Ichor || mxb

VIII

Abandoned for days, there sat the pious boy. A heart beating at a rapid pace, a body dripped in sweat, slowly but surely convulsing under the psychology and physical tensity the youngster has induced.

Did nobody care that he was hurt? Did he sin? Is this his punishment from the guy above?

A sacred mumble of a prayer was the only sound to be heard, with time blending into the silence. Up until his brain clicked. Thus trapping the young boy into a whim of old habits accompanied by misery. This was the end, he felt it creep in the form of soft blows of wind. Nipping agonizingly at him, wether it be metaphorically or not, he felt it drown him, suffocating him of his once happy thoughts. He was now an abused boy, sad and filthy, just as he once was.

Grayson's tears could not form no more, neither could his thoughts. If it wasn't for the rising and falling of his chest, the boy would be deemed a corpse. Shutting out his surroundings, Grayson closed his eyes in hopes of sinking right through the ground, never waking up. Never having to remember the vile reality of being stripped of the happiness he once withheld.

Though his body wasn't, his brain was, it was dissolving almost, ruined once again by the horrible game we like to call life.

The rattling of a doorknob was heard across the gloomy basement, though nothing could lure Grayson away from the darkness he had buried himself within.

Not when a duo in medical uniforms strode it, not when they started feeling him up and not even when they started ripping the clothes of hid body. Nothing could revive him now, it was too late.

As much as he hated the feeling of multiple hands probing around his body, his body refused to cooperate with his agitated brain.

The most he was able to achieve was open his eyes, blinks so scarce, trying to take in everything, yet couldn't perceive anything at all. He couldn't make out anything other than blurry shapes, though even that was too sharp for his brain to even start contemplating.

The younger boy might have felt himself being lifted off the hard concrete, but it could've also been mistaken for his soul leaving his body, abandoning this world for good.

"I-I honestly don't know what to say. It's been four days of him left rotten, how is he still alive? Conscious even?"

"There's no way. There must be some sort of mistake."

Bewilderedness was etched onto the brains of the young med-students as they couldn't explain how a seventeen year old could possibly survive such a wound. Left for days, a burly amount of blood lost, yet the boy remained awake. Never had they seen or heard of such a case. Sceptuicisim was an understatement.

With not even a sweat broken, the duo carried the unhealthily light boy into one of the well-furnished rooms of the manor. Tending to a patient while on a bed is more congenial and more convenient, that was a given fact. Alas, it was the foul smell of death and rot that pushed them to do so.

"Hey kid. How are you feeling?" The older of the two tried to coax anything out of the boy who seemed to be in la la land. No reply was given as Grayson's eyes remained indefinite and bleary, not a twitch reaching his eyes.

At that response, or the lack of it, they eyed each other wearily and were almost inclined to check his heartbeat again, just to make sure. But the rising and heaving of his chest gave them a definite answer. Choosing to ignore the situation, for now, they began the actual tending process.

What caused the terminal point of a freak out from them was when they stuck in the tweezers to pluck out the bullet, and yet not a single blink, flinch or alter in any shape or form took place. To test their theory further, they poured a hefty amount of disinfectant into the wound, but with no luck, the boy remained corpse-like.

With shaky hands, they finished patching up the boy, inserting an IV into his forearms as the final touch. Stepping back from the bed, the threatening voice of the narc vocalized into their heads. At once point the younger of the two's anxiousness got to him as goosebumps started to arise along with a series of tears.

-
"I want him as brand as new. I don't want to see a single scratch that you haven't fixed up. You hear me?" The gang lord stood in front of the two, gun in hand.

"W-what if we can't fix him?" One of them dared to speak up. The once cold stare the narc had was now turned into freezing eyes, yet it could burn down anything in it's way. Now shivering, the ruthless man strode to his side. Hands clenching around the now whimpering man's hair. Cold metal digging it's way through the side of his head, unmistakably, a gun.

"Don't fucking test me. It's simple. Get the job done. You get your life. But if you don't?" The boss paused for an eerie and inhuman cackle. If the duo weren't scared before, they were shitting their pants now. "May God have mercy on your soul.. sike." He continued, his voice going devilishly low, haunting.

-

"We're gonna die, aren't we?" Asked the younger, voice fragile and defeated. The other sighing in frustration, tugging at his hair as he paced. "There's no hope. We have to talk to him m-maybe we could persuade him? I don't fucking know." The younger continued, pacing back and forth with his partner, across a still dead Grayson.

"We'll just have to wait and see." The older of the two deadpanned.

NO WAY?? Me posting?? It's been so long, thanks for keeping up with yet another shitty chapter by yours truly x Thank you for reading :)