foul. Although a couple of angry drivers that impatiently followed behind me on the interstate would probably disagree with this statement.
 
Peel off your light, I have no interest in it. Tell me everything about your darkness as described by it. Her voice echoed through the walls of my mind once more. It had been two years now since I last spoke to Ariana. I had found out after some extensive research that her funeral was going to take place in two days, and I was nervous as hell to make an appearance. It seemed odd to me since they never really found her body. Would people just pay their respects to an empty casket? Would her family show up? And if they did, what would they say, would they even care? I wasn’t sure, the only thing I was sure about though was that I wanted to pay my respects. Even if only the idea of her being there remained within the casket.
 
Ari was like the Bonnie to my Clyde—sure knowing her for only two years seemed like nothing, but to me it was like I had known her all my life. We had met virtually in 2006 when chat rooms started declining and didn’t exactly scream “find love here.” It had been one really depressing night after I came home from work. I was lonesome, angry, and for the most part, bored, so I jumped on the computer and swam in the notorious wave that is the internet. After some loops and turns I stumbled upon a strange but attractive website called “yourdarkfantasies.com” where everything operated inside chat rooms based off your city and you got partnered up randomly. After a couple of failed attempts to “Connect with your Dark,” as the website put it, I came across “partialtoknives89” and the conversation starter she opened with was “What do you consider a dark fucked up fantasy?” It was at this very moment that I knew this was the type of person I didn’t need to hold back from. I could easily just give in and talk about every dark corner in my mind and somehow, I knew she’d be okay with it.

So I stared at the message and waited for a few seconds. I was trying to figure out how to put the words into a sentence—instead, I said fuck it and typed away. My message read, “I've always imagined wild, animalistic angry sex. I guess it was one of those dark fantasies where I envisioned it happening inside an obscure, broody room, with me in chains. No windows, no light. It would start with her coming up behind me, then suddenly feeling her scratching my back with her nails, hard. Shivers crawling down my spine, the anticipation building up, the anger boiling. My hands being chained to the side, making me unable to reach out and grab her. Not knowing what she will do next would be interesting, especially in the dark. The desperation would piggyback off the anticipation and being in a state of anger and frustration would only boil all that up even more. And you know what happens when you cage a beast. The beast will do anything to get loose. What's your fantasy?”

