Blood and Salt
I finished this very short story like around two weeks ago, and was wondering if there was any way I could possibly add in another chapter. However, nothing I tried seemed to work, so I guess this is all I have.
WARNING: This is the darkest piece I've ever written, based off a strange dream I had about a year ago. It may not actually give you nightmares, but it's plenty dark, in my opinion. The usual rules apply - you want to use it, ask me first. You use it without my permission, I find out, I kill you.
Pain.
No matter how hard I try to ignore it, the pain is here: the multiple slashes on my arms, my legs, and my abdomen are proof of that. A searing pain, a scorching heat that does not fade even as the seconds turn to minutes and eventually hours.
How long have I lain here, bound to this steel table? How long have I been lying defenceless as my mysterious captor takes his pleasure in prolonging my agony? After glancing around as best as I can to check that the masked man is not in the room, I allow myself to relive the past few days.
Or has it been weeks? Months, even? I do not know. All I remember was walking somewhere with Edward, a friend I would gladly trust with my life, the sudden feeling of falling through emptiness, and then… Nothing. I assumed that I had blacked out, for when I opened my eyes I was already in such a position: lying on this table, with thick ropes tying my arms and legs down. That was when my nightmare had truly begun.
What had happened to Edward, anyway? Desperately I search my mind, but still I come up with nothing. Does it really matter, though? Maybe he’s trying to get help, trying to save me from this hell in whatever place I’m in. Or maybe he’s forgotten about me. Maybe, maybe, maybe. For me, the pain is the only constant now, the only thing that matters.
Somewhere behind my head, a door creaks open and a familiar sense of dread washes over me. He’s back.
Soft footsteps echo as the masked man walks up to the table which I am lying on. I try not to tremble or show any signs of fear as I look at him, or rather his mask, which is onyx black with red swirls on it. Covering his entire face, it looks like those Venetian masks I love so much, and I wonder about the irony of the situation. His eyes, a disarming shade of hazel, quietly study my face for a moment, before he speaks from behind the mask.
“How do you feel?” his voice is soft, somewhat familiar despite the fact that it is a little muffled behind the mask, and he sounds genuinely concerned.
I say nothing. Any act of kindness he shows is a lie, a carefully crafted façade to try to gain my trust, before he rips it all away with perverse glee. His fingers lovingly caress the multiple wounds on my arms and I hiss almost inaudibly in protest. Almost.
His head snaps up, looking at me again. “Yes, it hurts, doesn’t it?” he murmurs. Then his next words send a chill down my spine.
“You’ll soon see that this isn’t the worst pain you’ve been through, though…” Although I’m scared to the point where I don’t feel anything, I meet his eyes with as much defiance as I can possibly muster. Fuck you, I say in my head. I’ll take whatever you throw at me, and anything a hundred times worse! He chuckles. “I see you’re still a girl of fire. Such strength in those eyes!"
His voice drops almost dangerously. “I’m afraid you’ll soon see that this is no place for a girl of fire.” He lifts a bowl of some white crystalline substance into my view, and for a moment I am confused. Where’s the razor? After all, he has been quietly cutting at my arms, legs and abdomen for the past few days.
He dips a finger into the substance and as I watch, transfixed, he presses his finger onto one of the wounds decorating my arm. Instantly I scream, an inhuman screech so loud that even my throat burns, and strain at my bonds in agony, as one thing becomes clear, as one single word cuts through the scarlet-tinged haze of pain.
Salt.
He’s going to literally rub salt into my wounds, and the salt on my arm was just a little taste of what he had planned for me. I’d never quite believed that even a little bit of salt would possibly cause pain of such excruciating levels, but I am forced to believe it now. Contrary to how most people would describe pain, my arm doesn’t feel like it’s on fire. Instead, the agony raging through it is so searing that it feels icy cold. Just let this end, I pray to whichever gods may be listening. Just let me die. What did I do to deserve this?
Each time the salt smears across my cuts, I stifle my scream by biting on the inside of my cheek. It is not long before I taste the coppery tang of my blood. However, I refuse to scream, moan, or make any sound that gives this madman his satisfaction. I merely squeeze my eyes shut, bite my cheek, and flee into the recesses of my mind. There, he cannot touch me. There, I am free to be in any place of my choosing, free to be whoever I may choose. There, at least, I am safe.
There are times when, noticing that my old cuts are beginning to heal, he brings his razor and I get reacquainted with the feeling of its cold blade meeting my skin. Now, he is showing his more sadistic side – straight after he makes the fresh cut, he rubs salt into the wound. He does everything with surgical precision, though. After he is done for the day, done pushing my sanity to its very edge, he will bring out a bottle of disinfectant and clean the area up. He does not use it on my wounds, though, so the air reeks of copper and disinfectant.
