Bloodied Boys

Chapter 4: Black out

Chapter 4: Black out

Keigo has a roommate now. Since he was 7 he'd been alone, his only company being the people in black suits and opaque shades. Now it's changing and he can't place his finger on it.

The HSCP always did something when they had a goal in mind. Maybe this was a test. He was informed a couple days prior by one of the doctors that regularly visits him that another person that he'd get to interact with on a daily basis would be in here, this very same room, with him. Yet he couldn't get any information out of the guards that guarded his room or out of any of the scientists that came to regularly check any windows for any signs of damage. No matter how many times he would bang on the window nobody would even open their mouth to speak to the twelve year old. Keigo vaguely remembers why.

It was somewhere around when he was 9, a guard, a bulky woman with beautiful white hair and the leftover essence of her eyes began to get talkative with him. It started out as simple Hi's and how are you's, before it turned into full on rants about her work and the loneliness she experienced at home.

She brought fun puzzle games and sometimes snuck chocolate into Keigo's holding cell where he snuck it under his pillow for later that night. He'd eat it between late night shifts and in the morning he'd smile. It went on for about a year. Snack, Eat, Puzzle, Talk. Snack, Eat, Puzzle, Talk. Then it came to an abrupt stop as the lady was no longer seen guarding his cell. He still has dreams about her, all the time. Her white hair flowing in the wind and those nice soft warm smiles that she'd give when they talked or when he gushed about Endeavor being the greatest hero of them all. Human interaction wasn't a thing in the archives of the HSPC.

On Monday, he was taken out to train his wings. Flight was one of his main positive aspects, something that had been implanted in his mind, second nature, he thinks. A blind fold is placed over his eyes and the familiar sharp pluck of his feathers being popped before sharpening has him clenching his teeth.

He holds out his right hand and he here's soft footsteps that make their way in front of him. At least four steps ahead of him. The blindfold is as black as his room when the facility lights shut off and he's left in hard silence.

He sighs. Relaxing. Mistake. The buzzer signifying that he's supposed to fight goes off with a loud ear scratching, brain wracking zzzzz. The next thing he knows is that he's lunging like a wild animal, stop relying on your wings, he remembers, he knows. Use your feet! he pounces like a cat. Take a lethal shot, aim for the head, DUCK! he jumps over a right kick that almost hits him in the stomach.

Go for the back, he uses the red wing in his hand and slashes into the thick layer of clothing that covers a bullet proof vest, the familiar sound of ripping clothes fills his ears. Go faster, go harder, make it so they don't see you. Don't let them see you. Without thinking he ducks, his breathing isn't even and he gets desperate with each strike. Mistake 2

Don't let them touch you. His brain is on repeat like a broken record and his body is reaching its limit, he can't break through the bullet proof vest, go for the legs stupid. Right. He tucks his wings and pulls another feather from his back, sharpening it, unbreakable? No definitely not unbreakable, but he's been told his honed feathers do remarkable damage. When he's in between the legs of whoever this is, they get smart. He's fast. But not fast enough. His blade is ripped from his hand and as soon as he knows it he's on his back. Heaving. Thrown over a muscular shoulder. Men are always strong, always evil. Bile rises in his throat and he tries his best to push it down.

It doesn't work. He's dry heaving on the floor after his body forced him to regurgitate his breakfast. The disgusting sour taste files into his mouth like a sixth sense already accustomed to the regular—usually failed—practical way of beating him into the ground—Even if he is getting better at evading attacks—and then he's lifted up roughly off the ground. The pounding of his head and the bright lights is too much for him to take. He blinks lazily as a loud siren fills his ears. Talking is heard behind it. Like a curtain at a full house getting ready for a play.

The words he hears are slurred like paint, and far away and he feels like he's underwater. The slam must've been really lethal to his head if he can barely breathe. Or maybe that's just the liquidy stuff he feels slowly dripping out of his nose. When did he hurt his nose? Slowly, his eyes drift shut after everything goes quiet and is taken over by the unbearable siren that keeps on playing in his ears. Eventually taking over his whole hearing. Nothing is heard after he blacks out.

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I WRITE MY STORIES ON DOCS AND PASTE THEM ON HERE, THIS IS LIKE MY TENTH TIME TRYING TO COPY AND PASTE IT AND IT FINALLY WORKED IM C R Y I N G, S O B B I N G FUCK