There was no response for a few minutes as she was typing away. It made me nervous as I thought she might not want to talk to me or perhaps my fantasy seemed lame. After a bit, she responded with “I can probably go with this: Him and I are yelling at each other about a past argument and suddenly it gets very heated. The yelling gets out of control so eventually I back-hand him. This catches him off-guard, so he stops talking and stares at me. His silence prompts me to punch him square in the nose. After feeling blood coming out of his nose, he rushes towards me and shoves me against the wall. I can feel his hot breath against my neck. He firmly asks me to beg for his forgiveness and a short ‘sorry’ escapes my lips. He slowly paces back a bit and we’re eye to eye. He pulls on my hair downward and starts kissing me, hard, violently. His blood touches my face. Rapidly, he grabs me and carries me to the bedroom. He throws me on the bed and pounces on top of me, whispering stay put and reaches for the first drawer on the nightstand next to the bed. He pulls out a pair of handcuffs, flips me over and proceeds to chain my hands to the headboard. While on top of me he starts slipping off my pants and underwear. He lifts my hips, and I can feel the anticipation and fear rush over my whole body. He starts spanking me and as I try not to cry out, it infuriates him more and so he proceeds to spank harder. I let a whimper escape my lips and he stops frantically. His lips reach my ear quickly and I hear him whisper don’t move a muscle and jumping off the bed I hear his zipper come undone. He is now fully undressed and pulls out a knife out from the second drawer on the nightstand. I can feel the tip of the cold blade slowly caressing my cheeks, then up my back, and I hear my top rip as he violently cuts it and tears it from me. The same thing happens to my bra, and he tosses the pieces aside to the ground. I can feel his package against me, and as he continues to play with his knife softly down my back, I can feel him enter me. He reminds me that if I make a noise, I get a spank and that if I get louder, I’ll feel the blade against my back. This goes on and he finally finishes inside me. He lets out a sign of relief and collects himself, moving off the bed towards the nightstand, drops the knife in the second drawer and then reaches for the cuffs. He releases me and turns me around, pulling me into his arms as he sits against the headboard of the bed. We’re in a seated position and he starts brushing the tears from my face. I start telling him that I am sorry, to please forgive me—we end up spooning on the bed as he softly strokes my skin. After a while he warns me that next time it will be worse if I ever lay a hand on him. Despite sounding threatening, I sense a chill of exhilaration all over my body.”
​
Her message, although long, intrigued me and left me stumped. I didn’t know how to reply, let alone top what she had just told me. I sat there in awe of what I had just experienced, and all I could think of was how I wanted more. How I was starting to desire Ari. That need washing all over me like a wave, wishing I could get a few minutes with her in the flesh.
Over the months that followed, our conversations grew darker, richer, and somehow more intimate. Ari and I, two souls orbiting in cyberspace, began to blur the line between fantasy and reality. When we finally met in person, it was as electric as I imagined—a collision of stories, secrets, and longings that felt both thrilling and dangerous. We weren’t criminals in the traditional sense, but we reveled in breaking rules: sneaking into abandoned buildings, stealing away hours from work to drive aimlessly on the interstate, living on the edge of whatever boundaries society tried to set for us.
We chased adrenaline and the taste of freedom, never settling for ordinary. Ari became my partner in crime, both literally and metaphorically, as we left behind a trail of wild nights and whispered confessions. Even as the world tried to hem us in, we pushed back—harder, together—knowing all too well that the real danger lay not in what we did, but in never daring to live at all. In the end, it was not about escaping the law or running from our past, but about finding someone who understood the depths of your darkness and loved you for it, no matter what.
That was then. This is now, and even though that fleeting desire for her resides within me still, she does not—not physically that is—and so you can see my predicament. The only thought in my mind was, would I ever find out what really happened?

Chapter One: “You Can Call Me Ari”
August 2006
The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a pale glow across my cluttered room. Ari and I had turned our webcams on and waited as the resolution adjusted and it showed her on the edge of the bed, lacing her knee-high boots with deliberate care, while across the city, there I was, staring through my end, lost in thought. The silence between us was thick, each aware of the weight of unspoken words and the promise of a day that could change everything.
In those first moments, she was just a username on a screen, but the energy she radiated was anything but digital. Ari’s words carried weight, an unfiltered honesty that pierced through the static of cyberspace. It was impossible not to be drawn in, not to feel the magnetic pull of someone who saw the world as a place to explore, not just endure. Her presence lingered, making every subsequent message feel like an invitation to step further into the unknown.
Our conversations that morning were hesitant, filled with pauses as we each searched for the right things to say. Ari finally broke the silence, her voice coming through the speakers with a warmth that made the room feel less empty. “You know, I never thought I’d actually meet someone who gets it,” she said, offering a faint smile as she tugged at the laces of her boots. There was a vulnerability in her tone that made me want to reach through the screen and reassure her that I felt the same way. It was in these quiet moments, away from the darkness and bravado, that I realized how much she meant to me—how much I wanted this day, and every day after, to matter.

There was something so intoxicating about our connection, as if the faint glow of the computer screen could barely contain the raw energy passing between us. Sometimes, she'd tilt her head and smile in that sly, knowing way, and I’d catch myself grinning back, forgetting about the distance, the time, or the mess around me. It was in these small, quiet exchanges that I realized how easily Ari could unsettle me, shaking loose fragments of myself I’d long kept hidden. Every conversation felt like a dare—an invitation to peel back another layer, to show her not just the darkness, but all the messy, tangled parts that made me who I was.
I hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I tried to choose my next words carefully. There was something about Ari’s openness, her willingness to bare the deeper layers, that made me reconsider what I thought I knew about connection. She was more than just a fleeting conversation—she was the spark that lit up something dormant in me, challenging me to be bolder, to show up fully, flaws and all. That morning, it was as if the city itself faded away and only our small slice of time remained, fragile and intoxicating, begging us to step outside the familiarity of conversation and into whatever came next.
We talked about everything, from childhood fears to the strange comfort found on sleepless nights. Ari had a way of coaxing out my secrets without judgment, listening with an intensity that made me feel seen for the first time in years. Each story we shared built a bridge between us, making it easier to lean in, to risk more, to trust that maybe what existed between us could survive outside the glow of screens. And somewhere in those hours, I realized I wasn't just searching for darkness—I was hoping to find a light that only seemed able to ignite.

