Beautiful Demons

i.

I am aware of small things. Sights, sounds, smells. My five senses remain intact and I count that as a blessing. Taking note of my surroundings, I list the things I am aware of.

Sounds: water dripping; metal rustling (chains?); a soft hush—I am alone.

Smells: mold and dampness; metallic tang of fresh blood; sharp stench of rot.

Feels: pain all over—a bruising ache in my sides, arms; sharp pounding in my head; stomach rolling violently; my achilles tendon has been slashed. I can hear the slowed patter of blood as it hits the floor; there is an agonizing pain in my left hand.

Sights: nothing, everything is dark. Just black.

At first.

Slowly my eyes adjust to the darkness. Relief floods through me now. At least I still have my eyes.

My surroundings slowly become visible and it's just as bad as I had feared. The ground beneath me feels like stone or concrete. Behind me a rough stone wall abrades my bare skin; my hands are bound in front of me, numb and blue and covered in drying blood. My feet are bare, the soles scrubbed raw. I can't feel my toes, I can't feel my fingers.

Forcing a breath, my eyes trail down and over my body. Is anything missing? My hands lay safely attached to my wrists, my wrists attached to my arms and shoulders. I see both feet, all my toes. Aside from the cuts and bruises it appears I am virtually unmarred.

Then my eyes catch sight of my hands again.

My stomach drops, right down to my feet, and the nausea increases significantly.

Where my left hand lays, limply resting on my thigh, there is something wrong. For a moment I cannot deem the reason it looks wrong, but it does. Something about the picture disturbs me, and it's not just because of the blood caked to my pasty skin and bony knuckles.

It dawns on me why the picture looks wrong. Honestly, it takes me a moment.

When the realization hits I fight the urge to vomit.

I'm fairly certain I haven't always had four fingers on my left hand.

The ring-finger has been severed right where it connects to the hand, leaving behind a lonely knuckle. Jagged flesh makes it obvious that it was not a clean cut, and though the pain isn't obvious I'm grateful that I can't remember when it was removed. Or how it felt. Manacles hold me ankles, keeping my feet in place. Keeping me chained. The cold, rough metal is agonizing on the wound where my right achilles has been severed, but I'm too panicked to care.

What is one ruined tendon compared to what else might happen to me?

Beyond the cement columns reaching up towards the out-of-sight ceiling comes the sound of scraping. A sound that brings to mind a door. A door being opened.

I shrink back against the wall, wishing I could disappear. Wishing I could melt into the darkness and the fear that threatens to consume me, eating up at me from the inside.

If I don't die from the torture than I will die from the fear.

Small tendrils of light reach out towards me. They glisten upon the droplets clinging to the moist walls, shining and sparkling like fairy lights. Shadows of the flames climb up the cold walls, wispy arms of black. Reaching for me. Always reaching.

I don't know what day it is. How long have I been down here? The words wont come up even when I try to ask them. The shadows whisper when I'm alone.

Sometimes, I hear screams.

But there's no one else down here, and it's not my throat they're coming from.