You screamed. The sound so loud, so shrill it all but burst your own eardrums. There, all around you was warm, crimson and wet blood. You scream again as you realize it was your own. You try to get up for you are lying down but as you attempt to stand, your legs buckle from underneath you, sending you crashing back to your knees. Realizing through your dazed head that running, even walking would be impossible, you sit. You look around you, taking everything in for the first time. The room is bare, the walls and floor made of concrete, stained with your blood. There is no furniture or other accommodations in this room. But as you turn your head you see a faint glimmer. Your eyes zero-in and you find a small, rectangular mirror. You drag yourself over to it, the concrete scratching at you, and examine yourself. What you see in the mirror is nothing of what you used to be. You hair, knotted and matted hung around your face. You took a bloody hand and brushed it away so you could see yourself clearly. Your face was scraped and the dried blood was all over it, covering your face like a mask. There was also a deep gash under your right eye, just above your cheekbone. You look at it more closely and see it still oozing out, running down your face like a tear and finally dripping off your jaw, splashing onto the floor. You immediately realize this was the main source of the blood you are drenched in. You grimace and start to move into a position where you could see the rest of yourself but before you turn your gaze back to the mirror you hear a screech. You turn around quickly, trying to see who or what has made the noise. You turn too quickly and you are momentarily blinded by your spinning head. As you slowly regain your vision you see a small figure. Thinking this was some type of illusion, created by the loss of blood, you shake your head trying to dispel it, your head rattling once again. After your head has calmed down you realize that the figure was not a figment of your imagination. This little figure was real. The figure came toward you in a trot of a lithe dancers step. As it came even closer to you, you realize it was a boy, his expression gleeful, his eyes alight. You quickly glance around the room to find out where he had come from and your eyes settle on the concrete block moved aside. Next to the hole was a small silver box though it was closed, making your wandering eyes useless in terms of the contents inside. You turn your gaze back to the boy, skipping towards you. The boy, now standing directly in front of you clicks his tongue as he examines you. His eyes seem to see right through you, burning holes in you. The figure bends down beside you and cups your face in his hand, his long fingernails scrape into your jaw, forcing your head upwards. Your eyes lock with his and you stare into them. The depth of them, seemingly endless, went on and on yet you see no trace off sympathy or worry. You whimper and try turning your head. The boy quickly releases his grasp on you and walks, this time slowly, purposefully to the silver box. You lie back again and sigh, the sound coming out scratchy and faint. The loss of blood getting to you. You close your eyes and breathe through your mouth, trying to expel the smell of the warm blood. You drift. You awaken with a horrible pain, like that of a needle, leeching your blood and injecting it back into you. Your eyes flutter open and you try and see what was causing this horrible sensation. There, in front of you, was the boy, you realize now was a sadist. He gazed upon you and chuckled as he read your expression as if it were an open book. You then look down at yourself, the pain, now running like fire through your veins. You open your mouth in an o-shape, screaming but no sound came out. You find yourself lying on a mat, covered in scattered spikes protruding out. The spikes, cone shaped and thickest at its base, stuck into your back. The feeling of the needle sharp spikes stung like hundreds of bees, their stingers shooting pain in your back in little spasms. You can’t move and if any attempt from you was to happen you would just succeed in having the spikes press into you more. You look back at the boy, who was now rocking back and forth with excitement showing in his eyes. You manage to have a sound escape from your mouth, still poised in the scream. It came out as a moan, the sound of it telling its own story of pain, an inescapable terror and your will, receding with every breath your draw from the musty air. As soon as you let out your mournful song the boy, turns to look at you and then crawls over to you, leaning so he is over you. He then smiles a smile so angelic it could be worn by a boticelli angel. The smile envelops you and you are amazed that someone so sick could seem so innocent and beautiful. With your eyes on his face he then takes his small hand and presses his palm on your stomach, ever so gently. You look upon him knowing what is about to happen and you stare at his unearthly face, not daring to breathe, even your muscles tense up, preparing for the upcoming. The pressure, so lightly applied to your stomach presses you down into the spikes, your blood drips down the iron slowly, and then begins to form a pool on the mat, some of the blood already beginning to quagulate. The little boy continues to apply the pressure to you, your back being forced into the iron spikes, your blood streaming out of you into the ever growing pool of crimson. And then, ever so suddenly he stops applying pressure and gently slides his small hands under you. With one arm supporting your lower back and the other between your shoulder blades, he lifts you up. Though he was a boy he managed to lift your frail body off of the horrible mat. With you in his arms he walks over to another section of the room and sets you down gently so you are lying down once again. The boy then kneels down beside you and puts his arms under you yet again but this time rolling you over. Now lying down on your stomach and you do nothing, not a sound escapes from your lips. The boy laughs softly, the sound so beautiful it soothes you momentarily till you realize what has made the heavenly note. You close your eyes, the pain and exhaustion creeping over you like a cloud, fogging your memory and not allowing you to think. The boy then gets up, but you are barely aware, as you are lost in your mind. You hear a slight metallic sound, followed by a click. You then see the boy’s feet in your line of vision, and then his knees as he sits by you. You hear another metallic ding and you see a small craft knife. You gasp, the surprise of cold fingers sliding up your back, under your shirt. You then feel a slight tug and you feel the thin fabric of your shirt being pulled off and placed beside your head. You grimace as you see the pile of cloth. It bore holes all along the back and it was soaked in crimson. You try turning your head to see what the young boy was planning on doing to you now. The boy, seeing you glance, flashes you a quick, coy smile and grabs the craft knife. He then takes the sharp blade and you feel the tickle of it along the skin of your back. You realize what this was. You eyes open with pure terror. It was going to be a child’s game…taken to a whole new level.
To be continued....
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Letai
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