checkmate , s.reid

029 » THE PAIN

tw for violence/gore, torture

Every time I think I am getting used to the discomfort of the agony, he finds a new way to heighten the pain. His face is one of sadistic joy each time I scream, or cry, or beg. Which is pretty much every second.

I do not know who the other man in the building is. Maybe he isn't even real; he could just be a hallucination, a figment of my imagination. After all, I have not seen him. I have only heard his voice. Maybe he is a ghost.

No, that's silly. Maybe I'm a ghost. Maybe Jackson has already killed me, and these irrational thoughts in my mind are my brain's attempt at clinging desperately onto life, refusing to shut itself down. Then again, if I were dying right now, wouldn't I know?

The scraping of chair legs across the floor brings me back to reality. My eyes slowly open, a difficult task considering the swelling on my face, and I look up to see an unfamiliar man sitting in front of me. His face is unshaven, his hair messy, and his eyes sunken. He looks a little bit like Jackson, but younger.

"Hello," he says, his voice a little too chipper for my liking. If I could, I would punch that stupid smiling face of his until it is nothing more than a bloody pulp.

I blink. Slowly. Painfully. "Who are you?" I mumble, my voice scratchy and hoarse from all my screaming. Sharp pain shoots through my jaw and split lips with each word I speak.

He tilts his head slightly. My gaze falls to the revolver in his hand. He leans forwards. "Jackson didn't tell you?" he asks. I don't like his voice.

I do my best to shrug, but my wrists are still bound and my arms are heavy and sore. "No," I mutter.

"Oh," he says. He pauses for a second, his gaze flickering across my damaged body. There is a sinister glint in his eye. "That's probably for the best. You can call me Peter, though. Obviously, it's not my real name, but it is one that's very dear to me."

"Okay." I do not really have the energy to say much else.

"We're going to play a game," Peter tells me. He grabs something from his pocket: a bullet. A cruel smile stretches across his face as he opens the cylinder of the gun. He slips the bullet into one of the chambers, spins the cylinder around, and clicks it back into place. "You might be familiar with it," he continues, holding up the revolver and aiming it between my eyes.

"Don't," I say softly, my eyes brimming with tears.

He inches his chair closer, ignoring me. "It's called Russian Roulette," he says, the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against my sweaty forehead. "There's one bullet out of six chambers."

I shake my head slightly. "Please," I whisper, my eyes closing tightly as I hear him thumb back the hammer.

"You have a one in six chance of survival," Peter goes on. "Pretty good odds, don't you think?"

I choose to stay silent. There is not really much else for me to say at this point.

I can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks. "I'll tell you what, sweetheart," he says, his tone practically giddy with malicious delight. "If you, somehow, don't get shot the for the first five chambers, I won't shoot you. How's that sound?"

A pathetic whimper escapes my lips.

"Open your eyes for me, sweetie. I want to see your eyes."

I keep them shut, my heart racing. I can almost feel the movements of my lungs with each shallow breath I take. Breathing hurts, ever since Jackson decided it would be fun to kick me about for a bit. Each exhale, each inhale— it all sends daggers of pain stabbing into my sides.