Fate

39: Prisoner Of The Mind (p.2)

Insanity. That's what they call it. That's what they call me. Tiny seedlings in my brain that my own body planted in the lining of my mind. The little bastard's are Satan's pill.

But I'm not taking it. 

I used to think I understood pain. Physical pain. A burn, a cut, a broken bone. Heartbreak. But this is as if I've been dipped in the River Styx and all the sufferings of all the souls that ever were or will be has soaked my body in its' pain. 

My body doesn't belong to me. I'm beginning to feel more like a ghost than a physical being. And, though it is something I have wished for, nothing is more painful than knowing no matter the agony I'm going through, he won't let me die. 

"I want the world!"

Soft whimpers echo behind him, Maddox strains against the arms of the man holding him. Koda remains unconscious in the pool of blood. They say love is the best medicine, maybe that is why I'm not fixed. Not yet.

I am voiceless. Not a word springs to mind. How can one answer to such a statement? I cannot tell him that the world is already owned by those he calls brothers. I'm sure he knows. But, as we know, this man is so far into his own delusion, he wouldn't be able to see his own piss unless he was shoved into it like a badly behaved pup. He is so blind to reality. 

"Now." He ponders his words and soon I feel a hand, cupping my face. As I lean away, he holds another hand, encasing my face with his hands, "How are we to get them to give up?"

I tremble in my position, my jaw shakes so gently but hard enough for him to notice.

"Speak!" He orders, voice loud and threatening.

"I-I don't know, Sir." I gulp, lowering my chin in an attempt to avoid the eye contact of this monster. 

"Well," He laughs, squeezing my face between his hands, "I do!"

He waits for my reaction, but when I don't relieve his obvious desire, he releases my head, jerking my chin to the right. His sadism is clear to everyone. 

"I can't hurt you, my flower. Because if I hurt you, I lose you. And no one wants to see what happens if I lose you." His voice is dark, with the low tones it sounds as though he is growling like a savage dog, "So, I will make it seem like I am hurting you. Can you see, my dearest?" 

"N-no." I stutter, lying. I couldn't see. But I can see now. Goddamn I can see.

"Good." I can hear the pleasure in his voice, "That means it's working."

                                                         ✯¸.•'*¨'*•✿ ✿•*'¨*'•.¸✯

Rage burns hot like a never-ending inferno, sometimes it starts as a feral cat's spit or hiss, but eventually, the insatiable fury scalds into a spout of hot, angry lava.

Pain is cold. Like icicles with a point so sharp even the hardest of skins couldn't resist the blood that begged to break free. Pain is sharp, not only in touch but in feeling too: pain is like a slash of thunder, running through the sky like a blade causing a tear in the curtain of the night. So fast, you cannot even hear the cry of pain that soon follows. But, as it does, the yelp of agony hits your ears like walls cascading around you. 

Though pain tends to be touch, pain is sound. Pain is a child's cry to a mother's ear. Pain is discovering a baby bird fallen and dead from the nest. 

But as I slob here now, only being held up by the restraints on my wrists, I am not the mother in suffering over my baby's whimpers; I am the friend in agony over the guttural roars of Maddox as his beloved mate is dragged from the ground and held in place.