Shattered Asylum

Chapter 87

My head is pounding, a deep, rhythmic throb that makes it hard to think. Instinctively, I try to reach up, but... I can't. My arms won't move right. They're heavy. Stuck.

No... tied?

I blink. Or at least, I think I do.
Everything's still black.

Am I blind?
No. That's not right.
Something's covering my eyes... I think?
Ugh. I don't know.

Panic flickers at the edges of my thoughts. Where am I? What the hell happened?

I shift, or try to. My shoulders ache, and something's digging into my wrists, rope? Zip ties? Whatever it is, it's too tight. Too intentional.

The floor beneath me is freezing. Concrete, probably. Hard enough that my hip already feels bruised. I'm lying on my side, curled up like a discarded doll.

My throat is bone dry. There's a sharp, metallic tang in my mouth... blood.

I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. Still black. Still nothing.

Then I move my legs, and that's when I realize.

My shoes are gone.

My bare feet are pressed to the icy ground, and-

My breath catches.

I'm wearing a dress. One I don't remember putting on. My bare thighs against the concrete, skin exposed, unfamiliar fabric clinging to me in all the wrong ways.

My stomach twists.

Someone changed me.

They undressed me.

Took my clothes.

Touched me.

Panic rips through me like a live wire. I want to scream, but my mouth won't work. Or maybe I'm just too scared to hear the sound.

My chest tightens. I can't catch a full breath, like I'm breathing through a straw. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it almost hurts.

Someone changed me. Someone touched me while I was unconscious. Stripped me. Dressed me. Moved me like I was-

I gag.

I want to throw up. I want to rip the blindfold off, claw my way out, do something, anything. But all I can do is lie here, bound, blind, helpless.

What did they do?
What did they see?
What's going to happen next?
Who are these people and what do they want with me?

A sharp whimper escapes before I can swallow it down.

No, no, no-

Then I hear it.

A slow, dragging groan, long and deep, like a door too old to move. Rusted hinges screech in protest. It sounds huge. Heavy. Ancient.

I freeze.

The kind of silence that follows isn't empty, its thick. Watching.

Something... someone... just came in.

The silence doesn't last.

I hear it, faint at first, then clearer.

Boots.

Heavy ones. Each step deliberate, echoing off the walls with a slow, menacing rhythm.

They're coming closer.

But it's not just footsteps. There's... something else.

A dragging sound.

Metal scraping along the ground. Something being pulled, slow, rough, catching on cracks in the floor.

Chains?

A chair?

My pulse roars in my ears. I want to hold my breath, but I can't, I'm breathing too fast, too loud. They'll hear me. I know they will.

The footsteps stop.

The dragging stops.

They're right in front of me.

Nothing.

No movement. No sound. Just them, standing there.

I can feel it. That pressure that builds when someone's watching you. Breathing the same air. Waiting.

Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Time twists when you're afraid.

Then, without warning...

The bandana is ripped from my eyes.

My head jerks back with it, the force snapping my neck so hard I cry out. Pain flares sharp and hot through my skull, doubling the pounding already in my head.

Blinding light floods in, not bright, but brutal after so much black.

I squeeze my eyes shut again, gasping.

When I finally force them open, vision swimming, all I see at first is a silhouette, broad shoulders, thick neck, a looming shadow that blocks out everything else.

My eyes start to adjust. Slowly. Painfully.

And then I wish they hadn't.

The man standing over me is... wrong.

He's huge, not just tall, but wide, like he was built to crush things with his bare hands. His skin is pale and blotchy, slick with a thin sheen of sweat despite the cold. Greasy strands of dark hair hang limp over a face that looks like it's been broken more than once, nose crooked, cheekbone swollen, a purple bruise blooming under one eye.

But it's his mouth that does it.

Too wide. Lips cracked and peeling. Yellow teeth showing through a grin that looks practiced, like he's spent time perfecting it in the mirror just to scare people.

And his eyes... Dead. No glint. No life. Just flat, watery gray, staring at me like I'm something he found under his boot.

Something shifts in me. A sharp, cold spike of revulsion that shoots straight to my fingertips.

I want to scream.

Just the look of him will haunt me.

And then I finally see what was scraping across the floor.

He's holding a pole... long, rusted metal, thick as a broom handle, and at the end of it are tiny spikes.

Not clean, sharp ones.

Jagged, uneven.

Like someone welded nails to the tip with no care expect for pain.

Bits of something... cloth? Hair? Cling to the metal like its been used before.

My stomach turns.

He shifts his grip on it, fingers curling around the shaft like he's imagining how hard he'll have to swing it.

And still, he doesn't speak
He just smiles.

I don't dare say a word. I'm not sure I could with how dry my throat feels.

We just stare at each other, or rather, he stares. I can barely look at him without wanting to crawl out of my own skin.

Then he laughs.

Low and raspy at first, like he hasn't used his voice in days. But it builds, twisted, ugly. Like he's laughing at a private joke only he finds funny.

And I'm the punchline.

I try to scoot back, wrists straining, feet scrambling for traction. I know it's useless. But I do it anyway.

And then-

He swings.

The last thing I feel is the rush of air slicing toward me, and the last thing I hear is my own scream.

Cut off mid-breath.

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Word Count:1040