The Thoughts of Pain & Solitude

Chapter 1 ~ Blood

Crimson blood scatters across the floor as a metallic taste runs across my tongue. Bright, clear lights slip into my vision as my eyes try oh so hard to stay awake, to stay alive. Stripes of red smear across my face as another fist collides with my cheek.

I shake my head in only the slightest way in the attempt of clearing out the fog inside my mind, refusing to let any type of sound slip between my cracked lips. Even the smallest shake causes my head to want to collapse.

My fingernails dig harder into the arm of the wooden chair in which I am strapped down to, and I tilt my head down to choke up a clump of blood onto the stone floor beneath me.

To most people, home is a person. A person who would make you feel warm, make you feel safe, make the pain fade away. In my case, my home was torn, bruised, and burnt to the flesh by men whose hearts were filled with nothing but greed and death.

If you counted a small, four-walled, rusted jail cell as a home, then I guess that's where I'm at.

The pair of boots that I have grown quite familiar with re-appear in front of me. My thoughts are recollected from the pit of my heart, where they hoped to find safety, and are plugged back into my brain.

With one harsh grip, the man in front of me roughly grabs my chin, forcing me to look up into his stone cold eyes. His eyes seem to search my face for something. Pain and fear are what one would be looking for, but not him.

Pulled from the depths of Hell and placed onto this land to produce nothing but pain and suffering, the man in front of me has only ever had one task, one simple job, and that was to break people.

Physically breaking someone wasn't the completion of the task, no, it was digging your fingers deep into the heart of a single human being, and riping that one vein that causes the brain to snap, to break emotionally.

The man in front of me has killed many innocent people. Men trying to protect their families, women trying to protect their children, and children, who'd simply be trying to hug their mothers for comfort. Men like the man in front of me didn't feel sympathy, nor did he feel any sort of pain.

To this day, I have yet to find out his name.

The man's face produces a look of disappointment, and he shoves my face away before standing back to face his men.

"Untie her, we'll continue this tomorrow," he says, and walks out of my cell, his boots echoing off the walls of the dark, clammy basement.

To be quite honest, I haven't the slightest idea of where in the world I am. All that I know is that I'm buried deep beneath the ground in a bunker of multiple hallways and rooms in the middle of some type of jungle.

Two other men, dressed in all black, stand side by side by my cell door. One, who I call "Creep," is quite fond of the sight of me being tortured, while the other, whose name is Max, has always seemed to mask a look of guilt.

This has become quite the routine between me and them; I'm awakened by a bright light outside of my cell, they come stomping in with their big, black boots, tie me to my favorite chair, interrogate me for hours, and then leave me to tend to my own wounds with nothing but my own clothing.

They release the straps wrapped around my wrists and ankles, Creep being his usual aggressive self, and Max being as gentle as possible.

Their hands grab my arms to pull me up just to drop me back down onto the cold floor. So much for being a little gentle.