The Selected

It Was the Worst of Times

Two Years Ago

When the darkness disperses, I find myself staring at a bright white light. But it wasn't death beckoning me, not yet at least, as I inhaled the scent of the room, traces of blood, and fear, and anguish assaulting my senses. Terrible things happened hear, and dread filled me as I realized terrible things were about to happen to me as well.

Glancing away from the light, I found that aside from the brightness of it, the room itself was dingy and made of stone that looked wet, probably from the snow?

All of my limbs were restrained by rope and I began to panic as the realization truly set in about why I was here. The bastard could've killed me there, just ended it, but he took me instead. Why? Forget why, I told myself, and get the fuck out of here. Pulling against the rope restraints as hard as possible, I couldn't stop the small pathetic sound that left my throat at the burning pain that seared through me.

Wolfsbane.

And the culprit of my capture than entered the room, his blond beard even wilder than before, though the unkempt facial hair didn't even hold a candle to the untamed wild look in his eyes. He twirled a long crooked dagger between his fingers that glinted brightly under the light, and I knew without a doubt it was silver. But as he really gets close, I realize why I was so unnerved by him all week, what really creeped me out about him.

The madness inside him that showed through his eyes was the exact same as Michael's. Had I escaped one hell only to find myself in another? I felt cold both inside and out at the realization, at the question.

And my unasked question was answered as he reached forward and dragged the blade from sternum to navel, a sick happy look on his face. He didn't push deep, just enough to draw blood and then some, but the silver took care of the rest for him as it burned and seared. As he drew a second line of blood across the first cut, I couldn't keep the hiss in as it slipped through my teeth. His grin grew.

So he continued drawing on my body with that silver dagger, and ultimately I was screaming, begging for him to stop. I found myself wishing for someone as sweet as Michael. The hunter didn't ask for anything, no questions to get information out of me about the pack or anything. He wasn't interrogating me, this was just plain torture, plain enjoyment on his part.

After a particularly painful slice across my chest, I lost consciousness.

-

I don't know how much time passed between waking and unconscious hours, but every time I stirred, he would be there without fail, inflicting new kinds of torture, new damage.

He always entered without uttering a single word and wouldn't leave until I'd finally passed out due to pain, which I unfortunately had a high tolerance to, to the point that it took what felt like years of pain until my body finally gave in and just shut down.

I wish I could shut down permanently. I wish he would just kill me already. But he won't, because he's having too much fun. I can see it in his eyes, the way they manically light up every time he elicits a new swell of blood from me.

Yesterday, at least I think it was yesterday, he opted to switch out his knife for a heavy hammer. It must've been an experiment on how quickly werewolves can heal broken bones. He shattered my left shin bones and my left arm bones before my body finally gave me reprieve.

But now I was awake again, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he strolled in again, that wicked smile on his face with those wild eyes that promised pain and suffering beyond anything I've experienced until now. But there was a shift in his energy when he walked in today, and I couldn't believe that I found myself thanking the gods that he walked in with his knife today instead of the hammer. My bones had healed, but just barely.

And for the first time in years, he spoke, "I've realized something, little doggie, and it's that I just cannot let you or your kind continue to repopulate the earth and continue to spread your vileness. And to truly take you all out, I must start at the root of the issue."

Fear unlike any other spread through me as I realized what he was going to do and so I begged him, my voice hoarse. I begged and pleaded for him not to, but it had no effect on him. He stabbed down straight into my lower stomach and I screamed in agony. He slashed and sliced wildly with a wicked grin across his blood-splattered face, all the while I screamed and begged for sweet death, for mercy, for him to just fucking kill me.

But he just kept slicing until he felt satisfied and left the room silently, nodding as if he were congratulating himself on a job well done. He left before I even lost consciousness, and I wish I had, because the pain was unbearable.

It was agony, the knowing of what he'd done, the physical pain as my body struggled to piece itself back together from the wounds inflicted by that damned silver knife.

Sobs wracked my body, each one more painful than the other and I cursed everyone and everything that had ever led to me arriving to this moment. I wished I'd never been born. I wished Michael had never killed my parents. I wished the Simmons never took me in. I wished I was never Selected. I wished I hadn't joined the Ravage Pack. I wished I was just fucking dead already.

Why won't he just let me die?