How goes it, errybody? I'm back with another update of DW. Woop woop! Sorry about the delay. Don't you hate when real life throws you for a loop? Yeah, same here.
Important Note 1: Before we continue, I urge you to check out the list of warnings that I've added to the introduction of this fic if you haven't done so already. It details things that either will or are likely to appear in this horror show.
Important Note 2: So both Marik and Yami Marik are going to appear in this fic, but the OC is gonna refer to both of them as Marik. As this is written in the OC's first-person perspective and in present tense, there will be no usage of Marik and Yami Marik, Marik and Malik, Hikari and Yami or anything like that. At this stage, I don't think it's necessary, but if I ever change my mind I may have the OC come up with another name for Tall, Dark and Creepy to set him apart from normal Marik. For now, though, we'll see how using Marik alone works out.
Alrighty then. If you're still here… well, I hope you enjoy this chapter of Death Wish! It's one helluva doozy!
Chapter Two
My vision's a shade lighter. The first tell that I'm awake.
Every morning, I'm dragged from my dreams by the brazen ring of a bell. My alarm tone. I'm a heavy sleeper, see? It's the only thing that wakes me up. And hearing that sound first thing in the morning is something that never changes, even on weekends.
All I hear is silence.
All I smell is mustiness.
All I feel is a biting air.
My finger twitches, an attempt at shifting my whole arm; it feels heavy.
I crane my neck.
Well, I try to.
When my skull screams in protest, I barely move an inch. A wince curls my brows as I scrunch my eyes tighter, oxygen hissing through my clenched teeth.
I still.
The pain subsides, but my temples continue to throb.
Jeez, did I have another late-night cramming sesh for uni?
Wait.
University's out at the moment. That can't be it—
Something splats on my cheek.
This time, it's my eyes that twitch. That horrible headache roars back to life; a squeezing sort of pain that swarms through my skull. I barely hear my own groan, soft and slow as it eases through my lips.
I freeze.
A second splat just joined the first. It's warm and wet, trickling down my cheek to meet my jawline.
I'm definitely awake.
My cheek itches at the touch of whatever's dripping on it.
I'm more conscious now, a lot less heavy.
Again, I try to move.
This time I succeed.
Whatever I'm lying on, it doesn't feel like my bed; it's coarse and cold as I drag my hand across it, and there's no weight, no warmth of a blanket on me. I slap the liquid from my face, noticing the stuff's colder now, the air around me having sucked any warmth from it. Finding the strength to lift a quivering hand, I hover it over my face and, as I rub my fingers together, I find that the liquid feels sticky and thick too, with a bit of grip once I've spread it across my skin.
My eyes twitch again. This time, I manage to pry them apart.
Red.
It's smeared across my pale palm, riddled through the rifts that form my fingerprints.
I stare at it.
My brows crease.
Why would my ceiling be dripping red?
Something splats on the back of my hand.
And through my fingers, two beady eyes come into focus. Round, black, empty eyes.
That's when it clicks.
A scream zaps the atmosphere like forks of lightning; I barely recognise the scream as mine.
My back hits a wall. I realise I've spent the last three seconds crawling backwards, driven by desperation, my shell-shocked mind on autopilot.
My eyes are wide, almost flying from their sockets.
My shoulders shake with each ragged breath that swells in my lungs.
I'm staring.
I'm processing.
I'm gasping for air.
Those two beady eyes, I realise, belong to some dead creature. A long piece of wood, the pointy pole from a farm fence, has been driven through the underside of its skull. The other end of the pole is firmly planted into a thick crack on the worn, stone floor, a few smaller cracks marring its dark grey surface.
A layer of white fat covers the creature's cranium and bits of pink flesh spot its surface. Scarlet, sinewy muscles extend from a large, off-black animal nose, and crimson drips sporadically from its nostrils, its mouth, behind its eyes—all landing with a sickening splat in the spot I'd just laid.
It's a decapitated cow.
Freshly slaughtered.
Freshly skinned.
Someone's been here recently.
Two hollow, lavender pools flash through my mind.
Reality sinks in.
