Everything's gone wrong.
Ynk Verdidan hangs in the air, his vision blurred and spotted, a heavy, cloth bag thrown over his head. His arms, bound behind him, are useless as he struggles to breathe. Rope scratches into his neck, digging into the skin, the knot tightening as he thrashes. Blood rushes in his head, pulsing in his face.
I'm going to die, he thinks. The thought comes to him unbidden, repeating over and over, a possibility he doesn't want to accept. I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to...
If he doesn't get out of this, that possibility will become a reality.
Ironically, he can't even remember how he ended up in this situation in the first place. Lack of oxygen might be the culprit behind that, or perhaps his growing panic, though it's hard to say.
"You monster—"
"Get them!"
"You can't do this, you can't do this, you can't—"
All around him, screams erupt, though like most things, he's not sure why. The crowd (had there been a crowd? He can't think clearly enough to remember) climbs onto the gallows, and all the noise bleeds into one, a confusing mess that means little to him. There's the stomping of feet; the splintering of wood; gunfire, coming to a crescendo against it all. Such noise is nothing but white noise to him, as all he's focused on is slipping out of the noose before it kills him.
Crash!
Thud.
Something falls from the platform, more following behind the first. Vision obstructed by both the bag and the dark, squirming worms in his eyes, he can't tell what it is. Not knowing only makes his heart beat quicken, which doesn't help him any.
Snap!
The boards above him shift, the rope catching in the groove that could have very well saved his life. The jagged edge of the wood gnaws away at the rope, freeing him slowly and painfully, but it's not enough—not fast enough.
Ynk tries to move with the jumps and pulls from above, trying to rub the rope against the wood, but it's no use. Already, he feels weak, his chest burning, bursting, eyes wide but seeing nothing.
C'mon, he tells himself, c'mon—just a little more.
His body refuses to move, ignoring his pleas.
Ynk spins, feet dangling, his mind cloudy. All thoughts cease. Through the chaos stirring on the platform, a chaos brought upon his dreary town because of his actions, a sense of calm washes over him as he closes his eyes, the spots in his vision eating away at the rest of the world...
"No!"
Just as he begins to fall unconscious, someone—he's not sure who—cuts him loose, and he's left in freefall.
He doesn't have time to prepare himself for the landing. Instead, all he can do is flail in his bindings, a scream caught in his throat all the way down to the concrete.
He smacks against the ground, his side exploding with pain. His ribs crack, his knee pops, his skull roars. Ynk coughs, gasping for air and whimpering. He has half the mind to call for help, to scream, but decides against it, judging by the roar above him.
The wooden platform standing above his head creaks, splintering under the weight of dozens of bodies. Its support shifts, leans, caving in.
The boy lying hopelessly on the ground can do nothing but watch as it rushes towards him.
He tries to move—
Crack!
BOOM!
The rest of the gallows isn't far behind him. Too many people and too much motion snaps the wooden legs supporting them all, sending Ynk and the members of District 1017 tumbling to the ground.
YOU ARE READING
FACELESS
General Fiction[Originally written in 2017 for an assignment; expanded and reworked overtime, though eventually I decided this was as far as I was going to go with it. Hope you like it!] As is customary when one reaches twelve years of age, the Order has manufactu...
