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Description
Chapter 2 – Retrieved
My eyes slowly creep open and I can see familiar sight of my room; the same window allowing for the first rays of sunshine enter for the day, my old desk with its cast iron legs and its peeling white paint, the soft, worn appearance of the wood floor.
I stare at the ceiling trying to recollect the events of the past day, but it all just seems to be a giant blur, like an out of focus picture. My mind races as the thought begins to disappear, I chase after it, not wanting it to slip through my fingers. What happened yesterday? Or was it just a dream? I remember sadness; I remember pain, but why? The child's trusting eyes, so full of courage beginning to well with tears, flashes through my mind. I remember helping him place his arm back into the new sling, feeling the bones grind and shift under his skin. I had helped him with what I could, just to make him feel even worse than he did before – is that fair? He helped me when I was lost, and that's how I repaid him… But – no, that can't be all… I focus more on the memory, trying to remember what else happened with this small, unknown child. He pointed me in the direction towards the center of town; I started walking down the road in the direction he had indicated, I could hear him sobbing, but what else? Suddenly it dawns on me, I remember what happened, I stopped walking and went back to the child. I gave him money for food, I let him keep the jacket that had become his sling, I gave him a hug and whispered something… what was it?
"What the hell am I missing?" I mutter.
A faint memory comes trickling back to me, I asked him his number must be.
"3078-943"
"well three," I whispered (I faintly remember my mother telling me that simply calling someone by their first number is considered a sign of endearment to us numbers). "Be ready."
"Be Ready"? What on Earth was I thinking?! I could be executed as a suspect for treason if anybody heard me say that!
The sudden shock of realizing what had been said causes me to sit straight up in bed as if I had been stabbed in the back. But – something draws me back, holding me down and not allowing me to sit up. My hands grope the sheets around me trying to discover the source of this issue. I'm tethered to my bed with a strap around my chest! I immediately begin tearing at the strip, trying to fight my way to freedom, but it won't budge. I feel a pressure in my right pocket as I try to move and it jogs my memory to the fact that I have a box opener in my pocket that I forgot to return to one of the teachers at the school the day before.
I quickly slip my hand into my pocket and pull out the cold, metal tube and slide out the razor. Not wanting to wait for whoever imprisoned me in my own bed to release me, I quickly slice through the strap holding me to my bed and quickly scramble out and stumble to my feet on the slick floor. Oh the sweet benefits of forgetting to change before bed.
After a few minutes I take a few steps forward to examine the strap that was holding me to my bed. I take it up in my hands and begin to pull on it from either end, but it doesn't budge.
"well, it's too strong and too high of a quality for it to have been produced by a number, maybe one of the privileged… But they find physical and tedious labor below them. Besides, why would either of them break into my house just to strap me to my bed?"
As I say this, I begin to realize who to blame as the trespasser, but I come to this conclusion a little too late. I hear the door to my room creak open and I turn just as the guard levels his gun at my chest. I drop to the floor just in time and I hear two objects whizzing over my head at the level of where I used to be.
"What have I done?!" I scream at the guard.
There is no reply; he simply lowers the gun so that the barrel is again pointed at me.
I can't stay here! I'll be dead if I just lay here! I am not going to just lay on my stomach and calmly take a bullet to the head!
I can hear the whispers from the night before in my head. This is the enemy, right here. I tell myself. What are you going to do now, just die?
Rage begins to fill every inch of my body. This person standing here in front of me is no better than me, no better than my parents. No better than the rest of the numbers for that matter! Yet he still claims that he is, he feels no guilt in walking into my home and killing me, or any of us! This can't be right! We actually call this world a home?! It's a living hell, a nightmare!
I roll to the side just as he opens fire on the floor. I don't wait for help or even bother to call; there is no help because this is the help. I just charge straight at the guard.
What am I thinking?! I can't do anything to him! If I hurt him in any way, I'll be as good as dead if they catch me! But what am I now?