A strangled sob shoots up my throat, my hand slapping over my lips like that'll suppress it. Instead, I've smudged blood across my mouth, my chin, even my nose.
My stomach churns. I stifle a retch, but only just.
My left hand, still clean, becomes quite the opposite as I rub the blood away, so hard the skin of my face stings.
More sobs shake my frame.
My eyes dash around me.
There's a door across the room. It's solid metal, save for a small, square gap a little higher than eye level. Three thick bars, burnt reddish brown by clusters of rust, span the length of the gap to block me from freedom.
It's deafeningly quiet. The only sound I hear is the faint crackling of a lone torch on the wall to my right, dancing away the darkness that claws at every corner, every edge of the room. I leap to my feet, my steps booming off the walls as I dash to the door.
One tug at the handle confirms my fears. The thing's jammed tight, locked from the outside.
Frantic, I yank it again.
And again!
And agai—
Steps echo outside.
I stop.
I listen.
I quiver.
A single set of steps. Soft. Steady. Getting louder.
He heard me scream.
My muscles go taut.
Adrenaline thunders through my veins.
For the second time that minute, my sights shoot around the space.
It must be around twenty feet wide, same length longways. The room's sparse. I see no obvious means of escape and there's no damn time to check if the thick crack in the floor - the one the pole's jammed into – would lead anywhere if I got on all fours and dug down.
I can't run.
There has to be something I can use to defend myself!
A plastic bucket, its white surface dulled by dirt, sits in one corner. An old newspaper is tossed beside it, stained yellow by the harsh hands of time. Across from the door, a pair of solid chains are bound to the wall, thick cuffs at the end of each one. They gleam beneath the torchlight, strikingly shiny- perhaps even new.
They're hanging in wait for a victim.
In wait for me.
Vile images flash through my head like a horror film, painting petrifying pictures of what that sick freak might do to me.
My gaze grinds to a halt on the impaled cow head.
I bound across the room, reaching it in three swift strides.
The lock clicks behind me. It echoes unsettlingly, three times in quick succession, off the worn walls around me. There must be three locks to flick open.
My quaking fingers curl around the wooden post that serves as a stake, and I grip it hard. Resolve swirls through my veins, numbing the splinters that sting my hands, as I rip the post from the crack in the stone.
The haunting cry of metal fills the room. It's the door.
I spin around so fast the cow head goes flying, slamming against the wall by the door with a sickening crunch. It collides with the floor soon after, one beady eye flopping from its socket to slop on the gritty ground; it's punctured, liquid oozing from the milky orb to pool on the floor.
My eyes spurt up.
Two lavender orbs are already on me, laughter lining every inch of them.
Maintaining a firm, two-handed grip on the post, I hold it out like a lance, ready to stab. Its end is jagged, dangerous, hopefully fatal.
I stare, unblinking, as air hisses through my teeth, in and out, in and out, with each hasty breath I take. "S-S-Stay away from me, you sick fucker!" I ready my fighting stance to stress that I sure as shit mean business, my grip on the post so strong my knuckles have long since run white, and the worn wood shakes visibly.
For a moment, all he does is stare at me. His eyes are now dead, void of any laughter, and his face is blank. I wonder if he's gaging me, assessing the situation and the best course of action. I wonder if I should lunge at him this very second, before he comes to a conclusion I won't like.
Instead, I'm rooted to the Goddamn ground.
A few seconds later, the freak simply laughs. A loud, hysterical laugh, so boisterous he throws his artichoke head back on his shoulders and roars at the rocky ceiling.
My chest tightens, bile bubbling in my throat. I swallow it down. My two-handed grip on the pole never ceases.
Only when his creepy laughs subside one painfully long moment later do I decide I should've stabbed the sick bastard right then and there. I missed my first chance, quite possibly my only chance.
I pray I won't regret it.
I already know I will.
A wild grin snakes across his lips, revealing blindingly white teeth. They don't suit him. Not at all.
"My my my…" I'm reminded of his putrid voice—deep and gravelly, almost inhuman. "You're certainly a feisty one." His eyes flick from mine to the post for only a second. "And imaginative too. . . Perfect."