Him, always hoping I will scream out and beg him for mercy – to let me go, at the very least, or to end my life.
Me, always screaming on the inside, living each minute as an eternity, weighing my options – should I beg him and see where that gets me? Or should I stay silent and pray, endlessly pray, for someone, anyone, to come save me? He is getting frustrated with my silence, I can tell. Something is going to happen very soon. I have no idea what, but similar to the way a cat will toy with its prey, he enjoys giving me false hope, before putting me back into this hellhole. Time and time again I tell myself not to fall for his tricks, not to listen every time he promises freedom, but it’s just so hard. When you’ve been toyed with again and again, every word, every false promise of freedom seems so much like the real thing that you can’t help but hope and take your chances.
Days pass. Or maybe I am hallucinating, delusional, and it has only been one long day, an unending twenty-four hours. I would not know; time ceases to exist for me. Everything’s just a blur – a fog descends upon my senses, such that even the salt and the wounds don’t seem to hurt so much anymore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today. Something is going to happen today, I can feel it. The air itself is humming, crackling with some sort of tension.
The man walks in, mask in its usual place, and bends over me. He wields the razor, as usual, but this time, this time, he cuts my bonds. The ropes that have tied me down for so long fall from my hands and feet, and for a moment I just lie there, frozen. Then my eyes snap to his face.
“You have an hour to get out of here,” he tells me, and as usual I rack my brains to try to recall if I have heard his voice somewhere. It’s much too familiar for comfort. As usual, I come up with nothing. “An hour to run, before I come for you. And I advise you to run fast, because I will come for you.” With that, he walks out of the door, leaving me alone in the room.
At first, I look around warily, certain that it is a trap of some sort. But the room is completely bare save the table and the door, and it is not long before I decide to make my move. Shakily, I stand up, making sure that I am strong enough to walk, or run if needed. Then I make my way towards the door.
There is only one corridor, and I see light at the end. Is that it? I think. Surely he would have planned something else if he gave me an hour? I cautiously walk towards the light, and emerge in a field of some sort, surrounded by trees and with a dirt road that could possibly lead me to my freedom, if I can move fast enough. Just as I start towards the road, I see a car coming, and without thinking I throw myself towards the trees in an attempt to hide myself.
The car comes into the clearing, and stops. A door opens, and out steps a person I’d never expected to see again.
“Edward?”
I blurt his name out without thinking, and he turns towards me. “Natalie!” He cries out, running towards me and embracing me. I am stunned. “H-how did you find me? I thought you were dead!” I rasp out, tears of relief prickling at the corners of my eyes.
“No time for that, we’d best get out of here first. Before that madman gets back.” He tells me, his mouth a grim line as he helps me to the car.
As he drives, I tell him everything, trying not to leave anything out as I struggle to hold back my tears of relief, of fear, of everything I had endured. The more I tell him, the angrier he looks, his knuckles white from clutching the wheel so tightly. Then he tells me his story. Apparently, he had been knocked out that day he had been with me, and when he came to I had disappeared. He had spent the last two months (I had been shocked to hear that. Two months!) working with the police trying to find me, and had been lucky enough to stumble upon this place when the locals had complained to their authorities about strange noises they heard at night. The shops had also reported sudden thefts that had started a month ago. That was when he had decided to help the police investigate the area, certain that it had been some petty theft that could be easily dealt with. And that was when he’d found me.
True, his story seems to have plenty of holes, but I blame it on my paranoia. After all, this is someone I trust. He would never harm me. Edward gives me a bottle of water, saying as I drink, “Well, at least you’re safe from that madman now. Good thing I found you before your hour was up, huh?”
The last conscious thought I have before I slip into oblivion is, “I don’t recall telling him I had an hour to run...”
When I come to, I stretch only to realise that I can’t move my arms. Or my legs. Looking around, I stifle a sob and a scream of fear. I’m back in the room. How?! My mind screams at me. How is it possible?
Clack. Clack. Clack. Footsteps come closer, ever closer, until I am looking at the masked man again. “My dear, I thought I told you to run.” He sounds genuinely sorrowful. “What did you do to Edward, you sick bastard?” I whisper, almost afraid of the answer I might get.
He shakes his head, looking slightly disappointed. “Honestly, you are too naïve. You really need to learn that not everyone can be trusted, Natalie.” At that, my blood turns to ice.
Natalie. The way he said my name. Though most pronounce it as “Na-te-lee”, he pronounces it as “Na-tah-lee”. The same way that Edward, and only Edward, pronounced it. As he takes off his mask, I finally scream, a long, drawn-out wail of terror as I stare at Edward’s face.