Ari’s laughter would sometimes echo through the speakers, unpredictable and genuine, making me feel like the boundaries between our rooms dissolved for a moment. It was easy to forget how much of her life remained just out of reach, tucked behind her cryptic messages and late-night confessions. Yet, in every exchange, I sensed an invitation challenging me to step closer to risk understanding the shadows behind her eyes and the history she carried.
Still, even with the thrill of anticipation humming between us, there was an undercurrent of uncertainty—an awareness that this new territory might give way at any moment. I wondered if Ari felt it too, that delicate balance between hope and fear we tiptoed across with every exchanged glance and half-formed confession. Yet, neither of us pulled away; instead, we learned that letting curiosity seep in, moment by moment, toward something neither of us could quite name, only drew us closer.
There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough for doubt to creep in. I studied her expression, searching for clues in the way her lips pressed together, the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. It struck me then that connection—real connection—was never just about what was said, but all the truths left hanging in the silence. Ari seemed to understand this instinctively, letting the quiet settle between us without rushing to fill it, as if she knew that sometimes the most important things revealed themselves when words ran out.

Even the mundane details, like the way Ari would fidget with her bracelets or pause to glance out her window, became precious fragments of a growing mosaic. In those moments, our differences faded and what remained was a sense of belonging, a rare comfort that made me wish the morning would never end. The possibility of meeting in person hovered just beyond our words, both terrifying and exhilarating, yet somehow it felt inevitable, as if the universe itself was urging us forward.
That morning, the world outside seemed distant, muffled by the quiet intensity of what was happening between us. Even as the city stirred and the day unfolded, our little corner felt suspended in time, wrapped in the possibility that something extraordinary might emerge from all the uncertainty. I found myself wanting to hold onto these moments, to memorize every detail, the way Ari’s hands moved, the cadence of her laughter, the gentle vulnerability in her eyes—before they slipped away into memory.
As the morning unfolded, the conversation deepened, each exchange carried us further from the ordinary and into a space that felt entirely our own. Moments of nervous laughter and candid admissions bridged the gap, making the digital distance seem trivial. It was as if, together, we were quietly rewriting what it meant to truly connect, daring to believe in the possibility of something real beyond the screen.

I watched the sunlight creep across my desk, barely registering the outside world as Ari’s words continued to echo in my mind. There was a strange kind of safety in our shared vulnerability, comfort that couldn’t be found in routine or familiarity. The space between us—measured in miles and pixels—felt less important than the moments we carved out together, each one shimmering with possibility. Somewhere between those traded glances and the careful confessions, I noticed how the sunlight crept across my desk, illuminating dust motes swirling in the air—reminding me that, for all our distance, we still shared a world turning quietly outside our windows. It became clear that what we were building wasn't just a fleeting connection, but a sanctuary where honesty and hope could coexist, no matter how uncertain the future felt.

Even as we drifted through stories and silences, I noticed how Ari seemed to anchor me, her presence steadying the chaos spinning in my mind. There was an unspoken agreement to be honest, to let our conversation shape itself without pretense or restraint. In those hours, vulnerability didn’t feel risky, it felt necessary, a gift exchanged in the quiet spaces only we could create.
In the quiet rush of those early hours, it was impossible to ignore how every word seemed to matter more, every pause stretching with meaning. I found myself drawn not just to Ari’s stories but to the subtle spaces between them, the little hesitations, the laughter that lingered, the vulnerability she never tried to hide. It was in those gentle, unspoken moments that I felt something inside me shift, quietly urging me to let go of old fears and step a little closer to whatever was unfolding between us.

