memento mori [DNF]

Chapter 12

Clay's eyes opened and he instinctively shot up, hand reaching for his knife sheath. Finding nothing in his sheath, and no one else in the room, he relaxed a bit. His memories came flooding back to him and he looked down at his leg. He pushed back the blanket that was on top of him and saw that his pants had been cut off just above his injury. Previously George had just torn a larger hole in them in order to treat the wound, but he figured George thought it'd be better to just get red of the extra fabric, although he did feel quite ridiculous. His leg had been bandaged and, even though it was still throbbing, the pain seemed to be a bit better. However, George wasn't in the room and this was worrisome to Clay. Two men had stumbled into the basement, but one had left to check the rest of the building, while one stayed behind with him. He worried that he might've come back and killed George. He couldn't quite remember what the man wanted, but to the best of his knowledge, he was just asking basic interrogation questions like if he was alone or had any weapons. He thankfully wasn't alone with the man for too long before George showed up, but even then, the man did a number on him. In addition to prying open his leg wound, he also made several incisions across his body and arms. Clay noticed there were small pieces of fabric plastered across his body, assumably over the smaller wounds. However, his leg pain was still overpowering the pain of any other injuries that he had sustained.

He heard a shuffle coming from outside the door and tensed up. With no knife, he was useless, but George had left the bottle of alcohol on the table for Clay. He cautiously stood up, bracing himself with his arms, and hopped to the table using his good leg. He grabbed the bottle and slowly started using the furniture and boxes around the room to help him get to the door. He peered outside of the cracked door and was surprised to see a long hallway. He figured it was just a small basement and not one that held multiple rooms. He pushed the door further open so that he could fit through, but the rusted hinges caused it to creak loudly.

He cursed in his head knowing that whoever was down here must've heard it. He quietly slipped through the door with the bottle ready in his hand. The door to his left was open. He heard another scuffle before a figure emerged from the dark room. He raised his bottled hand up, with the intent of bringing it down on the figure, but he was stopped. A warm hand had grabbed his wrist.

"No need to be violent." The figure stepped into the dim light. It was George. He was smiling.

"George. There's another one in the building and he knows where the basement is."

"I know. I already took care of him. We're all good. But I do think we should stay under for a while in case the others come looking. There's at least four but probably-"

"Where is he?" Clay desperately asked. He wanted to know where the man was who tortured him. Clay was no sadist, but more than anything he wanted to slice up that man just as he had done to him.

"Why?" George knew why, but he wanted to hear Clay say it.

"Idiot. Just tell me where he is."

George pointed down the hallway, "Number three." Clay noticed that all the doors had numbers loosely clinging to the peeling paint. He hobbled down the hallway dragging his leg behind him, ignoring the pain. George wore a concerned look on his face that Clay never got to see. Without turning his head or stopping his slow pace, Clay stretched out his arm behind him. "Give me your knife."

"No."

"Dammit George just-"

"No. Wait until you get into the room."

His anger towards George only made him walk faster until he reached the room. He flung the door open and propelled it into the inside wall, causing a loud bang. Before him sat two men, one draped over the other. Dead.

Dammit.

Clay fell to the ground and dragged himself closer. He recognized the man on the bottom as the one who cut him up. He shoved the other man off the body and was almost appalled by what he found. The man was missing all his fingers on one hand, and the other entire lower arm was gone. There were cuts all over him, and bruises. Although Clay realized that could've just been due to the pooling of blood that occurred in dead bodies. He didn't see any deep stab wounds except the one that he had given him, meaning that he probably bled out from his arm. He glanced over at the other man. He fared much better, just having a visible slit neck.

Clay was upset and unsure of what to think. The man had done nothing to to George directly, but still, George had tortured him to death.

Clay got up off the ground and stepped out of the room to find George standing exactly where he was when Clay left him. George wore a blank expression, which only scared Clay. George didn't move, but Clay kept walking, shoving the bottle of alcohol into George's chest as he passed him.

"Should've let me handle it." Clay said without making eye contact.

George, clutching the bottle, followed him back into the room.

"Did you think I would've left them down here alive?" Clay didn't respond. "Well I wasn't going to let you chop him up while your leg is still like that. I'm surprised you're even walking."

"Chop him up? You're the one who did that. I wouldn't have done half of what you did. It was disgusting." Clay finally had turned around and met eyes with George. Clay was fuming, not completely sure as to why. All the bones in his body were telling him that what George did was wrong, but Clay couldn't even convince himself that he truly wouldn't have done the same.

Despite George being cocky and impulsive, Clay couldn't help but picture him as a little kid. Clutching a bottle for safety whilst getting lectured.

George didn't respond. Instead he just stood there staring at Clay. Half with pity and half with concern.

"Thanks." Clay finally muttered. It was an appreciative statement only out of obligation for Clay.

George heard this and perked up. "No problem! I also found a salve in their camp which is probably why your leg feels better and you can walk. There wasn't a ton left though so I didn't use any on the cuts on your arms and chest. They're not all that deep though so they'll heal on their own in time and hopefully with no infection if we keep cleaning them."

George continued to talk about his adventures outside, but Clay was tuning them out. Yet again, George reminded him of a small child, but instead of fear, he harbored pure excitement. To be able to move from a tense moment between the two of them to excitedly acting out his adventure outside the basement, was beyond Clay. George really was something.

Unbeknownst to Clay, George was surprising himself as well. He had never been around anyone his own age, and had left his uncle's house when he was only 13. He had been on his own ever since, and had never had more than a days long relationship with someone. George wondered if he was acting this way to cheer Clay up, or if this was just who he really was. For years he only held a stern look on his face while working for the doctors. Never smiling or allowing himself to act out of his predefined character that he had forced himself into when he moved out. Acting giddy or excited when he lived with his uncle would just result in a beating, so he had suppressed the urge. However, being around Clay had brought that long forgotten urge back, mostly without George even realizing. But in this moment, he remembered, and he was flooded with a series of questions about who he really was. This one boy, despite being fairly short of remarks, drew him out of his serious deadly persona and into his childhood self. One that he was never fully able to experience until now.

Being around Clay made him happy.