His lip curls. “Let the nightmare truly begin.”
Fini.
WARNING: This is the darkest piece I've ever written, based off a strange dream I had about a year ago. It may not actually give you nightmares, but it's plenty dark, in my opinion. The usual rules apply - you want to use it, ask me first. You use it without my permission, I find out, I kill you.
Pain.
No matter how hard I try to ignore it, the pain is here: the multiple slashes on my arms, my legs, and my abdomen are proof of that. A searing pain, a scorching heat that does not fade even as the seconds turn to minutes and eventually hours.
How long have I lain here, bound to this steel table? How long have I been lying defenceless as my mysterious captor takes his pleasure in prolonging my agony? After glancing around as best as I can to check that the masked man is not in the room, I allow myself to relive the past few days.
Or has it been weeks? Months, even? I do not know. All I remember was walking somewhere with Edward, a friend I would gladly trust with my life, the sudden feeling of falling through emptiness, and then… Nothing. I assumed that I had blacked out, for when I opened my eyes I was already in such a position: lying on this table, with thick ropes tying my arms and legs down. That was when my nightmare had truly begun.
What had happened to Edward, anyway? Desperately I search my mind, but still I come up with nothing. Does it really matter, though? Maybe he’s trying to get help, trying to save me from this hell in whatever place I’m in. Or maybe he’s forgotten about me. Maybe, maybe, maybe. For me, the pain is the only constant now, the only thing that matters.
Somewhere behind my head, a door creaks open and a familiar sense of dread washes over me. He’s back.
Soft footsteps echo as the masked man walks up to the table which I am lying on. I try not to tremble or show any signs of fear as I look at him, or rather his mask, which is onyx black with red swirls on it. Covering his entire face, it looks like those Venetian masks I love so much, and I wonder about the irony of the situation. His eyes, a disarming shade of hazel, quietly study my face for a moment, before he speaks from behind the mask.
“How do you feel?” his voice is soft, somewhat familiar despite the fact that it is a little muffled behind the mask, and he sounds genuinely concerned.
I say nothing. Any act of kindness he shows is a lie, a carefully crafted façade to try to gain my trust, before he rips it all away with perverse glee. His fingers lovingly caress the multiple wounds on my arms and I hiss almost inaudibly in protest. Almost.
His head snaps up, looking at me again. “Yes, it hurts, doesn’t it?” he murmurs. Then his next words send a chill down my spine.
“You’ll soon see that this isn’t the worst pain you’ve been through, though…” Although I’m scared to the point where I don’t feel anything, I meet his eyes with as much defiance as I can possibly muster. Fuck you, I say in my head. I’ll take whatever you throw at me, and anything a hundred times worse! He chuckles. “I see you’re still a girl of fire. Such strength in those eyes!"
His voice drops almost dangerously. “I’m afraid you’ll soon see that this is no place for a girl of fire.” He lifts a bowl of some white crystalline substance into my view, and for a moment I am confused. Where’s the razor? After all, he has been quietly cutting at my arms, legs and abdomen for the past few days.
He dips a finger into the substance and as I watch, transfixed, he presses his finger onto one of the wounds decorating my arm. Instantly I scream, an inhuman screech so loud that even my throat burns, and strain at my bonds in agony, as one thing becomes clear, as one single word cuts through the scarlet-tinged haze of pain.
Salt.
He’s going to literally rub salt into my wounds, and the salt on my arm was just a little taste of what he had planned for me. I’d never quite believed that even a little bit of salt would possibly cause pain of such excruciating levels, but I am forced to believe it now. Contrary to how most people would describe pain, my arm doesn’t feel like it’s on fire. Instead, the agony raging through it is so searing that it feels icy cold. Just let this end, I pray to whichever gods may be listening. Just let me die. What did I do to deserve this?
Each time the salt smears across my cuts, I stifle my scream by biting on the inside of my cheek. It is not long before I taste the coppery tang of my blood. However, I refuse to scream, moan, or make any sound that gives this madman his satisfaction. I merely squeeze my eyes shut, bite my cheek, and flee into the recesses of my mind. There, he cannot touch me. There, I am free to be in any place of my choosing, free to be whoever I may choose. There, at least, I am safe.
There are times when, noticing that my old cuts are beginning to heal, he brings his razor and I get reacquainted with the feeling of its cold blade meeting my skin. Now, he is showing his more sadistic side – straight after he makes the fresh cut, he rubs salt into the wound. He does everything with surgical precision, though. After he is done for the day, done pushing my sanity to its very edge, he will bring out a bottle of disinfectant and clean the area up. He does not use it on my wounds, though, so the air reeks of copper and disinfectant.
