Blind Rebirth (BL)

Nightmare

The world was spinning. Everything was black. Blank. There was nothing. So how was it spinning? How was it making him ill? Why did his head hurt? His arms? His legs? His whole body? Why? And the cold... The numbing, burning cold, making him sweat and freeze at the same time. His eyes ached with fire, itched. He wanted to scratch them, oh so badly. But they wouldn't allow it. The suffocatingly tight ropes, waving into his skin. And then this... Object piercing him. It tore his insides. A shivery breath escaped his mouth. Throat dried crisp from the constant screaming. His screaming. Only when it stopped, did he realise, it was him who screamed. His tattered tongue making it hard to swallow. Swallow what? There was no saliva left, anyway. And then the object started to rush into him. In and out. In and out. Claws burying into his waist, drawing blood. And the thing kept hitting him, each time with more force. It was splitting him in half.

Over and over again.

And then everything stilled. With no strength to lift even a feather, he wouldn't dare to move. How long has the torture lasted? Forever and a millisecond at once. But everything was hurting all the same. He felt dirty. Bloody hell, he felt dead. And he knew how it feels. One fact only differed this from death - dead people didn't feel pain. And he did.

Somewhere from afar echoed the sound of water drops hitting a stone. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. What an annoying sound... A second thing indicating that he was still alive. He would prefer to die already.

...

And then came the shouts.

"Monster! Demon!"

"You stealing little shit!"

"What will you do now, eh?!"

'Nothing.' He answered in his mind. Now he had no power. Hungry, so hungry. Tied up to a huge wooden wheel, in the town square. On a stage, so the public could enjoy. Enjoy his execution. His tortures.

He dreaded the moment it was to start. He wanted to hate the people, hate the person who was to kill him. But every time he tried, a doubt sprouted in his mind. 'Maybe they're right? Maybe I do deserve this?' he thought preparing for the pain - if that was even passible. 'No, no, no. I may have been useless, and a brat, but I didn't... Didn't deserve... This.' the thought barely squeezed out, being a hopeful lie. Or rather something he regarded as a lie.

As the swish of the rod registered, colliding with his rotten nerves, the public's cries of joy and anger quietened. They morphed into illegible murmurs playing idly in the background. When the rod touched his leg, it all collapsed. The noise exploded together with pain - gritting his teeth, he resigned to silence. Only a strained weep passed through his lips.

Again and again the rod met his body; foot, knee, thigh, hip. Second leg - and this time, there was no way to stop the scream. He would die anyway, why spare his throat? It would be better if it ripped, so he would die sooner. But no, life didn't work like that. The hits still came, giving to the suffering. Sound of the bones braking stuck in his mind - a constant rhythm on repeat. No hesitation in giving the next wound.

When the executioner ended with his legs, his feet were comparable to a crimson goo. Some bone parts here and there; blood flooding the scene, emptying him; the crowd cheering on for more. He was getting dizzy, the pain slowly losing on intensity. Everything was fading - his body and all around him. Even the hits of that rod didn't seem as hard, meeting with his numbed arms. Not a lot of blood was left in him, since he was so skinny; dying of blood loss became easier than ever.

He welcomed death like an old friend. It took him so many times, unfortunately never keeping for long.

"Even you don't want me, eh?" he asked - the only answer in form of silence. The void was quiet.