Break Free & Be Broken (21 page)

I don't know why-it isn't a planned out action-but I try to fall. I succeed in pulling Francis off balance and we thud down a few steps, but he maintains his composure and keeps us upright. "My my, aren't you silly!" He snickers, then lets me go. I wasn't expecting it and fall forward. I hit the stairs all chest and face, then bounce to the bottom.

My nose literally explodes when my face crunches into the floor. Seriously. There is no way I still have a nose left. I roll onto my back, wondering angrily why I wasn't knocked out and instead have to lie in this pain.

Blood is running all over: up into my eyes, down into my mouth, curving around the bones of my cheeks, and dripping down into my ears. All the places the blood goes, the pain goes, and it isn't only the outside of my face that is being washed over. Blood's dripping through the inside as well, sliding down my throat and into my lungs. It causes me to cough and sputter, which flings blood to the furthest reaches of my body. It hurts like hell, so I squirm onto my side, trying to let the blood just run out through my mouth.

Light from a flashlight falls upon me. I know this because instead of pitch black, I now see pitch red. I can't open my eyes-they are too full of blood for that-so I just do what I can:

I lay.

I cough.

And I suffer.

Very gently, Francis helps me into a seated position. I lean forward, allowing the blood to cascade onto the floor and across my legs. It's surprisingly pleasant just letting it fall. I'm actually able to start breathing.

I keep my eyes closed while blood dribbles off my eyelids. When they feel sufficiently dry, I start blinking. I'm shocked at the amount of blood on me. I'm completely covered. But then, I remember it isn't all mine. A good percentage is Tink’s. In fact, other than the bright new stuff, most is his. Feeling this agony makes me think of how he must have felt. His nose was just one of the things I destroyed. I become nauseated from a combo of blood loss, the sight before me, the memory of what I've done, and the knowledge of what's to come. If this is the worst that happens to me tonight, I'll be lucky... LUCKY! But this is only the beginning.

God damnit. It's going to be a long night.

When I finally get a grip on myself, I look up at Francis. The light from the flashlight is hitting his face at an ominous angle, giving dark shadows to his nose and eyes. Hairless and pale as he is, he looks like a grinning skull; devoid of even the slightest trace of mercy.

"You're a naughty young man. No more of that, you hear?"

I nod just in time to see his boot flying at my head.

Chapter the Twelfth

Fire in my cheek, throbbing in my nose, and ringing in my ear: this is how I wake. My eyes snap open to the girth of Francis' palm soaring toward my face. I re-close them: the only means I can think of to escape.

It doesn't work.

My teeth clack together as his hand makes a fairly decent attempt at removing my skull from my spine. The world wobbles uncontrollably. I keep my eyes squeezed shut and press my chin against my shoulder. I'm terrified of being hit again... too terrified to move.

A pair of fat fingers pinch around my broken nose and pluck my head back up. The pain forces my eyes wide open, allowing the provoked tears to fall as they may. I try to reach up and knock Francis' arm away, but FUCK! I can't. My arms are strapped to the chair I'm in.

"Wakey wakey little fish." Francis drawls, leering over me with his glossy black eyes. I want more than anything to free my nose from his horrendous fingers, but there's nothing I can do. He won't stop squeezing. The pressure unleashes a waterfall of blood to roll over my lips and across my tongue. The taste of iron is the only thing I can process beyond the pain. I don't want to cry out. I don't want to beg this sick fuck to stop, but as sure as the sun shines, it's coming.

"God-FUCK!" I cry, "Let go! I'm awake, I'M AWAKE!"

He doesn't let go. He squeezes harder. I can hear AND feel the cartilage in my nose crackle and pop. My head jerks-an involuntary motion to get away-but his grip holds, and all I end up doing is snapping my nose sideways. Havoc claps from the center of my face to the bottom of my throat. If my nose wasn't broken before, it is now.

Francis laughs and lets go, but that doesn't stop the pain or the tears. He slaps me again-then again-once on both cheeks. Blood shimmies from my face. I watch it sparkle and fly.

"You ready to talk, fish?" Francis asks.

Wham
!

One of his giant fists digs deep down to the core of my stomach. It wrecks me. I convulse against my stumped lungs, aching and dying for breath. His fist comes in a second time-this one more shocking than anything-but when it lands a third time, an eruption occurs inside my gut. FUCK! Something just burst, and my breath has been banished to the end of the sea.

Apparently my deplorable state is not deplorable enough to satisfy the nefarious Francis, for he starts connecting punches against my head. I don't feel each individual hit as it lands; all I feel is my brain bouncing off the bony walls of my skull. The headache being produced is astounding. A particularly nasty right hook lands along the ridge of my eye, splitting the skin into a smile. Blood spits from the fleshy lips and splashes down the length of me. I let my head slump into my chest.