It was during those gentle silences, when the hum of our connection seemed to fill the room, that I felt something shift inside me. There was a new kind of openness—tentative yet undeniable—that made each moment feel weightier, as if even the smallest exchange mattered more than either of us could admit. The morning felt infinite, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t want it to end. In that suspended space, time seemed elastic—moments stretching and contracting with every exchange—as if the ordinary rules no longer applied. I realized how rare it was to find someone who listened so intently, whose silence felt comforting rather than empty. With Ari, the act of sharing—no matter how small—became sacred, a way of making the intangible somehow real.

And as I listened to Ari’s voice—a little hesitant, almost lyrical—I realized how rare it was to find someone willing to linger in uncertainty with me. Our words fell into a rhythm, sometimes stumbling, sometimes soaring, but always honest, always searching. In those instances, I sensed we were both holding our breath, hoping the fragile magic wouldn’t break.
​

“Hey, hey! Earth to Jonny, hello? Still with me, hon?” Ari snapped me back into reality with her soft-spoken yet loud yells over the speakers.

“What—oh yes, my apologies… I seemed to have dozed off for a moment,” I responded with embarrassment seeping out from my pores. “Jeezus, I feel sweaty all of a sudden.”

“Yes, well, I kind of have that effect on men.” She responded while twirling her hair and blowing me a kiss, to which I pretended to grab through the void of cyberspace that stood between her webcam and mine.

“So, I was thinking that maybe—” I began telling her only to get cut off by a tall blurry figure busting through her bedroom door, screaming something unintelligible. Then quickly without hesitation, Ari shut her computer off and I was left staring at a dark window where her beautiful face used to be.

For a long, bewildered moment, I just sat there in the sudden silence, heart pounding, mind racing to fill the void Ari had left behind. The glow of her absence felt sharp and jarring, as if the connection we’d built had been severed mid-sentence. I stared at the empty screen, the echo of her laughter still hanging in the air, uncertain what had just happened or when—if ever—she might return.

As the minutes dragged on, the silence felt heavier with each passing second. I tried to replay our last words, searching for clues in the recent fragments, wondering if there was something I missed—a sign, a warning, anything. My fingers hovered above the keyboard, aching to type a message, but I hesitated, unsure if reaching out would help or only deepen the uncertainty. The quiet became a backdrop for my thoughts, the lingering sense of Ari’s presence both comforting and haunting, as if she were still there in some invisible way, waiting on the other side of the darkness.

I lost track of time and since there was still no presence or sign that Ari would show back online, I, too, turned my computer off and prepared to inevitably take on whatever nonsense this morning brought me.
I always skipped breakfast, because I wasn’t a morning person, although after meeting Ari, I had started to get up earlier more often, if just to see if she was online. We didn’t really have a schedule or a plan as to when we would have our little chats, but the anticipation of knowing that once I turned on the computer and logged in, there might be a slight chance that I would see her smile on the other side of the chat.

Outside, the city seemed unchanged by the intimate dramas unfolding behind closed doors. The distant hum of traffic and birdsong filtered in through my window, indifferent to the abrupt pause in my morning. I wondered how many other stories—unfinished, interrupted—were playing out at that very moment, invisible threads connecting strangers in moments of longing and uncertainty.

Sometimes I found myself rehearsing what I might say, crafting small jokes or stories in my head, hoping they’d land just right if she happened to log on. The unpredictability of our conversations made each moment feel precious, and even the smallest exchange became something I carried with me throughout the day. Her presence, virtual yet undeniably real, had woven itself into the fabric of my mornings, adding a glimmer of possibility to the otherwise mundane routine.
​
I glanced at my alarm clock next to my bed and realizing the time, I scooted out of the chair and headed for the door of my bedroom to grab my jacket that was hanging behind it and headed downstairs so I could leave for work. With the image of Ari’s face still fresh in my mind, lingering on as the day would too, the time on the clock would slowly change until eventually I would find myself back at home, waiting for Ari to log on so she could put my mind at ease about what had happened to her. But that moment never came that day.

Chapter Two: “Time Is in the Eye of The Beholder”
October 31st, 2006
It had been two months since I had heard from Ari, so I had been worried and stressed out the entirety of September and October. Soon it would be November, and I didn’t know if Ari was alive or dead. The air felt different that morning, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I moved through my routine with a sense of detachment; each action tinged with the memory of Ari’s sudden absence. Even as I poured myself a cup of coffee, the silence echoed louder than usual, reminding me that some moments linger longer than others, stretching time in unexpected ways. I had been texting her like crazy sporadically through the week before and still had no response. My mind started racing and doing what it usually does: jumping to conclusions.

