Breaking Strain (judgement call required)
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Breaking Strain (judgement call required)
by Damion MacSteele Wed Sep 18, 2013 4:45 am
The dripping was the worst thing about this cell. That constant drip, splosh which preceded the brief pinpoint of icy coldness as a tiny drop of water splashed onto Damion’s foot. He kept imagining his foot swollen and gangrenous, or with a hole where the droplets of icy water had driven their frozen fingers through.
Drip, splosh.
He couldn’t look down though. He couldn’t look anywhere except that one spot on the wall. The cold smooth stones must have burned their pattern onto the back of his eyes. He wondered if he moved, would the pattern move too? He once named all the stones he could see, even giving some of them personalities. There was Scratch, Barney, Lucy, Morris, Dillon. One night they argued so loud he had to stop imagining them. That was the point he knew that madness could be conquered and insanity wasn’t going to beat him.
He soon forgot their names. All of them except the one with the large gouge running down through the middle of it. Scratch. He hated Scratch. Scratch was the only one he couldn’t stop imagining, which put his theory of madness to test. That’s why he hated Scratch so much. Scratch might prove that he would go insane.
Drip, splosh.
Agony though. That was very real. From the dull ache of bones sitting on hard surfaces and muscles atrophying to the constant burning of the scars on his face. Or the random tortures she decided to enact upon him, sometimes in public, sometimes in private, but always vicious. He’d bled out, been burned, stabbed, shot. He’d been catapulted onto the wall of a spiked cage, raised to the top of the arena on hooks pierced through his flesh, then dropped. He recalled the sensation of falling, of seeing the arena floor rush up to meet him…
Drip, splosh.
These weren’t the worst tortures. No, the worst was what they were doing to him. Not his body, he’d learned to separate the body from the mind as best he could. The real ‘him’. The ‘him’ that wasn’t his body. The ‘him’ that was his mind, his soul, his essence. This was the part of him he needed to hold onto. His spirit. But they had found a way to break even that. How long until it tore was just a matter of time.
Drip, splosh.
Memories drift back as they often do when he thinks this way, which was always. There was no point fighting them now, they always won. He remembered being lifted up to the top of the arena on those piercing barbs as they grabbed someone from the audience, tied a chain around his neck and attached it to the chain that was keeping Damion suspended. When they were ready, they signalled for the weights to be shifted. Damion dropped towards the arena floor, he could hear the chains rattling behind him. At some point, half way down, the chains tightened, the barbs digging deep into his flesh, threatening to render it. Suspended in front of him, half way up was the real victim.
He was being used as a counter weight. A living counter weight.
This poor guy in front of him was being hung, the chain had tightened around his neck. He was clawing at it, trying to work his fingers beneath it. Every time he thrashed caused Damion more pain. They both knew the torture. Both of them victims. Either this guy would eventually stop thrashing around and save the flesh on Damion’s own back. Or Damion’s flesh would be torn and he’d be saved from this hanging. This poor soul had looked into Damion’s eyes, begging. If it had been in Damion’s power, he would have flayed his own flesh to save them both.
Drip, splosh.
He remembers it clearly. The eyes bulging. The face turning red, then purple. The tongue creeping out of the mouth, questing for air. The gargling sound as his life drained away. Then he remembers the absence of pain as this poor man died. Right in front of him. Suspended from the ceiling above a sea of cheering, rabid faces.
Drip, splosh.
That wasn’t Damion’s first victim though. His thoughts always turned to his first victim. Another so called dissenter. Damion had driven his thumbs into this one’s eyes. Then, when he was blind, they’d trussed up the guy. Rae had put a knife into MacSteele’s hand, smiling that awful smile.
Slowly he cut open the chest. He could hear the screams, the pleading cries. What nobody knew was that Damion was screaming too. With every fibre of his being. His very soul was screaming. All he wanted to do was turn the knife on his puppet master, or himself. They both screamed, though only one was heard. With his victim still alive, Damion’s hand reached into the open chest, felt the heart beating in his hands, and slowly squeezed. He hadn’t been looking at his victims face, but now he saw it. The panic, the sickness, and the long gouge running down the middle of it. He would never be allowed to forget it. His name was Scratch.
Drip, splosh.
He hated Scratch…
Drip, splosh.