My breath is yet to return to me, and my swollen, oxygen deprived brain is giving out. Everything's going dark. Please, god, let me pass out. I break for the darkness like a bat from the sun but Francis doesn't allow me an easy getaway. He grabs me by the front of my hair and pushes my head back, then uses his free hand to dish out a couple more slaps. I'm either going numb or he's holding back-neither feels very severe.

At long last, my lungs come back to life; or at least, they try. Unbeknownst to me, blood from my nose had been leaking down my throat, so instead of taking the strained, life affirming gasp I so desperately need, I begin to choke.

No longer distracted by the pounding, I realize how long it's been since I last drew breath. I'm suffocating! Panic sends me into a fit of hard coughs that culminate with a spew of dinner and blood. The sight of my partially digested meal laid out on my filthy, blood stained lap fills me with a profound sadness. I suppose I can't blame my body for the mistake-I was choking and it was only trying to help-but still... that dinner was probably the last good meal I'll ever have, and now... it's gone. I start crying the second I get a good breath. I don't want to: I can't help it.

This is shit. Absolute shit.

"What is the name of the man you were with?" Francis asks.

I hear the words but hardly understand them. I guess it isn't the words, exactly, that I don't understand; it's just what to do with them. I've been asked that question before. I couldn't answer then, what makes him think I'll answer now?

"Why are you still asking?" I cry. "I promise, I don't know! Let me go home... please? Let me go home."

Francis' palm thuds against my chest, toppling me over backward in the chair. My head-my dear, sweet head-cracks against the ground like a fallen tree and my brain-my poor, blood drenched brain-says, 'Enough.' All becomes black, and I am gone.

........

But wait... I'm thinking. And worse: I still feel pain. It is only my vision that has left me... and actually, no, I can see a little. Just a dim light... but shit, wait, it's hard to breathe! Why is it so hard to breathe! I twist my head. Something wet and heavy has been draped over my face.

Where did it come from? What the fuck happened?

A flood of liquid falls on me, cutting off the little air I had. I try to wiggle my way to oxygen but fail. Whatever is covering my face is dispersing the liquid in every direction. No matter which way I turn, there's a healthy current waiting to invade my nose and mouth. It isn't long at all before my lungs start to bulge in my chest. I give up trying to breathe around the water and just try to breathe through it.

A poor decision.

My lungs, already cramped from desire of air, have to cough to send out the water I just let in, giving up the little oxygen I had left. Desperation flows hot with each pump of my heart, and I realize most dejectedly that I am going to die. Right here. Right now. After all I have fought through and survived tonight, some god damn stream falling from the dark is going to end me.

Fine. Let it end.

I accept my fate, and almost simultaneously the cover is lifted. The battle to refill my air tank comes in the form of coughs and gasps. It takes me a while to find a peaceful rhythm.

Fuck. That. Shit. That was awful.

I hear something slosh by my head. I let my eyes open and whip them to the source. Francis-ugly, disgusting, bitch ass Francis-is standing next to a large drum of water, splishing and splashing a towel inside. With my senses back, I realize what’s happening. He's waterboarding me.

HA! Waterboarding!

For the first time since the torture began, I get a small sense of both pleasure and power. Waterboarding: what a joke! Not much of a torture when I know my captor has strict orders not to kill me. Now that I've figured out what's happening, I can fight it. My lung capacity is grand: much greater than the average man's. No way Francis knows how long I can hold my breath. Since he can't let me die, all I have to do is hold my breath, pretend to struggle, and surely he will have to stop long before I actually need him to!

Prepared for what's to come, the only thing left to do is turn my eyes back toward the ceiling and wait for the water. I can feel Francis' eyes crawling over me; I do my best to ignore them. I'm tempted to tell him to get on with it, but I hold my tongue for fear of showing lack of it.

I close my eyes and start to hyperventilate just slightly-partly to act afraid, partly to make my blood rich with oxygen. The towel returns to my face nearly the moment I begin. As soon as the towel touches I pull in a huge breath. The rag prevents me from getting a full one, but with even half a lung I can comfortably hold my breath more than a minute: plenty of time.

The water doesn't come right away. I take the opportunity to finish my breath, sucking as hard as I can against the rag. A sense of triumph fills me as I reach full capacity, but it's short lived. A boot crashes down on my stomach, all my glorious air puffs out...

And
then
the water hits.

