Your blood 》Yuri On Ice

Escape game

1 week later
Yuri Plisetsky

I've been blowing off my guard duties since that horrible dream I had last week. It's worked with father, he hasn't noticed of course. I could pack up and go to Ghana and the man wouldn't even ask about it. The security head however, does do his job properly and wasn't buying that I had a stomach bug.

At least I'm getting payed for this. That's the only good thing about this right now. I have to go in there and watch Yuri obliviously treat me as a friend while I'll just see the hungry, lusting Yuri from my dream.

I created that Yuri. Everything that happened in my dream was controlled by my evil sub concious that's clearly trying to ruin my life.

Taking a deep breath, I reach into my jeans back poket and pull the small vodka out of it, unscrewing the lid and taking a huge gulp. They say alchol is liquid courage. No its not. But I'll convince myself that it is all the same, even if I can't get drunk.

It's the same rutine; I place a trembling hand on the palm scanner, and slowly slide the heavy door open.

What I see makes all my organs falter at once. My mouth falls open and I barely aknowladge the loud smash of the bottle against the stone floor.

"Who's there?" Yuris quiet croak pierces my ears perfectly.

What the fuck have they done to him?

I've seen the metal cross in here before. I've seen it in other places too. It's been around for so long that it's weathered by oxygen and bares scratches from previous people it's entrapped, people that struggled against its shackles.

How I wish Yuri would struggle. It'd be better than this. Better than a limp body.

His arms are stretched out to eather side of him, wrists tightly shackled to the east and west of the cruel cross. He's wearing nothing but boxers, his knees are stained black from the floor they're pressing into and his head is hung toward that floor, all his long hair covers his face, greasy and somehow still stunning. The hair doesn't hide his body though, it doesn't hide the countless bite marks around his neck and chest, it doesn't hide he scratch marks assorted over him, it doesn't hide fingertips of hands that have held him so tightly they've left marks behind.

Walking toward him I feel like an infant again, no step is without a wobble and they're all so slow in interval.

"Please" he wheezes when I'm closer, shrinking in on himself, "it hasn't even been an hour" he sounds terrified. Wich makes me angry. All of this makes me angry. I'm sure when I get over the shock I'll be red with rage.

I try to open my mouth to ask him one of the million questions erupting in my brain but no words come out. I just stand there, infront of his tense body.

There's a slight movement of his head,  as if he's looking at my leopard print vans. It takes few seconds for him to sigh and relax his posture, only leaving forcibly stretched muscles in his arms to show,

"Yura. Thank God" he whispers at the floor.

Still speacheless, I fall to my knees so hard a pain shoots up from them to the rest of my body. I pay no mind to it.

His eyes open and watch me from between the strands of his hair. They look like something out of a horror movie. His eyelids are only half way up, his stare is almost hollow and the circles under his eyes are almost the same colour as the hair shielding them.