Do. Your. Worst! »Feitan Portor«

Method 41 - The Zoldyck Manor

I awoke from my (involuntary) slumber to the sound of water. Drip, drip, dropping on what could only be the cold hard floor of the Zoldyck manor's dungeon, the cold chill in the air a testament to my assumption as it crept up my spine like the mouse from that one nursery rhyme. What was it called? hickey dickory dock? A strange name for certain, I think they only chose it because it rhymes with clock—

Hell, what did Illumi put in that tranquilliser?

My eyes fluttered, but I was unable to keep them open — the substance Illumi drugged me with, not wishing for me to be fully conscious just yet. I opted to keep them closed for nothing more than my own comfort. Fighting against the drug would likely only make it more effective.

To get a better understanding of my condition, I attempted to drag my arms towards me, but to no avail. It was quickly then that I observed just how cold my wrists were. I had been chained, though for some reason not high enough to be suspended into the air, something that was often done as a way to disorientate the torturee. Manipulation of any kind was a staple of sorts amongst the Zoldyck household.

I was quick to understand that my shoes had also been removed, the hard grey tile flooring beneath my feet causing my entire body to absorb the cold through it. The feet being the primary judge on one's body temperature. This was surely another reason for my lack of suspension.

In my attempts to move, a lock of hair gently fell over my face. I tried to my greatest abilities to blow it away, but, as luck would have it, it only caused more hair to fall over my face, getting in my mouth and irritating my (already heavy) lashes.

I frowned. Annoying.

After what felt like minutes that could only have been a very few mere seconds, my eyes gradually began losing the sleep that was entrapping them. Daintily, I managed to get my eyes open — blinking for a wee while just so I could better adjust to my surroundings. The flickering light overhead doing absolutely nothing to help my situation — count three for the disorientation techniques.

The walls were a dull grey, the dirt and slight cracks being off-putting enough to not allow for one's imagination to run wild against it in the way an artist visualises against a blank canvas. To the side of me, at a distance just out of reach, was a stark white surgical table, a leather surgical instrument holder rolled tightly, itching to be released from its confinement. 

All too soon, the door to the room opened, the force of it being just slightly too much, causing it to crash against the wall.

I watched between strands of hair as feet slowly came into view from the top of the stairs. The emptiness of each step keying me in to exactly who was approaching. The earlier crash of the door was likely an attempt to stir me awake if I hadn't been already.

I waited, without much option, as Illumi made his way down the stairs.

"Ah, you're awake. I trust you're still feeling drousy?" His voice held an air of amusement to it one rarely noticable enough to pick up on.

I opened my mouth to respond but found it much too dry to even begin forming words.

Illumi frowned and made move for a small tap in the corner, filling up a glass with it. After a moment, he was back in front of me.

"Here." he tipped my head back, allowing the water to pass greedily down my throat. "Now, with that sorted, we can get onto business."

He looked me over for a moment — eyes glaring into my own and yet with no malice present. He then turned sharply on his heels and treaded carefully over to the surgical table before rolling out the leather holder and picking up one of the many tools.