My skin crawls. What the hell does he mean by that?
Marik moves.
I jerk the post higher, at shoulder height.
He doesn't stop. His solid, leather boots bounce off the floor as he takes three steps toward the cow head.
The sharp side of the post is always angled at him. I'm sure the skin of my fingers has shaped to every bump and ridge of the weather-worn wood.
My lungs seize as I catch a glimmer of torchlight on glistening gold. It's that golden sceptre, tucked under his belt. I recall the ominous eye engraved upon its base. And I recall how it was the last thing I saw in that parking lot, its glow all but blinding, before everything went dark.
Marik's eyes steal mine in their rigid stare, awaiting any sudden movements as he scoops the cow head off the ground, gripping it in two large, tanned hands, gold rings adorning his long fingers.
The cow's eye dangles from its socket, bound to its brain by stringy flesh. Liquid still leaves the punctured orb to splat sporadically upon the rugged, stone floor. Each splat echoes like the hands of a Grandfather clock – the dusty one in my living room, which I've always hated – as though counting every excruciating second he spends staring me down through hollow eyes.
I count at least ten seconds of silence – ten seconds of shaking, of hearing my every heavy breath, of running from a reality I refuse to accept – before a smirk slowly shapes his lips. He shifts the weight of the cow head in his hands, left to right and back again, and the cow eye rocks with every movement.
"Tell me, my dear." I tense as he raises the severed head, his veiny hand like a sick pedestal. "Did you enjoy my welcome gift?"
I don't answer. The disgust on my face is answer enough. It's the answer he wants too. I can tell by the way his smirk snakes wider. The sick freak's relishing my revulsion, my terror, this whole Goddamn shitfest.
"And your accommodation?" Marik cocks his head, still fucking smirking. "I trust you find it… adequate?" He juts his chin and stares at me through half-lidded eyes, down the straight bridge of his nose. He's awaiting an answer I refuse to give. He almost looks lazy, disinterested, with that cold, empty stare.
I know he's anything but.
And no damn way will I play along with his sick fucking game.
Marik grunts with what sounds like displeasure and dumps the cow head to one corner, near the exit. He doesn't break eye contact. Neither do I. Our reasons for doing so are drastically different.
His attitude shifts, like Rosefield's bipolar climate, when a sneer tears away any annoyance his grunt had implied. "Not one for small talk, are we?"
When again, I don't answer, the freak strolls two steps forward.
I totter twice as many back, my grip firm on the pole.
"Shall I take that as a yes?" The creep's sneer stretches. "Hm. I suppose it would be wise to rest that pretty, little larynx of yours." He takes another two steps.
This time, I take thrice as many back. And nearly trip on the last, my heel hitting the wall.
Something cold and unquestionably metal rattles behind me, and my stomach flips, bile once again burning my throat.
It's those chains.
Oh God, it's those friggin' chains!
I know it is!
My mind explodes with vile theories of what the hell he plans to do with them, to do with me. A sob escapes me. It's sudden. It's pathetic. It came from friggin' nowhere.
Just like the torturous clatter of wood meeting stone.
Two tanned hands have yanked the pole from my grasp. They jam my wrists flat against the stone wall and I yap as the chain-links burrow into my back, hard against my spine. His body's but a breath away from my own—and I have no frickin' wiggle room to change that!
I've dropped my guard.
I've lost the post.
I've screwed up.
As I stare, unblinkingly, at the triumph that dances through the depths of his gaze, sobs surge in my throat like an ever-rising tide. I barely contain them.
Futility claws savagely at my mind.
I know it.
He knows it.
That's the absolute worst part.
"Shh shh shhhh," Marik lulls in my ear, the foul heat of his breath shooting shivers down my neck. "Didn't I just tell you to preserve that little voice of yours?" His own voice is eerily soft, a haunting whisper that sickens and scares me in equal measure. "After all, you need to save it… save it, my dear… save it for your screams." His pitch deepens with every syllable, brimming with some twisted, depraved kind of lust. "Yes," he groans, "Save it for those oh so delicious screams!"
