NIGHTMARE
He took the left hand.
I've always wondered whether it was on purpose, or the bastard simply didn't care either way. I'm right-handed and always have been, but my training forced me to learn to shoot with both, "just in case."
Just in case I was injured on the job, or got caught in a street brawl, or simply decided to stick my gun-arm in a blender. A rookie did that, once... he never touched alcohol again, and I'm sure being fired helped provide perspective. Some never learn, and others only so when everything is stripped away. But even when you have nothing, you still have so, so much to lose.
They trained you to be ambidextrous, just in case a mad scientist decides to shoot you point-blank, and then strap your dead body to an ice-cold table to perform twisted horrors of "science," then revive you only to see how you'd react to all of the changes.
"Just in case." No words ever tasted so foul on the tongue as those.
I was fully awake and aware when he brought out that terrible saw, the blades hissing and screeching in echo to my own agonized screams as he began at the base of my shoulder, slicing tendons and whittling the bones until they groaned and ached and fractured and shattered beneath the pressure... I remember the blood, how it went everywhere and stained my skin, his clothes, splashing across his glasses before dripping back onto the table.
Stop this...
He never flinched. An automaton of horrors, his machinations were of pure sin, and all in the interest of the twisted curiosity of science. He smelled of rot and ruin, of abusive chemicals and bad hygiene and blood... and all the while he stared down at me in nonchalance, my screams no more than mute to deaf ears. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe... my dead arm was lifted against the light, and my howls began anew with fresh terror. He cast it aside, a mere piece of trash to him. My arm. It gave a wet squelch as it landed against the dirty silver tiles, the dead hand still twitching as the nerves within began to erode from separation. I watched it die, and envied it.
The injections were first, and all into the open, gaping stump protruding from my shoulder, the edges raw and caked brown, and some green, white bone glinting as the veins around it still pumped my newly-recovered life away. I stared at it an eternity, fascinated, even urging it on, praying as I've never prayed before to let it end... let me sleep.
Damn you...
The bastard kept me alive, but only barely, continuing to empty dozens of needles into the exposed flesh, the glowing emerald, and sometimes black fluids burning far worse than the initial pinprick, sending god-knew-what into me, poisoning me... I could feel things changing, that icy burn ripping through my mind, down to my toes, and despite the cold I burned with impossible fever, rivers of sweat dripping irregularly down to the floor far below.
It felt like days, but even when he stopped to rest his experiments continued, a hasty IV plugged crookedly into my neck, the needle pulsing painfully with every beat of my racing heart, but by then I no longer had the strength to scream.
I remember the wicked, vile contraption he presented to me proudly, the golden piece that he took so much time, so much care to connect to my shoulder, connecting the nerves one by one... by one... Something akin to feeling emerged in the thing, and new fingers... no, claws... sent chills down my spine with a scrape of metal on metal, sharp and gleaming tips raking without mercy on the steel that supported my captive form. Even then he did not draw back, the slow, earsplitting screech only bringing a glint of amusement to his pale face.
I remember it all, until the moment I lay within my coffin at last, staring up into darkness with new eyes that glowed as red as the setting sun behind the mountains. I heard the irregular ringing of a hammer against nails as the top was nailed shut, and the constant murmurs of the madman outside that provided bleak counterpoint. It was a dirge as twisted and wrong as the thing now extending from my left shoulder.
Slowly, then, the older memories began to return, the ones that my pain had forced beneath the surface, and I remember Lucrecia. I remember my sin.
I remember how I deserved every moment of pain. Somehow, someone would put an end to the bastard and his monstrosities... but I knew that for the moment, the suffering was for me to endure. Alone.
God, Lucrecia... Forgive me... Forgive me…
In a moment of absurdity, I suddenly wondered with my own warped curiosity... why the left hand?
Notes: This was meant to be a brief snippet of dark humor, merely Vincent's musings about Hojo's horrible sense of irony. An experiment, if you will. However, it seemed to evolve as I wrote it, and who was I to stop Vincent from divulging the contents of his horrible nightmare?
Hope I didn't scare anyone with this… I actually really like Vincent!
Reviews are always welcome, and if you prefer something (much) less graphic, my other stories just might suit. Thanks for reading!
.Omega.Light.