Animal

24

Each face is recognisable, belonging to people he's seen before. Hurt before. They're flashing images now in his corrupted mind, flying by one at a time to remind him. Remind him of what he'd done to them, their loved ones. To himself, most especially. With each face, each life that left blood splattered on his palms, Harry lost a little more of his humanity.

He can see nothing except for their faces, can hear nothing except their screams of peril and pleas for mercy. The only smell haunting him is that of crusted blood and other bodily fluids.

The women. Blonde, brunette, raven-haired; Harry didn't discriminate. The knives he used, blunt objects, scissors and ropes. His operating table and his shower. His tanks of blood and the special frying pan he used.
The men folk. Bald and fat or muscular and a heartthrob. What he'd done to them when he strapped them down and burnt them, cut them and make them scream until their lungs dried up along with their hope.

"Please. Don't do this."

"I'll give you anything you want!"

"Why are you doing this to me?"

The screams got louder in his head, making him cringe at how that beat around the edges of his skull. He wanted to scream too but he just couldn't.

When one awakens from what they think is the stage between death and the afterlife, one expects to be blinded with light. Light that will symbolise their destiny for Heaven or Hell.

That's not what happens when Harry opens his eyes for the first time.

The first thing he notices is everything is damp. Damp and dark. He looks up at the ceiling and doesn't recognise it, with all the memories flooding back to him so he gasps and tries to sit up. Something sharp digs into the skin of his neck but of course he feels nothing until the drip of blood reaches the thin gown he's wearing he is forced to halt.

Panic and rational worry flood his nerves, making he fight the restraints until he's declared it futile. He's on a bed with a thin mattress and leather straps everywhere except for around his neck. He's not sure what's around his neck.

Before shouting, he looks around him to observe and memorise the details of the room. The walls are solid grey brick with a dreary, depression connotation. There's a curtain to his left, blocking whatever is there behind it. It's too dark to even take a guess while his senses are still on fire.

There's a metal table next to him, scraped up the legs and with dents on the top. Atop the surface is a paper plate of chopped fruit - golden apple pieces and peaches.

That's when Harry takes two deep breaths and closes his eyes again, listening to what's around him. He doesn't hear anything major so the room is soundproof. Until he picks up on the sound of another person breathing, he's almost lost hope.

"Who's there?" He asks the to air.

No response.

He's filling with dread and concern over Louis. Where is he? What could this be about? Harry hates not having answers and at this moment in time he is utterly lost.

The breathing stops and Harry wonders how that's possible. He frowns and tries to listen closely again, easily making out that the sound once came from his left side where the curtain was. He'd really like to know what the Hell is going on right now.

Suddenly the curtain is yanked out of the way by an arm that's got too much hair and a frightening giggle comes out from behind it. A person, wearing the same gown as Harry but clutching a teddy bear and smiling with crooked teeth, runs past him towards the door.
He figures it's a girl with the long black, matted hair and sound of laughter. She could be sixteen or eighteen but no older. Her face is contorted and her lips are cut, operated on and stitched so haphazardly that it permanently marred her face.