My stomach nearly curdles.
I'm frozen in place—and his hands around my wrists, or his body pressed to mine, aren't just to blame for that.
I know he's twisted.
I know he's remorseless.
I know I'll need to break my way out of this screwed-up hell hole.
What I don't know is how.
I'm launched back to reality when he drives me harder into the wall, so hard I can feel him – the most unsavoury part of him imaginable – erect against my stomach. I realise, with brutal clarity, one thing he's sure to want from me. One thing no one should ever take from another by force.
I know he wants to.
I know he can.
I've gotta get outta this shitfest long before he does.
My pulse throbs in my temples, my ears; hell, it shakes my whole damn body!
And oh God, my trembling's downright violent, uncontrollable. I just can't stop—
Marik buries his face in my neck, the gravity defying spikes of his flaxen hair itching my cheek as he… as he inhales deeply.
What…
What the fuck?!
A breathy groan escapes his mouth. A set of gasps, sharp and ragged and utterly petrified, escape mine- I… I swear he just got harder! It's like… like the sick freak's getting… getting off from this shit!
This time, I fail to choke back a humiliating sob.
He only groans again.
"My little pet," he whispers far too softly, "I want screams so severe they will echo in my mind, resonate in my dreams, erupt like an everlasting symphony off these stone walls." His tongue twists through his lips to slither a sickening course down my cheek, the cold air biting at the saliva that's left behind. "I want to hear those delectable screams as I strip you of your sanity, as I drain the hope from your eyes, as I fuck myself to the thought of you dying here, as I defile that delicate body of yours in every single way you can imagine." He leans back, exposing a sneer. "And even in ways you can't."
No.
No no no…
Please, no. This can't be happening.
Not to me.
Please, not to me.
He's crazy.
He's psychotic.
He's fucking insane!
People like that don't exist. Not in quiet, crappy Rosefield!
They don't kidnap poor girls.
They don't lock them away from the world.
They don't torture them, rape them, murder them.
They don't.
They just don't!
Marik leans forward again, making me wince as the weight of his body presses down on my wrists. His grip is intense, immovable, and my pale hands are somehow even paler. I can't even tell if the stone wall is cold against my knuckles or the other way around.
"Oh, those people do exist in Rosefield, my dear." I tense, sure I hadn't voiced that aloud. "Why do you think you're here, hmm?"
What the—
How'd he know I just thought—
That menacing eye, the one on his sceptre, flicks through my mind for only a moment. It's the last thing I saw before I wound up here. I know that's no coincidence. I know that thing is sure as hell not normal!
A chuckle shakes his shoulders. I feel it reverberate his ribcage, perhaps even mine. And his grin— oh God, his grin! It's downright feral, as he eyes me like I'm some frantic, feeble creature cornered by a ravenous predator.
I am.
I am and he's loving every microsecond of it!
Now that flips a switch.
My lips draw back in a snarl – not a damn scream – and suddenly, I feel like I'm the psychotic one. I lash my limbs, my hips, anything I can; desperate for an opening, for any chance of escape.
All I hear with each futile lurch of my body are his pleasured moans in my ear, and all I feel is something sickeningly hard against my lower abdomen.
He's stronger.
Way stronger.
He's sick, twisted, perverted, a monster.
I already know that even that doesn't cover it.
I doubt any word can.
Eventually, my body slackens and shakes between him and the wall. I'm whimpering, panting, as my lips quiver of their own accord.
The very definition of humiliating.
My chest presses hard to his, and his to mine, with our every heavy breath. Mine are fuelled by the choking weight of reality; his, with a perverse sense of power- and a rush of animalistic lust.
Then, I hear that grating voice once more. "I must say… terror suits you quite perfectly." Again, his tongue wets my cheek. "Quite… delectably."
Exhaustion has overwhelmed me. I can feel it, those fear-fuelled bursts of adrenaline draining from my body along with my hope. I try, desperately, to cling onto the latter. I'll need it to escape this fucking nightmare!