He couldn’t look down though. He couldn’t look anywhere except that one spot on the wall. The cold smooth stones must have burned their pattern onto the back of his eyes. He wondered if he moved, would the pattern move too? He once named all the stones he could see, even giving some of them personalities. There was Scratch, Barney, Lucy, Morris, Dillon. One night they argued so loud he had to stop imagining them. That was the point he knew that madness could be conquered and insanity wasn’t going to beat him.
He soon forgot their names. All of them except the one with the large gouge running down through the middle of it. Scratch. He hated Scratch. Scratch was the only one he couldn’t stop imagining, which put his theory of madness to test. That’s why he hated Scratch so much. Scratch might prove that he would go insane.
Drip, splosh.
Agony though. That was very real. From the dull ache of bones sitting on hard surfaces and muscles atrophying to the constant burning of the scars on his face. Or the random tortures she decided to enact upon him, sometimes in public, sometimes in private, but always vicious. He’d bled out, been burned, stabbed, shot. He’d been catapulted onto the wall of a spiked cage, raised to the top of the arena on hooks pierced through his flesh, then dropped. He recalled the sensation of falling, of seeing the arena floor rush up to meet him…
Drip, splosh.
These weren’t the worst tortures. No, the worst was what they were doing to him. Not his body, he’d learned to separate the body from the mind as best he could. The real ‘him’. The ‘him’ that wasn’t his body. The ‘him’ that was his mind, his soul, his essence. This was the part of him he needed to hold onto. His spirit. But they had found a way to break even that. How long until it tore was just a matter of time.
Drip, splosh.
Memories drift back as they often do when he thinks this way, which was always. There was no point fighting them now, they always won. He remembered being lifted up to the top of the arena on those piercing barbs as they grabbed someone from the audience, tied a chain around his neck and attached it to the chain that was keeping Damion suspended. When they were ready, they signalled for the weights to be shifted. Damion dropped towards the arena floor, he could hear the chains rattling behind him. At some point, half way down, the chains tightened, the barbs digging deep into his flesh, threatening to render it. Suspended in front of him, half way up was the real victim.
He was being used as a counter weight. A living counter weight.
This poor guy in front of him was being hung, the chain had tightened around his neck. He was clawing at it, trying to work his fingers beneath it. Every time he thrashed caused Damion more pain. They both knew the torture. Both of them victims. Either this guy would eventually stop thrashing around and save the flesh on Damion’s own back. Or Damion’s flesh would be torn and he’d be saved from this hanging. This poor soul had looked into Damion’s eyes, begging. If it had been in Damion’s power, he would have flayed his own flesh to save them both.
Drip, splosh.
He remembers it clearly. The eyes bulging. The face turning red, then purple. The tongue creeping out of the mouth, questing for air. The gargling sound as his life drained away. Then he remembers the absence of pain as this poor man died. Right in front of him. Suspended from the ceiling above a sea of cheering, rabid faces.
Drip, splosh.
That wasn’t Damion’s first victim though. His thoughts always turned to his first victim. Another so called dissenter. Damion had driven his thumbs into this one’s eyes. Then, when he was blind, they’d trussed up the guy. Rae had put a knife into MacSteele’s hand, smiling that awful smile.
Slowly he cut open the chest. He could hear the screams, the pleading cries. What nobody knew was that Damion was screaming too. With every fibre of his being. His very soul was screaming. All he wanted to do was turn the knife on his puppet master, or himself. They both screamed, though only one was heard. With his victim still alive, Damion’s hand reached into the open chest, felt the heart beating in his hands, and slowly squeezed. He hadn’t been looking at his victims face, but now he saw it. The panic, the sickness, and the long gouge running down the middle of it. He would never be allowed to forget it. His name was Scratch.
Drip, splosh.
He hated Scratch…
Last edited by Damion MacSteele on Wed Sep 18, 2013 4:54 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : words and stuff)
Damion MacSteele- Roleplayer
- Posts : 72
Join date : 2013-05-28
Location : Caladonia
Re: Breaking Strain (judgement call required)
by Damion MacSteele Wed Sep 18, 2013 4:48 am
So that last paragraph might be a bit graphic. Not sure how to tone down the visceral description without losing the impact of the piece, but let me know if you want me to try. Or we could just run it and see who really reads us anyway.
Damion MacSteele- Roleplayer
- Posts : 72
Join date : 2013-05-28
Location : Caladonia
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