I don't have time to decide what I'm going to do though; I'm on top of the guard in three steps. I can see him reach out to grab me as I approach. But I can see an opening, his arms are too close together and his feet too far apart. I side-step his feet and duck under his arms, my right foot lands behind his right and I bring my right hand crashing into his chest with as much force as I can muster – I can feel his ribs heave and eventually give with a deafening crack. The momentum and placement of my right foot causes him to tumble backwards into the middle of the floor, sputtering for air, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
I stare at the man bleeding on my floor in shock. I just brought down a guard… Slowly the disbelief fades from my mind and urgency begins to take its place.
I can't stay here, there's no way that he's the only guard, they never are alone.
Slowly I begin to walk down the hall towards the staircase at the end. About halfway down the hall, I turn to check on the state of the guard, making sure that he was exactly where I left him.
He's still lying on the floor, blood seeping from his mouth – I can hear him sputtering and gurgling for breath.
I can't leave him like that to die, as much as I hate him for what he has done, him and the rest of them; I can't let him die like this – not like this.
Slowly I make my way back to the guard lying on the floor.
He'll surely drown in his own blood if he stays on his back… But rolling him onto his stomach would make him lay on his ribs. Depending on how they broke, that can kill him also, they could puncture his lungs, making him drown faster, or they could puncture other vital organs… Well, that's probably the lesser of two evils, at least he'd die sooner…
I slide my hands under his back and try to roll him, but he has to be at least two-hundred and seventy pounds, there's no way I can roll him like that. But I have to try; I can't let him die like that. I sit on the ground next to his unconscious body and brace my legs against the opposite wall of the hallway, using it as leverage to help roll him. After a good ten minutes of effort and struggling, I finally manage to get him on his side. I can see him cringing from the pain even though he's not even awake to fully experience it.
Well, the hard part's done at least… time for the moment of truth, whether he'll live or die.
I brace myself to make the last heave that will send him toppling over onto his stomach, as he rolls over I can just imagine the excruciating pain he's in. The jagged edges of the broken bones digging into his flesh, the feeling of bones grinding together and crunching; I can even hear his ribs grinding together as he rolls. As he comes to a halt I can see from where I am sitting in the floor that blood has poured from his mouth and covered the floor in a small pool already. At this he lets out a small cough that must have caused even more damage begins blood splatters the floor in front of his unconscious face.
I stand back up and I begin to survey the damage to my home glancing back into my room. Well, there are bullet holes there in the wall, and there in the floor, and the wall will definitely need to be repainted – and the floor with the blood... My gaze drifts back to the unconscious man at my feet. How did I even manage to knock him down in the first place? Let alone break his ribs with that hit. Huh, strange.
Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in the left side of my neck, just above my collarbone, similar to that of a bee sting. My left hand instinctively shoots to the afflicted area, but I don't feel skin, no, I feel a metal cylinder protruding from my neck. It's a tranquilizer dart. As recognition hits me, I feel like Atlas, like the entire world has been placed on my shoulders and I am the sole bearer of its enormous weight. I sink to my knees on the cold wooden floor and slowly slump to my side. I crash to the ground, leading head first, the cold wood against my cheek is almost – soothing. The coolness is similar to that of the rain from the previous day, but in a more aggressive and abrasive way.
As my vision begins to fade, I use what strength I have left to run my hand across the familiar floor, feeling every grain, it is almost worn completely smooth, but still there, holding on as best as it can, trying to tell one more story – maybe this is that story.
"Now I know how my parents felt." I mutter before I finally slip away.
This ends up being the first time in many months that I have dreamt of anything, considering the circumstances it became almost pleasant. But soon enough I wish I had never had the dreams, all they really are is a bunch of painful memories fighting for a turn to play in my head.