I immediately kept telling myself, maybe she’s dead, or worse, landed in prison, until suddenly, my phone beeped and as I looked over the small window screen, her name displayed across the screen. One new message from Ari, it read. A smile rapidly formed over my frown, and then I felt the desperation cover me whole.

My thoughts spiraled once more, inventing dozens of worst-case scenarios, each more irrational than the last. I tried to reassure myself that maybe she had just been insanely busy, buried in work or life, but the gnawing sense of unease wouldn't let go. The constant phone reminder buzzing, still reading One new message from Ari on the screen attacked me like a swarm of bees. I flipped the phone open and the message read: Sunstone. After all these months gone by the only thing she had texted me was that one word. And I knew exactly what it meant: drop everything and run.

You see, it had been our safe word for whenever we had spicy conversations that landed us tired and sweaty at the end of the night. It was a word that without that context, meant literally I am in danger, come help. So, I did what any rational but insane person would do in this situation—I dropped everything and ran. Don’t worry, I knew exactly where I was going, because back when we first had come up with this word we had also come up with a location as to where to meet if the inevitable tragedy would happen. So, I drove to this old, abandoned refinery on the north side of town.  

My heart pounded as I stared at the single word, memories flooding back of the last time Ari had used a secret code between us, born out of late-night conversations and inside jokes. In that instant, all my frustrations and fears faded into the background, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and hope. Without thinking, I grabbed my keys and headed for the door, determined to follow the path that message had set in motion, no matter what came after.

My hands trembled as I grabbed my keys, desperate to make sense of the whirlpool of emotions churning inside me. Heart pounding, I sped through quiet streets, every stoplight and slow driver fueling my anxiety. The cityscape blurred by the familiar becoming unfamiliar amid the urgency, until finally, the looming silhouette of the refinery cut through the morning haze. I parked by the rusty fence, took a moment to steady my breath, and prepared to enter the abandoned building.

The air outside was cold and sharp, heightening every nerve in my body as I slipped through a gap in the fence. Shadows stretched across the concrete, and each footstep echoed in the cavernous emptiness of the refinery. I scanned the area, searching for any sign of Ari—a flicker of movement, a familiar silhouette—but all I saw at first were broken windows and forgotten machinery, relics of another time.
​
As I moved deeper into the labyrinth of rusted pipes and scattered debris, the hum of distant traffic faded, replaced by the crackle of broken glass beneath my shoes. Every corner held the possibility of finding Ari, yet each empty alcove only intensified the sense of isolation. The refinery seemed to hold its breath with me, its silence amplifying the urgency in my chest.

Every sound seemed amplified inside the shells of the old refinery—dripping water, the distant clang of loose metal, even the rhythmic thud of my own heartbeat. I called out her name in a voice barely above a whisper, unsure whether to hope for an answer or dread the silence. My eyes darted between shifting shadows, half expecting Ari to step out from behind a pillar, half fearing what else I might discover in this forgotten place. Still, I pressed forward, driven by the desperate hope that the message meant I wasn't too late.

My footsteps echoed as I ventured further inside, each sound magnified by the vast emptiness that surrounded me. The cold air seemed to cling to my skin, mingling with the apprehension that grew with every shadow I passed. Time felt stretched and distorted in the refinery, each second stretching out as I strained to catch any sign of movement, any hint that Ari was near. I called her name softly, the word reverberating faintly through the maze of metal and concrete, hoping that somewhere in the darkness, she would answer.

My breath came out in shaky bursts, each inhale mingling with the metallic tang of the air. The refinery felt even more cavernous in my solitude, every echo raising goosebumps along my arms. For a moment, I hesitated, afraid of what I might find, but even more afraid of leaving without answers. Gathering my courage, I pressed forward, determined not to let fear overtake me. Hope and dread tangled together as I kept searching, convinced that Ari was somewhere close, just beyond the next shadow.