Hollow Grace

ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ ꜰɪᴠᴇ - ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴡ

Warning! This text contains scenes of sexualized violence. Read with caution.

November 2nd

Charlie's consciousness flickered back to life, heralded by the frigid caress of metal against his skin. His eyelids, stubbornly glued shut, peeled apart with agonizing slowness, revealing a nightmare made flesh: the Boss looming directly overhead. In the dim, spectral glow of the hospital hallway lights bleeding into the room, his figure was a menacing silhouette. The face was obscured, but Charlie didn't need visual confirmation. The cold dread that had settled deep in his gut screamed the truth: he'd earned this blade at his throat with his screw-ups.

"You knew I'd be coming, Pixie," the man's voice rumbled, a gravelly undertone to the words as he leaned in. Charlie, paralyzed by a terror that transcended mere fear, tried to scramble away, but every inch of his body felt leaden, impossibly heavy. "And you knew what the piper would demand if you ratted us out."

"He...grassed...you up...not...me..." Charlie's whisper was a breath of sound, barely audible. "Barebone..."

A palpable miasma of peril saturated the atmosphere, overwhelming his every sensory perception. Charlie had not experienced such utter helplessness even when his father had subjected him to corporal punishment before the entire student body. Now... there was unequivocally no succor to be found. An urge to vociferate, to summon aid, surged within him... but his vocal cords remained unresponsive.

"It was easier to get to you. Nothing personal, Pixie. A debt is owed. By you, and all those held dear by you," the Boss remarked, testing the keenness of the blade against the oxygen conduit sustaining Charlie. The severed tube fell with a faint hiss. Wright began to asphyxiate.

"No... need..." he croaked, his voice guttural, desperately attempting to elicit some semblance of compassion from the man. "I'm begging you..."

"Farewell, Pixie."

The Boss raised his hand and with brutal force, plunged the knife into Charlie's throat, yet his heart had already ceased its rhythmic contractions within his chest, rendering that instant an agonizingly protracted eternity. The guy screamed in fear, as it seemed to him, deafeningly loud. An electric current shot through his entire body in a cool spasm. 

And he woke up.

Abruptly opening his eyes, Charlie found himself within the confines of a hospital ward. It was the dead of night, and the room was dimly illuminated by a floor lamp situated in the distance. Deep, rapid respirations induced significant discomfort. Charlie could viscerally perceive each forceful pulsation of his wildly beating heart and the frigid beads of perspiration upon his brow. His entire abdomen was constricted with pain. Yet, his throat was unscathed, and motility had returned to his limbs. Furthermore, the Boss was nowhere in the vicinity.

Adjacent to him, ensconced in an armchair, sat Evan. His head resting upon his folded arms, he was perched precariously on the edge of the bed, slumbering softly. Charlie exhaled with profound relief. Alive... alive once more. And nearly all was well. He had no recollection of the preceding hours. He had regained consciousness briefly once – post-anesthesia. Then, sleep had swiftly enveloped him anew, preventing a sustained return to awareness.

Movement remained profoundly arduous. His abdominal cavity, entirely bandaged post-surgery, throbbed dully. A repugnant, metallic tang of blood in his mouth incited a powerful thirst. With a groan, Charlie stubbornly reached for a glass of water. Yet, he could not quite attain it. His restless movements merely roused Evan.

"Raccoony..." Evan mumbled, his hair tousled, his voice thick with sleep. Hearing Charlie's stir, he was instantly get up, leaning closer. "Easy, easy, I'm here..."