I can hear my parents' soft voices, slowly fading away into nothingness, but I cannot picture their faces. I dream of running after them, I don't want to be left behind, not again, I can't be alone, I would do anything to stay with them. But I subconsciously know what that means, how impossible that would be. 3078-943's eyes return to my thoughts, so full of courage, so calm, so trusting. His faint smile, so cheerful – how long would that last? Shattered images of those eyes, full of tears, pass through my brain like light refracts through a raindrop. I ruined that poor child's life… I can hear the door bursting in, the screaming – and the gunshots. I can hear the thud of bodies hitting the floor – my parents' bodies. Why did they have to die when I get to live? I have wasted this life that they gave me either way, I'm not even nineteen and I already failed… But, there's something else… the whispers from the night before… I can hear them again… "You didn't condemn your parents to death, Dorban and those other bastards did that…" Could the whispers be right? "Find a reason to live, you are meant for much more than to just die and cause misery."
These words feel like electricity coursing through my body, they provide hope. They are not bad memories; they are what will give me life. Charles Dorban must pay, him and all those who stand beside him.
I dream of the guard, firing his gun without any hesitation with such a look of ease on his face. He didn't care if I died, he would have enjoyed that. I dream of the panic, the adrenaline running through my veins, it's one giant blur as I rush the guard. The rage was – exhilarating… I remember the feeling of his bones giving, the sound of them breaking, almost like shotgun shells in my ears. Standing over his bleeding and broken form, it gave me the feeling that it was possible to bring them down to my level – they are not invincible.
I'm coming crashing back to reality soon enough though, in a very literal way at that. My head is slammed against the steel table with such force that I am torn from my drug induced slumber. I can feel the warm blood already flowing from my forehead, my eyes are hidden behind a curtain of blood, all I can see is red. It pours down my face and neck, running into the collar of my shirt, completely drenching it in a matter of seconds as if a bucket of water was dumped on me.
I can feel my hair grabbed from behind and forcibly pulled back, my head with it. I feel a burning pain across my forehead as the skin is stretched and pulled apart where the skin was severed from the first blow, releasing another wave of blood.
"We only wanted to talk to you, and you had to go and make it difficult." Says a voice from behind, I would assume it is also the owner of the hand.
With this I receive another slam against the table, more blood follows - but not from my forehead this time. I can no longer feel pain in my face, I have gone numb from the wound in my forehead, but that doesn't stop me from feeling the peculiar angle of which my nose is now sitting as my face rests against the cold table. I may be still blinded by my own blood, but I don't need to be able to see it to know that my nose is broken and now has a hook in it at the bridge of my nose, almost parallel to the flat surface of the table.
"You broke some of Jamison's ribs; he almost died because of you," The voice growls.
"He also lived because of me," I splutter, blood running into my mouth with each word, making me cough and sending it splattering across the table.
My head is wrenched back for a second time, but no more blood flows from my forehead. Maybe I have no more blood even left in my head. Slowly I begin to open my eyes, but it doesn't help me at all, the room is almost completely black… How can he possibly see in this darkness?
"Oh? And where do you come off justifying that you filthy number. Do you know what could have happened when you rolled him onto his stomach like that?!"
I can hear his rage building. This Jamison person must be a friend of his.
"Ha! Believe me; I did think about what could've happened. But would you have preferred your friend to have slowly drowned in his own blood, suffering for minutes on end? Or would you have preferred that he had died quick and painless in his unconscious state if the worst had happened? Besides, I probably know more about that than you, all you know is how to pull a trigger! For a filthy number, I have still probably been in school longer than you ever were; one of the privileged!" At this I burst into laughter, practically choking on the blood flowing into my mouth as I do so, but I have become accustomed to the metallic taste by now.
Why the hell am I laughing?! Why am I like this?!
The man releases his grasp on my hair and my head slumps back to its normal position. I can hear his footsteps retreating from behind my chair, but they are still echoing off of the walls of the cell, reverberating around the room. Instead of trying to follow the man with my eyes, I know that it's completely useless. I simply stare at the ceiling, a constant smile glued to my face.
"Wipe that smile off of your face you prick!" He shouts.
But it falls on deaf ears, for the smile doesn't fade one bit. Soon enough it feels as if I had been struck by a brick.
"I told you to wipe that smile off of your damn face!" He screams.
But it still does no good, the threat doesn't register in my mind and my body doesn't even try to end the smiling.
