Forgotten Memories [A TW/TMR Fanfiction]

7. Torture Time

THOMAS/STILES POV

When we make I through to the other side of the Flat Trans, Janson immediately whirls around.

"What the hell?" He yells at me. "I told you to follow my lead."

I take a step back. "I-I didn't know what to do--"

Janson punches me in the face so hard I fall to the ground. My cheek immediately stings, and I put a hand to it. I try to sit up. "What the--"

Another fist lands on my face again, sending me to the ground a second time. "Janson, please--"

A kick to the side. I let out a groan, and roll onto my back. I see Rat Man pull out a wallow talkie and call for guards. I spit out blood, and Janson smiles. He squats down, and pulls out his gun once again.

"If you try to move, I will shoot you again."

I meet his eyes. "So you were the one who shot me. Makes sense. You acted like a--"

I shot fills the air, and I cry out. Pain explodes in my leg, and I clutch it with both hands.

"Want to finish that sentence?" Janson asks, still smiling.

He stands. "Oh Thomas. It was very easy to win back your trust. Taking away your memories makes you easy to win over."

I glare at him. How could I have trusted him? The more I think about it, the more I start to remember what he's done. I can't pinpoint certain instances, but I know he's tried to kill me more than once.

Janson points the gun in my face. "Don't you move. Guards are on their way. You wouldn't get out alive."

I look at the Flat Trans through my peripheral vision. I could go back to them. Janson must think the same thing, because he presses a button beside the portal, and it disappears; closes, even.

"You aren't going anywhere."

It isn't long before a dozen guard storm into the small storage closet. Two of the dozen pick me up under the shoulders, and drag me out of the room, Janson following close behind.

We make our way down the hall, but we don't go down the one leading to my room. Instead, we go the opposite way. I've never been down here before. There are no doors along this hallway, except for a single wooden door at the end of the hall. We stop in front of it, and Janson keycards us in.

The door opens to reveal a white room. No other colour, just plain white walls, white floor. A single metal pole is placed in the exact middle of the room. I see a metal table pushed against one wall; many different types of tools sit on the surface.

The guards pull me over to the pole, and upon closer inspection, I see there's a single hoop jutting out of the metal. Zip ties are tightened around my wrists and attached to the hoop. I'm still standing, but my arms are risen above my head. I'm an open target, and I have a feeling that's the point.

The guards depart, leaving me alone with Janson. A smirk is plastered on his face, one filled with disgust and hate. He moves to the table, and inspects the tools. Choosing some sort of whip, he turns back to me.

"Well, Thomas," He says. "I think you understand what is about to happen, no?"

When I don't answer, his smirk grows. "Well. You've been a little naughty lately. Yes, we told you you wouldn't be harmed, but that is most certainly not the case. We took your memories in order to do this. Just know you were never supposed to be free."

I glare at him. "What do you mean?"

He laughs. "When we went looking for volunteers, we already knew who you were. We were studying you before we came to your town. WICKED knew exactly who they wanted for the Trials. You, Thomas, were already chosen."

I look to the ground. Before I can speak, I see Janson move closer. He holds out a pair of scissors and cuts my shirt off my body. He walks away again. Janson hums, and crosses the space between us. I look up just in time to see the whip slash across my now bare chest. I yell out.

Another slash comes, this time hitting my waist. I wince through the third, another to my chest, and close my eyes. I try not to give him the satisfaction of my pain as the whip hits me over and over. After about ten slashes, I feel myself slump down the littlest bit. I try to stay strong.

Fifteen slashes later, Janson moves away from me to pick another torture tool. I open my eyes and look up, seeing a knife now in his hand. I try not to wince at the sight of it.

He walks--no, slinks--toward me, a grin on his face. "You have no idea how happy this makes me," He says. The knife comes dangerously close to my abdomen.

I twist away from the blade. I do not want to be stabbed. Janson just takes it in stride. Instead of hitting my stomach, he goes for my arm. I feel the blade tear skin, and I cry out. He cut all the way down my arm. Then, he does the same to my other side.

By now, I'm completely writhing in agony. But Janson is no where near done. The knife still in his hand, he moves to my chest. I can't hold in my scream as he curves the blade into my body. He moves the knife around, taking it out and putting it back in after a few seconds. It's almost like he's writing a word.

After a minute or two, he finally steps away from me. I feel blood seeping down my arms, down my bare chest. The muscles in my arms have given out, and now I hang from the zip ties like a rag doll.

I have enough strength to look up as Janson radios a guard. Not a minute later, a man dressed in a uniform comes in with a single chair, placing it in front of me.

Two more guards come in, and transfer me to the metal chair. Zip ties attach me to the arm rests and legs, making sure I can't escape. Like I would be able to with these injuries.

Once the guards are gone, Janson walk over. To my relief, he has no tools on his hands. That relief fades when he winds back his arm. A punch falls on my chest, making me cough. Another lands on my face, careening my neck to the right. I cough again, this time spitting out blood.

Janson lets out a happy laugh. "It brings me joy to see you like this."

That one line brings a bunch of things to the surface. Memories. Of him, killing my friends. I suddenly feel a ball of hatred come out, and I turn and spit in his face.

His features contort, and the next punch hits me square in the chest. The air is knocked out of my lungs, and I gasp. I feel lightheaded.

Janson laughs a cold, hard laugh. My eyes close. I try to catch my breath, but I can't seem to do it.

I manage to get out some words. "You--you are such a p-piece of sh--"

A fist connects with my jaw, and I'm knocked into darkness.

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Double update, because I'm awesome :)

Thank you guys so much for reading!

Chapter 8 will be up either tomorrow or the next day!

Xoxo