Fear
Stanley could feel his breath, damp and heavy and so very tight. He twisted, trying to find an inch of movement, the tiniest space for him to pull free, but the walls seemed to wrap around him and pull him in tight, a hug that he didn't want, a blanket that was far too warm, a noose around his neck that threatened to choke him and drag him under.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe! His body moved on its own, slamming into the metal beneath him, twisting as the acidic taste of panic flooded his tongue, bile rising to the back of his throat and burning his flesh. It was so dark, and everything was so goddamn close. He couldn't breathe!
Think Stan, think!
Panic tore at his chest. The air felt thinner, so, so thin. How long has he been in this trunk? How long since the boot of the car had been slammed down, bruising muscle and flesh and sending him plummeting into his own worst nightmare. He could smell gasoline, and for one horrifying moment he thought he felt the flames licking at his clothes, at his skin. Fuck, fuck, fuck! The stench of urine stung his nostrils, a dampness spreading across his lap. Urine, gasoline and bile. He spat, the dampness closing in. It was too close, to close, to tight. He couldn't breathe!
Fuck!
His fingernails scrabbled at the metal, clawed at the cladding, his nails ripped from their beds, splintering and tearing into nothing. Stan didn't even notice the sting. The rope bit into his skin, chafing his wrists, his skin tearing and pulling, the fibres ripping his skin to pieces, digging in. Numbness tingled through his fingers. They'd tied the ropes too tight. Much too tight. He was losing feeling in his hands. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. Shit, shit, shit!
Stan slammed into the trunk, shoulder digging into the metal, "Move!" His voice was hoarse, a cracked, raspy cry that he didn't recognise as his own. It cracked and crumbled, a dry harshness coloured with panic. That wasn't his voice. This wasn't Stanley Pines. He wasn't locked in the trunk of a car, rapidly losing air, knowing that he was potential minutes away from death. He wasn't going to die. He wasn't going to die. He wasn't going to die.
He was going to die.
The realisation hit him like a strike to the head, slamming into him with all the force of a street punk getting in a lucky shot. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, he was going to die here. He was going to die, bound in the trunk of a car, breathing in the stench of urine and gasoline as it got harder and harder to breathe. He was going to die and Ford would never know how fucking sorry he was.
The air around him was thin, and Stan was left fighting for every breath, praying for each gulp of air, muscles straining, tearing beneath his skin. The fog in his brain was growing thick, the aching in his chest, the pounding of his heart, the echoing of his gasps, the darkness, the darkness….he couldn't see…no more air…no more air…he…
The trunk opened. Stanley felt air, sweet, sweet air rush into his lungs and he choked, arching his aching body, desperate to reach it, to draw the oxygen into his lungs in huge, grating gasps. The ropes held him prisoner, the numbness of his limbs fighting him. But still, he could breathe. He could breathe, he could breathe, he could breathe! The light that flooded his vision seared his retinas, burning pain spiking through the back of his head. He still couldn't see.
But it was okay, because he wasn't dead, he wasn't dead, and maybe he had a chance to fix things. It was only when he felt the metal pressed against his cheek, the scent of gunpowder invading every inch of his senses, that Stanley realised this was far from over. Muted voiced muttered in Spanish above his head, and a sharp prod, pushed him deeper into the confines of the trunk. He opened his mouth, a cry of protest in his throat, only to find metal jammed in so deeply that he was left choking on his own bile.
"Cállate!" The word was a hiss, menacing and low.
Stan's head spun, darkness threatening to close in on his vision, to drown him once and for all. Then as suddenly as it came, it was gone, the metal ripped from his throat, tearing his mouth and leaving him tasting blood, spitting bile onto the carpet. He gasped, his last flicker of hope shattering on the asphalt as the shadows once more approached.
"Please!"
That voice wasn't his, cracking and begging and scared. That wasn't Stan Pines.
The trunk slammed shut, throwing Stan back into the darkness, crushing him beneath its weight. And as the heavy metal rammed into his shoulder, thundering over his bruises, madness crept at the edges of his mind.
And as Stanley howled, a raw sound drawn from his tattered soul, agony threatening to tear him in two, the darkness stole his breath.
And he knew nothing but the darkness.
And fear.