Page 127 of Shattered In Darkness

They want a show.

I give them blank eyes, breathing deep, letting my head loll forward like I’m about to pass out.

They switch to water. Next guard, arms like clubs, hauls a freezing bucket over my head. Glacial shock. My nerves burn. I gasp. They love that. They wait until I’m shivering hard, then manacle my face, fingers in my jaw, and jam my head into the waiting barrel.

Water rushes up my nose, in my ears. Panic comes at first, the instinct to fight, to breathe. Every cell is screaming. They hold me down till the black creeps in, then wrench me out. I vomit all over their boots. They hit me again, for the mess. All part of the routine.

Flashing bright lights are aimed straight at my eyes. My head cracks back; I can’t blink. They shout in my ears, loud, senseless, overlapping voices. “Hey, fuckhead, you still alive?!” and “Break his fucking teeth, I dare you.” The handler never yells; he doesn’t have to.

When the light gets too bright, everything goes white. I float. Not far, just to the inside of my head.

Lola. Always Lola. I picture her face, that little dent between her eyebrows when she’s worried. I pretend she’s watching. I want her to see I never quit. Never beg.

One guard carves a slice into my forearm, just below the elbow. Thick blade, serrated, like something they’d use to butcher livestock. It’s a messy cut. Blood spills from parted flesh. It hurts, but nothing new. I laugh at them. They look confused, angry, then satisfied when they pour clear alcohol right into the gash, and that’s when it burns.

They want to see me convulse, see something break open in my eyes. “That all you’ve got?”

They up the ante. Next time, a switchblade at my groin. Cold steel. They don’t actually cut. They don’t have the balls. They just threaten and pretend. The guard pushes it against the seam of my jeans, hard enough to threaten skin. “You want to talk now, big man?” I spit at him. They slap me until my ears ring.

They take Polaroids.

Fucking Polaroids. White frame, perfect snapshot of each new wound, each bruise, each red stripe across my chest. They hold the photos up, show me. “Smile for the lady.” Flash. “Maybe she’ll keep these for her scrapbook.”

The thought of Lola getting those photos—it should kill me. It doesn’t. Just sharpens something inside, makes everything focused and clear.

They don’t know about the blade.

I snagged it three days ago, or maybe less. Time is dead here. Tiny shard, edge sharp enough to fillet a finger, hidden under the waistband of my jeans. I wedge it deeper every time they haul me up, let it bite my hip.

It’ll be worth it.

Every hour, same routine. Beat, water, light. Scream in my face. Sometimes they take turns; sometimes, I think they bet on what will make me howl.

I never howl.

Once I’m clear, I’ll hunt every one of them down and return the favor, piece by piece.

At some point, I lose track. The world gets blurry. Maybe they drugged me, maybe it’s hypothermia creeping in. Skin’s purpled over my ribs, frost starting along my collarbone. My mouth is cut and swollen. My hands feel numb, except where the chain bites so deep I can feel my own pulse.

Night comes. Someone shoves a bag over my head and unlock my hands. I drop, legs too weak to hold my weight. They barely catch me before my knees hit the cement, then drag me across the puddles of the floor. My heels leave streaks of blood and dirty water.

A loading dock. Too-bright lights, snow blowing sideways, wind loud enough to cover any scream. They hustle me fast. I hear the supervisor behind, maybe a gun cocked, just in case. They want me alive, for now. For her.

The van is reinforced. All steel, no windows, metal bench coated with old stains. They cuff my hands in front, zip ties biting into skin already cut open. My clothes are soaked. The air inside is colder than outside. Ice is on the floor, black and filthy.

The guard shoves me down but stays with me in the back, his boots on my knee to keep me from kicking. He says nothing. Another man up front, driver, nervous, fingers drumming the dash. I hear the click of a handgun shifting on the seat beside him.

My hood comes off for a second, causing blinding pain from the overhead light. The driver leans over, pokes my face. “Still breathing? Don’t want him dead yet.” He has wolfish eyes, pale and glassy. I memorize them.

The rear guard’s thumb digs into the back of my neck. “He’s fine. Let’s go before he pisses himself again.”

The van lurches forward. Back in the darkness, I keep my head down, eyes half-closed. Feigning gone, feigning broken.

All the while, the blade in my jeans presses against my skin, burning cold.

The driver and rear guard talk, just loud enough for me to catch snatches. “Drop him off north, out past the private road. Keep his hands tied. If he starts shit, dump it in the woods. The boss won’t care as long as he’s dead.”

The “it.” Not a man, just a thing to be erased.