First reaction: panic. But that's a poor reaction. It won't help. Calm down, Chales, CALM DOWN! You aren't yet in dire need of oxygen, and he isn't going to let you die, remember? He has strict orders not to kill you. He may hurt you, but he can't let you die. You will breathe again... all this squirming-this resisting-it's just burning fuel and making things worse. Be still, and all will be well.

With the utmost resolve, I take hold of my convulsing mind and seize my body. The little air I had is long spent, and the fervor of suffocation is gnawing away at me absent mercy.

He isn't going to kill me. He isn't going to kill me. The water keeps flowing, my desperation keeps growing, and yet, I hold. He can't kill me. He isn't allowed to kill me...

GOD DAMNIT! Tell that to these steel strapped lungs! My blood is dry and flakey in my veins, and every stitch of every fiber of my being is rioting for air. I surpassed my limit long ago-surely he has to stop soon!

My fingers start to twitch.

I'm losing it. He should have stopped by now. Maybe he's fucking dumb and is going to kill me without even realizing it. Or maybe he just doesn't care.

My head begins to pulse. I'm dying.

All at once I break down-a massive fit of wrenching, twisting, and pulling-none of it to any avail. My entire body is burning up: the cruel result of extreme effort coupled with complete lack of oxygen. I try to scream but there is no air for it to ride out on, and my lungs nearly collapse from the attempt.

The explosive pressure in my head combines with the crunching weight in my chest and the ripping and snapping of everywhere else, leaving me a hideous mass of waste and despair. Fuck me. I'm dying.

Fuck me for not already being dead.

From deep within the shadow, onyx eyes peer out. Maybe I did fall back at the cliff, and everything happening now is just something my near dead body concocted to explain all the pain I got from falling. I certainly feel broken.

Or maybe... maybe I died, and this is hell.

The whole world becomes blinding light. Either I really did just die, or something ruptured in my head. When a spasm of coughing starts up, I realize that I'm free of the towel and am staring at the light bulb above me.

As soon as I start breathing I start crying. They come together, as if one can no longer exist without the other. "Please stop! No more. Please! No more." The words leak from my mouth of their own accord.

I get maybe one good breath, unfettered by gags and pleading, before the towel is thrown back on and the water flows anew. This time I just fucking scream, giving up what precious air I had in favor of marshaling the only form of rebellion I have left. I go berserk and let my body do as it will. The pain starts almost as soon as the water hits. The brief moment of freedom was not enough to relieve my anguish, and now that it's back, it's back with a vengeance.

Oddly, the water stops, and shortly after I'm able to suck weak breaths through the rag. Not sure what is happening, I breathe in a random, hacked up pattern, trying to keep as much oxygen in myself as possible at all times. When the towel is removed and I get a look at Francis' self-assured smile, I understand what's going on.

I'm defeated, and he knows it.

...Is he drooling?

"What was the man's name?" He asks again.

I shake my head, weeping. "You gotta let me think for a minute." I should probably just tell him. I think I might, but I need a break to decide. "I can't think under all this stress. Please, just give me a minute."

"Chales, my dear, why didn't you say so?" He sits me back up in the chair and places his hands on my shoulders. "Relax. Think." His fingers begin to frolic on my trap muscles; coyly massaging their way inside.

What the fuck is this shit? I don't like it-it certainly isn't helping me to relax-but I guess it's better than torture... so whatever. I rack my mind. How I can get out of this without giving up Sage?

I try to think of what else I can say, but I can't concentrate while Francis' chubby fingers play with my neck. He moves up to my head, massaging the base of my skull with his thumbs and the spot just behind my ears with his fingers. I must admit, it feels good, but he's touching me how I'd touch a lover, and
that
doesn't feel good at all. I pull my head away from the weirdness. Francis' hands shoot from my body like it's made of lava. I wince in preparation for his rebuttal, but there's no attack. No. Much worse. His arms fall around my neck, his hands land on my chest, and he keeps rubbing.

"Yum yum. Aren't you a strong boy."

I'm so flabbergasted I sprain the middle of my brain. How the hell did we arrive here? And where in god's name are we going? When Francis starts forming gentle circles around my nipples with the tips of his finger, I reach my limit.

"Stop! What the fuck are you doing?" I yell. Dread's presence is tight enough around me I’d almost call it my own. The strange looks Francis has been giving me are starting to make sense, and I don't like what it is I'm sensing.

"Didn't you want some time to relax?" He asks.

"I do, but don't fucking touch me!"

Francis frowns. Shit. Thank you, temper, but I shouldn't have said that. There was too much life in the words: too much resistance.

Slap! Slap-slap! I'm rocked back to the very edge of consciousness. The ferocity of the attack changes my tune completely. Oh, how I long for the tender touches we once shared!