"And I could feel my mind slipping away from you and needing, craving to kill because that was all I had left. Your memories and the bracelet wasn't enough. Nothing was enough...So I threw myself into the ocean in hopes to get to the bottom. At tha...
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"Fire and desire, they will kill. "
-Anne Sexton, 'Mercy Street'.
Trigger Warning: Explicit content on blood and death.
Michael was sure he would die here.
Wherever he was: it was pitch black, disgusting, rancid, and what laid under his feet made him sick to his bones. Some of them felt like bones, and the ground felt slippery and wet, yet sticky. Unfortunately, he had nowhere to go. Chained to whatever held him captive, the stink he couldn't escape from made it challenging to breathe. The smell of rotting flesh and blood trapped his nostrils. He hadn't heard a fan turn on or any machinery since he'd been here, and he couldn't tell what day, month, or year it was.
He was sure about one thing, though. He was solemnly sure he would die here. He felt pathetically weak and the slop that was fed to him by that monster wasn't enough to sustain him. The only liquid he was given was vodka, and a glass of water whenever his captor felt like giving it to him. Michael spent his days sleeping on a rock that looked like a mattress, and, obsessively, going over in his head where he went wrong.
But he knew. He knew why he was put here and who put him here.
Something opens the room, and he hears the usual door slamming against the wall but what comes next was like the sun. Light entering the room makes him shield his eyes, but his senses slowly rejoice at the sight of it. Yet, Michael's heart goes from skipping to sinking as what stands in front of him, blocking his glory, was the devil that kept it from him.
A sniff. "You stink." He spoke, low and coated with disgust.
Those fucking creepy, empty amber eyes stare into Michael and he inwardly cowards. Despite he holds in his face the most spiteful sneer at the man, he couldn't stop shaking. His vision was beginning to adjust to the light and what enters his vision causes his mind to break.
Michael's eyes take numerous glances at the pool of red surrounding him, blood everywhere as corpses pile on top of each other and spread throughout the room. One head, in particular, made him sharply intake his breath. He met eyes with brown ones, dull and lifeless above freckles with unkept red hair. The legs were crooked in every turn, and the skin was matching the concrete floor, gray in some spots with scorches of red, flesh under the skin visible for everyone to see.
At the sight of mold growing on the body, Michael vomits at his captor's feet. Somehow, the stench became a million times worse with sight, and Michael kneels over. He could feel the headache rushing in. Suddenly, a wild laugh rings above causing him to look up. A golden gaze, dancing with hatred and amusement, pierces him like light while a hand covers his malefic grin.
"Seven months is a long time, yeah? " Jacob's voice to Michael is unserious, but it makes him want to die right on the spot.
Seven months? Its been seven months since he was taken, treated like an abandoned dog, and left with rotting bodies? A dry, agonizing scream erupts from Michael's throat leading to Jacob to fill the room with another deranged laugh.