"Prepare yourself, my dear." Marik drags my wrists further up the wall, until my arms are ramrod straight and right above my head. "Prepare yourself for the slowest, most excruciating death to ever exist in this world!" He loops his large, left hand around both of my wrists. "Your perception of time will be twisted oh so slowly by my hands." His right-hand skims down the wall, yet his empty stare is still on me. "You won't die over hours, days, not even weeks. Oh no, your death will be slower still…"
Another sob shoots tremors through my chest as he grinds against me, hard and hungry, grinning madly. If he hadn't already given me every bloody reason to question his sanity, that grin would've done it in buckets.
The clatter of metal has tears clawing at my eyes.
No.
Shit. Please, no!
The steady scrapes of metal on stone sound like a death sentence.
"You'll waste away here over months. Perhaps even years." He snorts. "That is, if you last that long… and if you're amusing enough." He barks out a laugh. "As for your thirst for company, for the kindness and comfort and warmth of another… oh, your thirst for such things will be left in the unsteady fingers of a broken boy." His lips brush my ear. "And in my hands, of course."
My eyes bulge. I up my struggles, but my body's weak, unresponsive, already struggling to follow his words. My limbs are slack and flimsy, like wilted petals on a flower in fall.
"First, I'll take your spirit. I'll claim your courage. I'll strip you of any and all resolve that you possess."
The click of a cuff echoes endlessly off stone. My right wrist is too cold to even feel it against my skin.
"Then, I'll take your mind. I'll steal your sanity. I'll rob you of everything that makes you you."
Another click. This time, it's my left wrist.
"And lastly…"
The chain-links clatter as his hands leave my wrists, and the weight of the cuffs drag my hands to my sides.
"I'll take your body."
Hairs rise all over my skin as his fingers grip my waist, and his hands slide far too slowly up my sides. My milky flesh is hidden by a white tee and a pale blue tech coat, both dirtied by the dusty floor and dried blood—but in this moment, no amount of clothing is enough to make me feel shielded, unsullied, clean.
"I'll push it to – no, beyond its limits."
As his hands reach my shoulders, I see the way his eyes hone in on my chest, as though relishing the way it rises and falls: sharply, sporadically, victimised by my terror.
All at his hands.
"I'll sap every sliver of fight it has left."
His fingers ease down my arms at an agonising pace.
"I'll destroy its every instinct."
My stomach sours. He's laughing again, low and grunty, thick veins bulging beneath his temple.
"I will crush your body's will to survive."
In an instant, a pair of lavender pools bore through me as his lips linger but a breath from my own.
"And you'll be absolutely begging for death…"
His words birth a cavernous hole in my gut, a sensation I've only felt twice before. The day I found Dad, his unseeing eyes drilling deep into mine. And the day I was told I'd never again see Toby alive.
I never saw his body. I couldn't bring myself to.
With Dad, I'd had no choice.
"Now then," Marik murmurs, his breath nauseatingly hot across my ashen face, "I have something I'd like to show you."
Only when he takes three steps back – still nowhere near far enough! – do I learn that I have jello for legs. The handcuffs slam against the stone floor, my knees following suit, as the chains shatter the sinister silence of wherever the hell I am.
I'm dizzy.
Cotton balls fill my mind, fuzz my senses.
I barely catch the clatter of wood as Marik kicks the wooden stake across the room – well out of reach – and strides through the exit, out of sight. His steps tap off every wall, each one quieter than the last.
They never fade completely.
No, they're still there.
They're still taunting me.
A reminder of what awaits if I even attempt an escape.
But if given the chance, I know I'll seize it. I have to.
I don't know how long I've been here.
I don't know if I'm missing yet.
I can't rely on others to save me.
No, I have to save myself.
How big is this place?
My eyes rush around the room.
I'm reminded that I'm dizzy.
I slump against the wall, groaning softly. The stones are uneven in places, harsh against my back. That's the absolute least of my concerns.
God, this can't be happening.
It just can't be.
Somehow, I'm remembering those cliché scenes from the movies; the ones where they think they're dreaming, where they pinch themselves and lo and behold, it's frickin' real.
Now I know exactly how those poor bastards feel.
I don't bother pinching myself.
