Ruin Maketh Me

48 - Is this a downhill ride?

     The pain and crunch of weary death doesn't come. Instead, a sticky thud resounds loudly in the smothering space. My eyes blink open. Lutra's face is contorted into a mask of wrath, shock and pain, and where his left arm used to be is an empty space dripping with blood. A familiar golden light wraps itself around Lutra's neck and squeezes mercilessly.
     "Let him go." Ralphus says freezingly, purple eyes flashing.
A choked wheeze slips out of Lutra, but his grip does not loosen from my shoulder, "You," he squeezes out, "can't kill me."
Whump! A slice of golden light cuts towards Lutra's right arm but collides harshly with a pulsing green barrier. The hand crawls tightly up my shoulder towards my neck, and a god awful smile tears across Lutra's face. I kick at his knees, but he doesn't budge a single inch. Fuck. Ralphus's pupils thin into slits, he grabs the hilt of his sword and swings towards Lutra's head.
"Enough!"
A wave of violet energy rips down the corridor, and the breath in my lungs gushes out of me. Agony shreds through the fibres of my being, and my vision blinkers in and out of use. The hand loosens abruptly from around my shoulder, and I crash to the floor. My chest heaves up, down, up, down, but there's not enough air. Not enough. Again, again, need more, can't breath. Can't breathe. The dark carpet fades in and out of view. Ralphus. Anyone. Help. Help.  
     "Broth—
     Everything's drawing away. Pain thrums through my chest and throat. Julius. Fuck. Air. Can't breathe.
    —Ynder!"
    Breathe.
    Warm hands, strong fingers, "Cynd—
    Breathe.
    "Hold o—
    Need to...

     Warm light shines down from the wall sconces onto the dark wooden floor of the corridor. My shadow splashes behind me like some kind of ethereal ghost. I stare up at the long passageway and the little door at the very end. What am I doing here again? Something important. Right, there's something important I have to do. My feet move slowly towards the end of the orange light. There's something about the door, yes, I have to find out what's behind the door.
     —on't know." Muffled voices drift from behind that iron door.
     What is it? I place my hands on the cold iron handle, but a slither of unease pauses my movements.
    "Who was it?" A smooth, lilting voice asks quietly.
     I crouch and place my eye to the keyhole. The room on the other side is vast and entirely constructed out of concrete. There are no windows, and the entire space is lit only by the same orange light of wall sconces. In the centre of the room, right before the keyhole is a man chained to a black iron chair. A dark, middle-aged man stands to the side of the chair, and another with shocking platinum hair sits languidly diagonal to the man in chains.
     "Don't make me ask again," The platinum man says, crushing his lit cigarette butt into the other's exposed arm, "Was it Bloody Mariah, was it Lucipha?"
    The other shakes his head wildly and spits a glob of blood-mixed saliva on the ground. The platinum man leans back in his chair, and a beautiful smile paints his red lips, "Make the right choices Furlow, and I'll let you live."
The man called Furlow twists his head and laughs hysterically at the ceiling, "You won't get anything out of me, I don't know anything!"
Flicking his cigarette to the floor, the Platinum man waves to the dark man, "The axe if you would Marcus."
    "Yes, sir." Marcus makes his way leisurely to a far wall.
    Snapping off his gloves to the floor, the Platinum man walks some distance away from the man as if admiring a great painting by some famed and long-dead painter.
     "I don't know anything!"
    "We'll see about that." He says, taking over the long-handled axe from Marcus, "Now then." He flicks a finger at Furlow's right hand, "Shall we begin? I suggest that you keep still otherwise I'll cut off fingers I didn't mean to."
    Taking a shoulder-width stance, he raises the axe fluidly and slams it down across Furlow's right hand. A great, scratchy scream gurgles from Furlow's throat, and his pinky falls precisely to the ground with an eerie thump. My throat dries, and a nausea rises sharply up my stomach. What's happening? Did he just hack off this man's finger? It was so easy. Too easy.
     The Platinum haired man shrugs his shoulders and yanks Furlow's drooping head up by the hair, "I'm not in a hurry. You can take as long as you like, we have all the time in the world." 
    Furlow's body shakes like a leaf in the wind, and he tries to jerk away from the man's touch, but there's nowhere for him to escape to. There's only the chair and the Platinum man.
    "You have nine fingers, nine toes, two hands, two feet, two forearms, two shins, two upper-arms, two thighs, we have a lot of time before you fall apart." His whisper travels sweetly through the room, "Of course, I can tear off all your nails first, what do you think?"
     Furlow twists and turns, and his mask of courage cracks and shatters all over the bloody floor, "I don't know anything, it wasn't us, it really wasn't us!"
     The platinum man presses the blood-stained axe hand to Furlow's exposed arm, "You're going to have to try harder for me to believe you. What was the deal? What did Lucipha promise you?"
     A scream of frustration explodes from Furlow, "Nothing! I don't know! leave me alone, please."
     "Shhh. That's not the attitude you should have." The Platinum man digs the blade into Furlow's flesh and shaves a slice of tissue skilfully from his arm.
     Furlow's eyes widen until the whites of his eyes seem about to burst from his sockets, and guttural howls spill gratingly from his throat. Redness dribbles from his lips and mouth, painting his chin a ghastly mass of scarlet.
    "Tch." The Platinum man jams the axe's wooden handle into Furlow's mouth, "Can't have you biting your tongue off." He presses his slender fingers into the weeping wound.
     "MMHHHHHGGG!"
    A laugh tilts the Platinum man's lips, "Do you feel inclined to tell us who killed Dan now?"
    Dan. My heart lurches. Dan.
Red spurting warmly, light flickering on, off, on, off, infinite cries, stop, stop, stop, stop, no, no, no, no, the tang of rust, petrol, and everything going up in flames
I killed Dan. I was the one who killed Dan. And that Platinum man, I know who he is, he's Jacques, Jacques, "Jacques."
Piercing blue eyes turn my way, penetrate straight into me through the keyhole. God, he saw me, I need to get away. Get away! My feet shuffle backwards, and I stumble to my feet, but the growing clack of leather shoes on concrete tangles the threads of my limbs. I cannot move, I need to get away, I cannot move.
Creaaakkk.
The iron door swings open, and he stands silent before me, silver hair glinting, eyes shining, pale skin dotted with red, "It's alright Cynder."
He takes out a handkerchief from within his suit pocket and wipes his blood-red fingers meticulously, one by one so that his original pale skin returns. Throwing the stained cloth to the floor, he crouches and grasps my arms gently, pulling me slowly upright to my feet.
"Don't be scared," He says softly, "it won't be long. I'll be right with you."
My feet are frozen to the floor, and I cannot take that step away. They won't move. Why won't they move?
Jacques's eyes bend sweetly, and he nibbles the end of my nose affectionately, "It won't be long, I promise."
I killed him. It was me.