Within moments the man is back on me, raining down blow after blow, each one feeling like bricks striking me across my face and torso. The onslaught seems to last for hours, but I just laugh maniacally through the entire ordeal. I feel as if my consciousness is a third party in the room, like I am one of the guards chuckling at the poor misfortune of some fool. But I am not one of those guards, I am that poor fool, so why am I laughing?
I can tell the guard has finally had enough for his barrage of punches finally ends. But what he does next truly surprises me, I can see his silhouette on the other side of me now, but barely. After his assault my face is so swollen and bloody that I can hardly see anything. He leans against the other chair and stares at me, unblinking, but I can see well enough to see the spark of hate in his eyes.
In one swift motion he has ceased the other stainless steel chair (like the table) and thrown it across the table; I am handcuffed to the chair at the ankles along with my wrists, so I have no way to defend myself, even if I had the time. The heavy metal object crashes into my chest knocking the wind out of me and sending my own chair off balance. I can feel the chair start to lean backwards and my own axis along with it. Instinctively I lean forward and struggle against the cuffs that bind me to the falling chair, trying to correct the downward arc, but it is already too far gone.
The chair quickly rushes backwards towards the concrete floor, me along with it gasping for breath from the air being knocked out of me. My stomach enters my throat as the forces of gravity pull me to the floor. I can see the man with a crooked smile on his face from across the room, the dim light giving him a hellish appearance, fitting to the hell that he has helped put me through. I slam into the floor, the concrete as solid and unforgiving as ever, immediately knocking me unconscious as my skull collides with the floor with a crack.
The darkness and cold has never been so comforting… But I know that when I wake up, if I wake up at all, that the torment has only just begun. What did he mean that they "only wanted to talk"? Strapping me to a bed and rushing in with a gun blazing seems much more hostile than a simple chat… I know that I have a long ways to go, but it all starts here, vengeance begins now. Slowly I fall into the far too familiar state of unconsciousness and dreams ready to accept me into their presence.

Description
Chapter 2 – Retrieved
My eyes slowly creep open and I can see familiar sight of my room; the same window allowing for the first rays of sunshine enter for the day, my old desk with its cast iron legs and its peeling white paint, the soft, worn appearance of the wood floor.
I stare at the ceiling trying to recollect the events of the past day, but it all just seems to be a giant blur, like an out of focus picture. My mind races as the thought begins to disappear, I chase after it, not wanting it to slip through my fingers. What happened yesterday? Or was it just a dream? I remember sadness; I remember pain, but why? The child's trusting eyes, so full of courage beginning to well with tears, flashes through my mind. I remember helping him place his arm back into the new sling, feeling the bones grind and shift under his skin. I had helped him with what I could, just to make him feel even worse than he did before – is that fair? He helped me when I was lost, and that's how I repaid him… But – no, that can't be all… I focus more on the memory, trying to remember what else happened with this small, unknown child. He pointed me in the direction towards the center of town; I started walking down the road in the direction he had indicated, I could hear him sobbing, but what else? Suddenly it dawns on me, I remember what happened, I stopped walking and went back to the child. I gave him money for food, I let him keep the jacket that had become his sling, I gave him a hug and whispered something… what was it?
"What the hell am I missing?" I mutter.
A faint memory comes trickling back to me, I asked him his number must be.
"3078-943"
"well three," I whispered (I faintly remember my mother telling me that simply calling someone by their first number is considered a sign of endearment to us numbers). "Be ready."
"Be Ready"? What on Earth was I thinking?! I could be executed as a suspect for treason if anybody heard me say that!
The sudden shock of realizing what had been said causes me to sit straight up in bed as if I had been stabbed in the back. But – something draws me back, holding me down and not allowing me to sit up. My hands grope the sheets around me trying to discover the source of this issue. I'm tethered to my bed with a strap around my chest! I immediately begin tearing at the strip, trying to fight my way to freedom, but it won't budge. I feel a pressure in my right pocket as I try to move and it jogs my memory to the fact that I have a box opener in my pocket that I forgot to return to one of the teachers at the school the day before.