I don't even know if I can.
Just the thought of moving right now has me sagging harder against the wall- if that's even possible.
I lay for a minute, motionless.
I'm staring into space.
I suck air in through my nose, out through my lips.
Inhale for two seconds and exhale for four. And make sure your stomach rises- it gives your lungs more room to breathe. A regular at the pharmacy, good ol' Dorothy Beaker, had once said that when buying her usual- a box of denture cleaning tablets and the "winning" lottery ticket.
It's funny, the little things you remember—
Steps echo in the distance.
His steps.
I try my gosh dang hardest to ignore them.
I need to concentrate on my breathing.
But fuck, oh fuck, the certainty of my situation is really sinking in now—
No!
In for two, out for four.
I need to focus.
In for two, out for four.
I need to maintain a level-head.
In for two, out for four.
I need to cling onto my sanity, to not let him win.
Things aren't spinning so much now. My breathing's maybe steadier. Rapid breathing certainly explains the dizzy spell. I'd blame that for my tingling fingers too, had that freak not just been cutting off their blood supply.
My eyes sink to the cuffs clasped firmly around my wrists, flat on the floor, linked to chains I see are bolted to the wall behind me.
Futility fills me. I try so damn hard to keep it at bay. I need to concentra—
My body tightens.
I swear I just heard a tap close by.
Boots against stone?
My lips curl and quiver. A desperate attempt at biting back a round of ugly crying.
Oh God! Is he already coming back?!
I still as much as I can.
I try to focus, my eyes fixed to the opened door dead ahead.
I only just maintain my steady breathing.
His steps are still distant, barely even audible.
Okay. I'm on edge. Shitty circumstances like this cause hypervigilance, increased anxiety and eventually, exhaustion. Clearly, I'm experiencing all friggin' three!
The source of the sound is hopefully harmless, or maybe I'm just downright hearing things. I don't know which is worse.
My focus shifts back to the cuffs.
So, I have about five feet of chains to work with. First thing on the agenda is to change that no chains to work with.
My eyes whizz around the room in search of salvation. Three sweeps and I realise, with a pitiful sob, I have nothing to work with.
A bucket.
A newspaper.
A cow head.
A bloodied post.
A torch on the wall.
And another, lone handcuff that hangs from the wall to my left. Just the one cuff, not a pair. I hadn't noticed it before—and right now, I don't have time to question it.
Damn it!
I can't reach any of these things while I'm in these stupid cuffs. Not even if I embrace my inner primate by lying on the ground and using my feet for hands!
There might be something in my backpack; only problem is it's nowhere in sight. Clearly, he's nabbed it.
The rattle of chains echo as my hands dive into the shallow pockets of my black pants. They're empty, unless tiny bits of balled up thread count.
Splendid.
Frickin' splendid.
My sights shift to my cuffs for the millionth time. At least, it certainly feels that way.
Then I steal another glance at the door.
I can't hear his steps.
He's either too far away or he's stopped somewhere- hopefully not nearby.
My eyebrows crease as I examine the handcuffs: solid, shiny and most definitely new. I have a sneaking suspicion they're a recent addition to this otherwise dated room.
My eyes snap up as I twist my body, the skin of my stomach folding; that only intensifies the nausea that grips my gut each time I move.
I try to focus on the chains.
They're thick, fixed to a metal plate that's been bolted into the stone wall.
They seem sturdy and securely fixed.
They probably are.
Let's test that.
Sluggish as a sloth, I lug myself to my feet, the chains rattling, cuffs colliding with every movement I make. My legs ache. They're still bordering on limp noodle territory, threatening to cave.
I refuse to let them.
There's no way I'm letting that Goddamn psychofreak win!
My eyes dart to the door. I know he's left it open just to taunt me, to heighten my hopelessness.
I won't let it.
Instead, I listen.
No steps.
Okay. To test just how well these stupid chains are rooted to that stone, I need to put as much weight as possible onto the bolts that bind them to the wall. I can't do that with my back to said wall. No, I'll probably be able to put more weight on the bolts if I'm facing them.
