Missing You Still

Victims

ELLIOT could smell something bad. Something very bad. The darkness crept in on deathly tendrils, suffocating and encapsulating him. Nothing could be seen, nothing could be heard (no one could be heard), nothing but smell informed him on his whereabouts.

He was tied to a chair. He knew that much. But whoever tied him there was excellent at tying knots for they looped and twisted in the most elegant fashion. In comparison to the smell and therefore supposed state of the room, the way the knots were tied almost relaxed Elliot. Almost relaxed him.

They say that smell is one of the strongest memories and Elliot believed this to be true as the overpowering stench clasped at his throat. He would never forget that stench.

It was coppery and metallic, a sick mix of sweet and sour. The smell if blood. The smell of death.

Somewhere within the great fathoms of darkness, a lone light flickered on, swinging, as if it had been knocked recently. Tension arose in Elliot; the sudden contrast in colour bathing the illuminated space in a sickly yellow light.  A small circle of stained dark floor was visible. Splatters of unknown liquid tainted the furniture that stood crookedly by the edge of the circle. He could just about make out what looked like the shape of a metal table, rusted and bent. This too was coated in the same dark substance as the floor.  By now he knew he wasn't alone - the sense of another sending shivers down his spine. he tried to recall what happened before now as he feared it might be the last time he did so.

He was only fifteen. He had two brothers and a much yoynger sister. They had all been playing football in the garden. It seemed as normal as any other day, the sun shining in a cloudless azure sky. The ball rolled into a bush due to the accuracy (or lack thereof) of his sister. Elliot- being the oldest- ran over to fetch it. He searched through the rough mass of greenery, leaves and twigs scratching at his skin. However, despite his searching, the ball was nowhere to be seen. Elliot was sure he would reach the other end of the bush by now. But out of nowhere, hands grasped at him, fingers like steel. One hand was clasped at his mouth, the other round his wrist.

Thats all he remembered of that day.
Elliot figured that if he hadn't a chance at freeing himself from him then then he would never have a chance now.. Hopelessness* encased him, sapping the energy or need to fight from him.

"Hello there, my beautiful boy!" Exlaimed a voice, half scaring Elliot to death. A figure stepped into the dim light. This was the only chance elliot had to have a look at him, while he stood proudly under the murky pale glare. If he hadn't been in such a situation, he would've overlooked such a man. He was average height, and his hair was beginning to thin. The only disturbing thing about him was this manic look in his eye; almost a sense of pure family love. Strange Elliot thought. He certainly didn't know this man.

Without saying a word, the man turned to the near wall, flicking on the switches wired there one by one. Click, click, click, every light in the room suddenly flickered to life, illuminating the most monstrous sight. Ten, no, twenty bodies at least were frozen as if completing some activity. Some were eating, some drinking, or even taking a shower. But their faces. Their faces were stitched into the most awful expressions. There was all manner of torture here and Elliot knew he was next.

***

Pain. Thats all Elliot could think of. He had been strong as a boy. He always came first in races and had no fears- supposedly. He had hurt himself several times but nothing came close to this...

You see, this crazy man liked to replicated the mutilated and petrified look his son had when he was murdered and, for effect, he would do this to them while they were alive. Its to avenge him. He would think to himself as he studied his latest addition to what he called his museum. He sometimes traced his hand across their scared faces and admire the perfection of the rotting flesh. Beauty, such beauty. His sick, twisted mind would scream, lustfully.

... "who ARE you?" Elliot screamed as the man prepared his workspace with all manner of twisted devices.
"I am," the man said in a smooth emotionless voice, "your God. You will be my finest work of art. You ar-"
"No." Elliot interrupted, what's your name?"
"My name?" He said, scratching his head. No one had ever asked him that before. He couldn't remember the last time he needed to use his name. My name is... my name is...
"My name is George!" He replied, voice filled with gratitude.
George's face suddenly went cold.
"And who might you be? You nosy twat!" George was disgraced. Some witty little twat tried to gain information from him! George despised nosy people, especially his peices of art. They were supposed to worship him. He was their God wasn't he?

"Enough. Enough. No more talk. Let's get on with this." George said, calming himself. He hadn't created a piece of art in what seemed like forever and he was getting impatient.
"No! Wait! Please wait! I'll do anything." Elliot screamed yet again, sweat pouring from his forehead to the tips of his toes. His eyes were raw from crying and his head was pounding from the additional pressure.
"What now my precious piece of art?" George sighed, "I haven't the time for this"
"I...I..." Was all Elliot could muster.
"Look I'm sorry, my amazing artwork, but I must stop you from talking or we'll never finish." George grabbed some tape and sealed it over Elliot's mouth.

"Shhhhh" George whispered, leaning in close, "this will only hurt a bit".

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*is hopelessness a word? 🙃 idk...

Ok this isn't great but it's my first try and it's all off the top off my head. Plz vote and comment. I'll try and publish more. Thx xxx.