I quickly slip my hand into my pocket and pull out the cold, metal tube and slide out the razor. Not wanting to wait for whoever imprisoned me in my own bed to release me, I quickly slice through the strap holding me to my bed and quickly scramble out and stumble to my feet on the slick floor. Oh the sweet benefits of forgetting to change before bed.
After a few minutes I take a few steps forward to examine the strap that was holding me to my bed. I take it up in my hands and begin to pull on it from either end, but it doesn't budge.
"well, it's too strong and too high of a quality for it to have been produced by a number, maybe one of the privileged… But they find physical and tedious labor below them. Besides, why would either of them break into my house just to strap me to my bed?"
As I say this, I begin to realize who to blame as the trespasser, but I come to this conclusion a little too late. I hear the door to my room creak open and I turn just as the guard levels his gun at my chest. I drop to the floor just in time and I hear two objects whizzing over my head at the level of where I used to be.
"What have I done?!" I scream at the guard.
There is no reply; he simply lowers the gun so that the barrel is again pointed at me.
I can't stay here! I'll be dead if I just lay here! I am not going to just lay on my stomach and calmly take a bullet to the head!
I can hear the whispers from the night before in my head. This is the enemy, right here. I tell myself. What are you going to do now, just die?
Rage begins to fill every inch of my body. This person standing here in front of me is no better than me, no better than my parents. No better than the rest of the numbers for that matter! Yet he still claims that he is, he feels no guilt in walking into my home and killing me, or any of us! This can't be right! We actually call this world a home?! It's a living hell, a nightmare!
I roll to the side just as he opens fire on the floor. I don't wait for help or even bother to call; there is no help because this is the help. I just charge straight at the guard.
What am I thinking?! I can't do anything to him! If I hurt him in any way, I'll be as good as dead if they catch me! But what am I now?
I don't have time to decide what I'm going to do though; I'm on top of the guard in three steps. I can see him reach out to grab me as I approach. But I can see an opening, his arms are too close together and his feet too far apart. I side-step his feet and duck under his arms, my right foot lands behind his right and I bring my right hand crashing into his chest with as much force as I can muster – I can feel his ribs heave and eventually give with a deafening crack. The momentum and placement of my right foot causes him to tumble backwards into the middle of the floor, sputtering for air, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
I stare at the man bleeding on my floor in shock. I just brought down a guard… Slowly the disbelief fades from my mind and urgency begins to take its place.
I can't stay here, there's no way that he's the only guard, they never are alone.
Slowly I begin to walk down the hall towards the staircase at the end. About halfway down the hall, I turn to check on the state of the guard, making sure that he was exactly where I left him.
He's still lying on the floor, blood seeping from his mouth – I can hear him sputtering and gurgling for breath.
I can't leave him like that to die, as much as I hate him for what he has done, him and the rest of them; I can't let him die like this – not like this.
Slowly I make my way back to the guard lying on the floor.
He'll surely drown in his own blood if he stays on his back… But rolling him onto his stomach would make him lay on his ribs. Depending on how they broke, that can kill him also, they could puncture his lungs, making him drown faster, or they could puncture other vital organs… Well, that's probably the lesser of two evils, at least he'd die sooner…
I slide my hands under his back and try to roll him, but he has to be at least two-hundred and seventy pounds, there's no way I can roll him like that. But I have to try; I can't let him die like that. I sit on the ground next to his unconscious body and brace my legs against the opposite wall of the hallway, using it as leverage to help roll him. After a good ten minutes of effort and struggling, I finally manage to get him on his side. I can see him cringing from the pain even though he's not even awake to fully experience it.
Well, the hard part's done at least… time for the moment of truth, whether he'll live or die.
