04-05-2019, 02:17 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-05-2019, 02:21 AM by Jay Carpenter.)
Fingers dug drills into his skull. But he fought them. Muscles corded tight in his neck, whipping his head side to side. Rage fueled the resistance. Anger at Amengual; at Axel, even himself pulsed the will to fight through every limb until he thought he might rip the chair apart piece by piece.
But the fingers dug deeper, crushing his skull to stillness. The first gasp of air pooled the towel heavy into his mouth, sinking like a gag sliding farther and farther into his throat. Were they going to let him swallow it? Choke? Plug up his lungs like a rag stuffed in a gunshot wound? He’d die before vomiting in front of these motherfuckers. He twisted. Legs pushing against the floor. Core writhing, trying to shake it off.
Then relief. The weight lifted. Precious seconds were filled coughing the fire from his throat. In training, he held his breath 2.5 minutes, but before the spasm ended, more water fought its way through, crawling inward like parasites. Training didn't seem to help now.
It went on. And on. He had no idea how long.
The chair heaved again, sitting him upright, but he hung his head to his chest. Eyes squeezed tight. Fire wracked his ribs. He snorted sprays from his nostrils, landing on bare chest. He’d no idea when they’d cut away the shirt. His head throbbed from the lack of oxygen. Dizziness sinking his chin low. Water rolled rivers from his hair, landing on his lap. At least his jeans were soaked enough that when the time came to piss himself, nobody would notice. Maybe he already had. Drool dangled from the corner of his lip. When he looked up, it was only to find clamps filling the view in front of his face.
He was suddenly very grateful that his pants were still on.
It wasn’t the clamp that sparked a line of fear down his spine, though. It was the smile. The way the blue-eyed man roamed his skin like he was searching a piece of meat for the best cuts. If he’d been able to speak, he’d tell the son of a bitch to get to it. All these fucking tools were a shitshow of anticipation. Get it the fuck over with, asshole.
When his eyesight cleared – they burned like lighters pressed fire, hopefully that wasn’t next – and the box-cutter slid free. In and out. Taunting him. Jay followed the cockroach's gaze defiantly toward his own arm, settling on the tattoo presented there. Force recon: a relatively rare design for an elite group. A winged skull before crossed knives decorated the inner curve of muscle. Three bullet holes pierced the forehead, one for three brothers fallen in the field. His stomach, sloshing sick with bleached water, tightened to knots.
The water dripped down his cheeks inconsequential then. The myriad display of the blue-eyed man’s designs sparked obvious significance. They covered his arms and chest, disappearing beneath his tank. Gang and prison signs, sure, but also police. Military. More than Jay even recognized. Dozens? Hundreds?
When the blade bit flesh, his scream was louder than he thought it could be.
But the fingers dug deeper, crushing his skull to stillness. The first gasp of air pooled the towel heavy into his mouth, sinking like a gag sliding farther and farther into his throat. Were they going to let him swallow it? Choke? Plug up his lungs like a rag stuffed in a gunshot wound? He’d die before vomiting in front of these motherfuckers. He twisted. Legs pushing against the floor. Core writhing, trying to shake it off.
Then relief. The weight lifted. Precious seconds were filled coughing the fire from his throat. In training, he held his breath 2.5 minutes, but before the spasm ended, more water fought its way through, crawling inward like parasites. Training didn't seem to help now.
It went on. And on. He had no idea how long.
The chair heaved again, sitting him upright, but he hung his head to his chest. Eyes squeezed tight. Fire wracked his ribs. He snorted sprays from his nostrils, landing on bare chest. He’d no idea when they’d cut away the shirt. His head throbbed from the lack of oxygen. Dizziness sinking his chin low. Water rolled rivers from his hair, landing on his lap. At least his jeans were soaked enough that when the time came to piss himself, nobody would notice. Maybe he already had. Drool dangled from the corner of his lip. When he looked up, it was only to find clamps filling the view in front of his face.
He was suddenly very grateful that his pants were still on.
It wasn’t the clamp that sparked a line of fear down his spine, though. It was the smile. The way the blue-eyed man roamed his skin like he was searching a piece of meat for the best cuts. If he’d been able to speak, he’d tell the son of a bitch to get to it. All these fucking tools were a shitshow of anticipation. Get it the fuck over with, asshole.
When his eyesight cleared – they burned like lighters pressed fire, hopefully that wasn’t next – and the box-cutter slid free. In and out. Taunting him. Jay followed the cockroach's gaze defiantly toward his own arm, settling on the tattoo presented there. Force recon: a relatively rare design for an elite group. A winged skull before crossed knives decorated the inner curve of muscle. Three bullet holes pierced the forehead, one for three brothers fallen in the field. His stomach, sloshing sick with bleached water, tightened to knots.
The water dripped down his cheeks inconsequential then. The myriad display of the blue-eyed man’s designs sparked obvious significance. They covered his arms and chest, disappearing beneath his tank. Gang and prison signs, sure, but also police. Military. More than Jay even recognized. Dozens? Hundreds?
When the blade bit flesh, his scream was louder than he thought it could be.
Only darkness shows you the light.