i was never young—
That tickles, you think, scrubbing sleepily at your chest, lazily inferring an insect or a stray leaf was the cause of the uncomfortable feeling brushing your skin. The scratching, however, doesn't stop—and you hear something, vaguely, a giggle that's somehow more maniacal than any giggle should dare to properly be—suddenly that's your cue to sit upright; and, in an abrupt, heart-clenching moment, rip your eyes open and scan everywhere for the danger. You blink rapidly, squeezing the sleep and dried tears out of your system before the darkness settles in and a blurry dark shadow is just barely visible, crouching in front of you. It takes you another second to infer that you are being held at a lazy spearpoint.
Scrambling backward, you unwittingly let out the tiniest of breaths, not daring to make a sound for fear of letting forth any type of reaction. In that moment it is utterly essential that you stay calm and assess the situation and it takes all your willpower to stay very, very still.
The Chief leans forward and you can see the rough outline of his burnt and painted face, rough with freckles and smeared clay and ash and dirt and sun. More importantly, you almost quiver under the amused, icy glare stabbing you from within. With one last blink, one last shiver of tension, (1 2 3) you slowly, slowly exhale.
The Chief is silent, but he tightens his grip on his spear and you can tell because the tip isn't just grazing your skin now, its point is definitively etched in your chest and you don't dare try to remove it, not yet. You wait for him to speak, to state his purpose, to perhaps try and kill you—but he remains eerily still and silent and you open your mouth to speak but—
The spearpoint submerges into your chest, right above your heart, and you grit your teeth and try try try to stay still, stay calm, stay silent just like the Chief because you will not break, not before he does. You aren't sure why but you know if you move, he will kill you, and if you don't move he will probably kill you as well but at least you will have beaten him in something, you will possess the dignity of winning in an imaginary game of silence—and a victory as meaningless as that is better than nothing. The spear digs further yet into your chest.
And so the Chief speaks: "You'd jus' let me kill you easy as this?"
He sounds almost disappointed.
Good, you think for no apparent reason, now determined to keep him disappointed.
You sit still, matching his gaze calmly and coolly on the surface, while underneath churned a massive and torturous fire of tension. Your mouth remains shut and your tongue remains still, though your teeth are grinding and your cheek is bitten.
The Chief crawls closer, and the spear with it, until your chest begins slowly oozing dark red blood and it messily smears over the wood and your skin. The new outpouring of gore does not escape the Chief's notice, and he delightedly, greedily, wants more of this new reaction of your body to his manipulation. He lightly traces a design into your heart and when you let loose a small painful whimper with teeth clamped shut, fists clenched at your sides, his smile is absolutely giddy. He does not hesitate to press firmly, etching the sharp tool into your thin muscles and they bleed and bleed and bleed until he has carved an initial on you—the letter J is now clearly visible right above your throbbing heart—he has claimed you and you give up this silence game. You snarl, dignity lost, seize the spear that is firmly situated in your flesh and wrench it away, ready to stab it in the Chief in return, but he is quick and savage and you find yourself being shoved onto the ground before you know what happened, spear abandoned and three feet out of your reach.
His head lowers to your ear as you squirm underneath him, struggling for an escape, and he whispers charmingly (nuh uh uh!) and his breath is vile and hot on your neck and it is utterly too close. You feel a sudden pressure and puncture on your ear; he has bit it, sunk his teeth in, and now your ear is bleeding too and you can feel it slide, slick and wet and thick, down your neck and pool beneath you, staining your skin. You shout, "Jack!" and try to unpin your arms so you can punch him and he loves it, playfully experimenting on how else to get you to react in this lovely violent way. He begins to bite your neck, your cheek; you shout and he finally stops and looks at you straight in the face, a maniacal grin plastered on his face and your blood smudging the corners of his mouth, blending with the paint and the burn and the freckles and his face is a mass of horrible, horrible red.
His tongue, thick and wet, slides down the length of your throat and reaching finally the curve of your lips, his teeth clamp hard and suddenly you can taste your own metallic blood, it pools in your mouth and you try to spit it out. You end up merely splattering the Chief's face and you can barely tell anyway, he does not wipe it away but sits and grins at you, your arms and legs still pinned, and he sits on your chest playfully as though this is still some sort of sick game. You begin to choke on your own blood and it tastes terrible, like you swallowed liquid coins and salt all at once. It overflows from your mouth, drenching your hair with sticky dark red and sweat.
You try to slither away but the Chief's grasp is too strong, he merely grins at you and reaches for his spear, you shout and try to hit, kick, bite any part of him you can but it is no use, his grip does not waver and he is again playing with his spear, twirling it in his fingers. You try fruitlessly to knock it out of his grip; he merely stretches it further out of your reach and studies you with an amused smirk dancing around his lips.
Suddenly, the spear stops twirling and is situated at the base of your throat, threateningly, menacingly, firmly. Wide-eyed, you splutter more blood and the Chief leans down and licks it slowly from your lips, before pressing the spear firmly down and you are bleeding everywhere and it hurts and the pain is overbearing and suffocating, you can't breathe but you scream and Jack laughs—
standard disclaimer applies.