I brace myself to make the last heave that will send him toppling over onto his stomach, as he rolls over I can just imagine the excruciating pain he's in. The jagged edges of the broken bones digging into his flesh, the feeling of bones grinding together and crunching; I can even hear his ribs grinding together as he rolls. As he comes to a halt I can see from where I am sitting in the floor that blood has poured from his mouth and covered the floor in a small pool already. At this he lets out a small cough that must have caused even more damage begins blood splatters the floor in front of his unconscious face.
I stand back up and I begin to survey the damage to my home glancing back into my room. Well, there are bullet holes there in the wall, and there in the floor, and the wall will definitely need to be repainted – and the floor with the blood... My gaze drifts back to the unconscious man at my feet. How did I even manage to knock him down in the first place? Let alone break his ribs with that hit. Huh, strange.
Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in the left side of my neck, just above my collarbone, similar to that of a bee sting. My left hand instinctively shoots to the afflicted area, but I don't feel skin, no, I feel a metal cylinder protruding from my neck. It's a tranquilizer dart. As recognition hits me, I feel like Atlas, like the entire world has been placed on my shoulders and I am the sole bearer of its enormous weight. I sink to my knees on the cold wooden floor and slowly slump to my side. I crash to the ground, leading head first, the cold wood against my cheek is almost – soothing. The coolness is similar to that of the rain from the previous day, but in a more aggressive and abrasive way.
As my vision begins to fade, I use what strength I have left to run my hand across the familiar floor, feeling every grain, it is almost worn completely smooth, but still there, holding on as best as it can, trying to tell one more story – maybe this is that story.
"Now I know how my parents felt." I mutter before I finally slip away.
This ends up being the first time in many months that I have dreamt of anything, considering the circumstances it became almost pleasant. But soon enough I wish I had never had the dreams, all they really are is a bunch of painful memories fighting for a turn to play in my head.
I can hear my parents' soft voices, slowly fading away into nothingness, but I cannot picture their faces. I dream of running after them, I don't want to be left behind, not again, I can't be alone, I would do anything to stay with them. But I subconsciously know what that means, how impossible that would be. 3078-943's eyes return to my thoughts, so full of courage, so calm, so trusting. His faint smile, so cheerful – how long would that last? Shattered images of those eyes, full of tears, pass through my brain like light refracts through a raindrop. I ruined that poor child's life… I can hear the door bursting in, the screaming – and the gunshots. I can hear the thud of bodies hitting the floor – my parents' bodies. Why did they have to die when I get to live? I have wasted this life that they gave me either way, I'm not even nineteen and I already failed… But, there's something else… the whispers from the night before… I can hear them again… "You didn't condemn your parents to death, Dorban and those other bastards did that…" Could the whispers be right? "Find a reason to live, you are meant for much more than to just die and cause misery."
These words feel like electricity coursing through my body, they provide hope. They are not bad memories; they are what will give me life. Charles Dorban must pay, him and all those who stand beside him.
I dream of the guard, firing his gun without any hesitation with such a look of ease on his face. He didn't care if I died, he would have enjoyed that. I dream of the panic, the adrenaline running through my veins, it's one giant blur as I rush the guard. The rage was – exhilarating… I remember the feeling of his bones giving, the sound of them breaking, almost like shotgun shells in my ears. Standing over his bleeding and broken form, it gave me the feeling that it was possible to bring them down to my level – they are not invincible.
I'm coming crashing back to reality soon enough though, in a very literal way at that. My head is slammed against the steel table with such force that I am torn from my drug induced slumber. I can feel the warm blood already flowing from my forehead, my eyes are hidden behind a curtain of blood, all I can see is red. It pours down my face and neck, running into the collar of my shirt, completely drenching it in a matter of seconds as if a bucket of water was dumped on me.
I can feel my hair grabbed from behind and forcibly pulled back, my head with it. I feel a burning pain across my forehead as the skin is stretched and pulled apart where the skin was severed from the first blow, releasing another wave of blood.
"We only wanted to talk to you, and you had to go and make it difficult." Says a voice from behind, I would assume it is also the owner of the hand.