Him, always hoping I will scream out and beg him for mercy – to let me go, at the very least, or to end my life.
Me, always screaming on the inside, living each minute as an eternity, weighing my options – should I beg him and see where that gets me? Or should I stay silent and pray, endlessly pray, for someone, anyone, to come save me? He is getting frustrated with my silence, I can tell. Something is going to happen very soon. I have no idea what, but similar to the way a cat will toy with its prey, he enjoys giving me false hope, before putting me back into this hellhole. Time and time again I tell myself not to fall for his tricks, not to listen every time he promises freedom, but it’s just so hard. When you’ve been toyed with again and again, every word, every false promise of freedom seems so much like the real thing that you can’t help but hope and take your chances.
Days pass. Or maybe I am hallucinating, delusional, and it has only been one long day, an unending twenty-four hours. I would not know; time ceases to exist for me. Everything’s just a blur – a fog descends upon my senses, such that even the salt and the wounds don’t seem to hurt so much anymore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today. Something is going to happen today, I can feel it. The air itself is humming, crackling with some sort of tension.
The man walks in, mask in its usual place, and bends over me. He wields the razor, as usual, but this time, this time, he cuts my bonds. The ropes that have tied me down for so long fall from my hands and feet, and for a moment I just lie there, frozen. Then my eyes snap to his face.
“You have an hour to get out of here,” he tells me, and as usual I rack my brains to try to recall if I have heard his voice somewhere. It’s much too familiar for comfort. As usual, I come up with nothing. “An hour to run, before I come for you. And I advise you to run fast, because I will come for you.” With that, he walks out of the door, leaving me alone in the room.
At first, I look around warily, certain that it is a trap of some sort. But the room is completely bare save the table and the door, and it is not long before I decide to make my move. Shakily, I stand up, making sure that I am strong enough to walk, or run if needed. Then I make my way towards the door.
There is only one corridor, and I see light at the end. Is that it? I think. Surely he would have planned something else if he gave me an hour? I cautiously walk towards the light, and emerge in a field of some sort, surrounded by trees and with a dirt road that could possibly lead me to my freedom, if I can move fast enough. Just as I start towards the road, I see a car coming, and without thinking I throw myself towards the trees in an attempt to hide myself.
The car comes into the clearing, and stops. A door opens, and out steps a person I’d never expected to see again.
“Edward?”
I blurt his name out without thinking, and he turns towards me. “Natalie!” He cries out, running towards me and embracing me. I am stunned. “H-how did you find me? I thought you were dead!” I rasp out, tears of relief prickling at the corners of my eyes.
“No time for that, we’d best get out of here first. Before that madman gets back.” He tells me, his mouth a grim line as he helps me to the car.
As he drives, I tell him everything, trying not to leave anything out as I struggle to hold back my tears of relief, of fear, of everything I had endured. The more I tell him, the angrier he looks, his knuckles white from clutching the wheel so tightly. Then he tells me his story. Apparently, he had been knocked out that day he had been with me, and when he came to I had disappeared. He had spent the last two months (I had been shocked to hear that. Two months!) working with the police trying to find me, and had been lucky enough to stumble upon this place when the locals had complained to their authorities about strange noises they heard at night. The shops had also reported sudden thefts that had started a month ago. That was when he had decided to help the police investigate the area, certain that it had been some petty theft that could be easily dealt with. And that was when he’d found me.
True, his story seems to have plenty of holes, but I blame it on my paranoia. After all, this is someone I trust. He would never harm me. Edward gives me a bottle of water, saying as I drink, “Well, at least you’re safe from that madman now. Good thing I found you before your hour was up, huh?”
The last conscious thought I have before I slip into oblivion is, “I don’t recall telling him I had an hour to run...”
When I come to, I stretch only to realise that I can’t move my arms. Or my legs. Looking around, I stifle a sob and a scream of fear. I’m back in the room. How?! My mind screams at me. How is it possible?
Clack. Clack. Clack. Footsteps come closer, ever closer, until I am looking at the masked man again. “My dear, I thought I told you to run.” He sounds genuinely sorrowful. “What did you do to Edward, you sick bastard?” I whisper, almost afraid of the answer I might get.
He shakes his head, looking slightly disappointed. “Honestly, you are too naïve. You really need to learn that not everyone can be trusted, Natalie.” At that, my blood turns to ice.
Natalie. The way he said my name. Though most pronounce it as “Na-te-lee”, he pronounces it as “Na-tah-lee”. The same way that Edward, and only Edward, pronounced it. As he takes off his mask, I finally scream, a long, drawn-out wail of terror as I stare at Edward’s face.
His lip curls. “Let the nightmare truly begin.”
Fini.
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