Dire {h.s.}

10

Ava Manakova

All of my senses recollect into a pile of what seems to be boulders of all types of pain, and they all crash against me at once.

My eyes shoot wide open, my mouth agape at the excruciating pain I feel rushing through me. My lungs feel like they're climbing the tallest building with how hard they work to catch a breath as my chest heaves up and down.

The ache in my throat comes next, I recognize every bit of pain all at once and I don't think I've ever felt like this before. It's as if my entire body had been set up to be in the worst of pain, and I'm forced to find a way to escape it. I

"Heavy breathing..." a voice says, catching me off guard. My eyes shoot towards where it came from, and next to me stands Harry. A notepad in his large hand, and a pen in the other. His eyes focused on me, observing my every move.

What did he do to me? I can't move for the lift of me, literary.

"Confused..." He comments, and I can hear him chuckle under his breath, taking note of my wandering eyes. The panic pooling in them can probably be spotted from a mile away.

I still can't feel my legs, my arms are weak too.

"Stop panicking, Ava." He says, his voice so low I can barely hear my name. Except this time, his voice sounds different. Something about it feels as if it isn't him speaking. I try to move my eyes around the room, not seeing much but the cold bare ceiling.

What is happening?

Louis

She's strapped down to the table, and we all know it's unnecessary considering she can barely keep her eyes open. I bet she doesn't even notice it.

Harry spends his time collecting data, annoyed that he's the one forced to do it. He hates writing.

I watch from a distance, not having much of a choice in all of this. We're all helpless to her, not that we want to try and save her from this. The idea to help one of them has crossed my mind, but those hesitations left my head a while ago.

I'm tired, and instead of sleeping before the next job, I have to stand down here with Harry and wait for Vince.

As he studies her eyes, I study him. He looks extremely uninterested, but I don't blame him. We don't have a choice to do this part, and in most situations, we don't.

He approaches the table in the left corner, a box full of knives, their blade is sharper than how they were first bought. Harry picks the smallest one off, it sparkles as he turns it against the light. My stomach turns, and I'm already starting to feel like this is a bad idea. I've always known it happens to our victims, but I've never watched. It settles my nerves knowing she won't feel much of it, but she'll watch... oh she'll most definitely watch.

Harry approaches her, not a mere look of hesitance located in his eyes as he stares down at her. A part of me wants to feel bad for her, knowing no human deserves this treatment. But the other part of me that knows what I earn from this kind of work will pull me out of the hell I've dug myself into. This will give me a fresh start.

I don't know much about Harry and his reason, but I do know that he's been here longer than I have. He's seen it all, more than I have. And for obvious reasons, I know it fucked him. What he has seen has scared him so much to the point that his personality is tied to those moments' darkness.

Harry doesn't care anymore, not about how the victims feel, if they're in pain, if they can breathe or not. He only cares about one thing, and that is to finish the job and get paid, because if the job isn't done, the only other option from getting paid is getting killed.