With this I receive another slam against the table, more blood follows - but not from my forehead this time. I can no longer feel pain in my face, I have gone numb from the wound in my forehead, but that doesn't stop me from feeling the peculiar angle of which my nose is now sitting as my face rests against the cold table. I may be still blinded by my own blood, but I don't need to be able to see it to know that my nose is broken and now has a hook in it at the bridge of my nose, almost parallel to the flat surface of the table.
"You broke some of Jamison's ribs; he almost died because of you," The voice growls.
"He also lived because of me," I splutter, blood running into my mouth with each word, making me cough and sending it splattering across the table.
My head is wrenched back for a second time, but no more blood flows from my forehead. Maybe I have no more blood even left in my head. Slowly I begin to open my eyes, but it doesn't help me at all, the room is almost completely black… How can he possibly see in this darkness?
"Oh? And where do you come off justifying that you filthy number. Do you know what could have happened when you rolled him onto his stomach like that?!"
I can hear his rage building. This Jamison person must be a friend of his.
"Ha! Believe me; I did think about what could've happened. But would you have preferred your friend to have slowly drowned in his own blood, suffering for minutes on end? Or would you have preferred that he had died quick and painless in his unconscious state if the worst had happened? Besides, I probably know more about that than you, all you know is how to pull a trigger! For a filthy number, I have still probably been in school longer than you ever were; one of the privileged!" At this I burst into laughter, practically choking on the blood flowing into my mouth as I do so, but I have become accustomed to the metallic taste by now.
Why the hell am I laughing?! Why am I like this?!
The man releases his grasp on my hair and my head slumps back to its normal position. I can hear his footsteps retreating from behind my chair, but they are still echoing off of the walls of the cell, reverberating around the room. Instead of trying to follow the man with my eyes, I know that it's completely useless. I simply stare at the ceiling, a constant smile glued to my face.
"Wipe that smile off of your face you prick!" He shouts.
But it falls on deaf ears, for the smile doesn't fade one bit. Soon enough it feels as if I had been struck by a brick.
"I told you to wipe that smile off of your damn face!" He screams.
But it still does no good, the threat doesn't register in my mind and my body doesn't even try to end the smiling.
Within moments the man is back on me, raining down blow after blow, each one feeling like bricks striking me across my face and torso. The onslaught seems to last for hours, but I just laugh maniacally through the entire ordeal. I feel as if my consciousness is a third party in the room, like I am one of the guards chuckling at the poor misfortune of some fool. But I am not one of those guards, I am that poor fool, so why am I laughing?
I can tell the guard has finally had enough for his barrage of punches finally ends. But what he does next truly surprises me, I can see his silhouette on the other side of me now, but barely. After his assault my face is so swollen and bloody that I can hardly see anything. He leans against the other chair and stares at me, unblinking, but I can see well enough to see the spark of hate in his eyes.
In one swift motion he has ceased the other stainless steel chair (like the table) and thrown it across the table; I am handcuffed to the chair at the ankles along with my wrists, so I have no way to defend myself, even if I had the time. The heavy metal object crashes into my chest knocking the wind out of me and sending my own chair off balance. I can feel the chair start to lean backwards and my own axis along with it. Instinctively I lean forward and struggle against the cuffs that bind me to the falling chair, trying to correct the downward arc, but it is already too far gone.
The chair quickly rushes backwards towards the concrete floor, me along with it gasping for breath from the air being knocked out of me. My stomach enters my throat as the forces of gravity pull me to the floor. I can see the man with a crooked smile on his face from across the room, the dim light giving him a hellish appearance, fitting to the hell that he has helped put me through. I slam into the floor, the concrete as solid and unforgiving as ever, immediately knocking me unconscious as my skull collides with the floor with a crack.
The darkness and cold has never been so comforting… But I know that when I wake up, if I wake up at all, that the torment has only just begun. What did he mean that they "only wanted to talk"? Strapping me to a bed and rushing in with a gun blazing seems much more hostile than a simple chat… I know that I have a long ways to go, but it all starts here, vengeance begins now. Slowly I fall into the far too familiar state of unconsciousness and dreams ready to accept me into their presence.