All right. I need to be as silent as possible, lest Marik hears and returns prematurely.
Carefully, I lift each leg over the chain that's linked to the cuff around my left wrist. The cuffs steal quiet gasps from my throat as they nip my wrists, but around ten seconds later, I'm facing the wall.
I spare a one-eyed glance over my shoulder.
No one in the doorway.
No steps nearby.
My attention returns to the task at hand. The chain-links trail up the bare wall to two metal plates, where thick bolts have been drilled through the plates, straight into the stone. The chains are now crisscrossed just shy of my cuffs, making me cringe each time the hiss of metal on metal tortures my ears- partially because the noise alone is cringe-worthy, partially because anything seems loud in this deathly silent space.
To my chagrin, there's no silent way to throw all of my weight onto the bolts. At least, not one that only uses my body weight. The most effective way to do this is with that classic trust exercise that I swear, these days, is more of a joke among friends than anything else—fall backwards, trust that you'll be caught.
The only difference?
I don't want the cuffs around my wrists to catch me.
No, I wanna fall hard on my ass.
That'll mean I've yanked those bloody bolts right from the wall!
The cuffs hiss as I press my wrists together – well, as together as I can get them – and I allow the chain-links to sag a few feet.
Okay.
As they always say, it's now or never.
I fall backwards.
Cool air snakes over my skin.
Strands of strawberry blonde fly into my peripheral vision.
The chain-links grind against one another, echoing off every wall.
Then the cuffs bite my wrists, so hard I'm sure a thin layer of blood is now smearing the insides of the stupid shackles.
I'm at a forty-five-degree angle, stopped midair.
The chains have gone taut and the bolts haven't budged.
Steps fill the air.
They're growing louder by the second.
"Damn it!"
Fuelled by desperation, I throw caution to the wind and yank hard against the chains.
They don't budge.
I try again.
They don't budge.
A sob jams in my throat and I try two more times.
They don't budge.
Tears blur my vision.
In a frenzy, I pull and pull and pull again.
The bolts don't bloody budge!
I glance at the door.
Empty.
Another few pulls.
Another glance at the door.
Empty.
I've lost count of how many times I've tugged at the Goddamn bolts on the wall.
Another glance.
Empty.
The violent clanking of chains drown out each growl that erupts from my lips as I tug and tug, again and again.
Another glance.
Empt—
A grey shadow ghosts across the wall beyond the doorway.
My breath stalls.
He strolls into sight, not a sliver of panic strewn across his countenance.
No, he's smirking like the cocky creeper that he is.
And he's holding a black, bulky tote bag in one hand, its contents clanking with each movement he makes.
My stomach squirms. What the hell's inside that thing!?
"Oh, you're about to find out, my little pet."
A gasp grabs my throat as my eyes hiss to that golden sceptre, still tucked under his belt.
"Very perceptive, aren't you?"
I don't answer, but the implication of his words doesn't fall on deaf ears. There's definitely something funky about that creepy sceptre of his—and he knows I suspect as much.
Marik enters the room, his leather boots tapping against stone. Each step he takes is calm, calculated, carefully placed. Perhaps that offers a glimpse of his personality- psychopathic tendencies aside.
The chain-links fixed to my cuffs are still criss-crossed. Knowing that's a sure-fire way to shoot myself in the foot, so to speak, I throw both of my legs over the chain-link that's fixed to the cuff around my left wrist and spin on my heel, my back no longer to him.
Somehow, he doesn't acknowledge my obvious attempt at an escape. Instead, his smirk remains as he halts just beyond the bounds of my chains.
I stumble five steps back, my back slamming against the wall. Pain shoots down my spine. I don't give a crap. No, all I care about is being as far away from the creep as possible.
Deadened eyes are on me as he sets down the bag. Whatever's in it clanks again and keeps the thing standing upright, rather than allowing it to sag against the stone floor.
My eyes narrow on it, theories of its contents plaguing my mind. The worst one my brain conjures up, of frickin' course, is torture equipment—and regret writhes within me as my mind races back to those Game Of Thrones reruns that I just had to watch last week.
A low, raspy laugh shakes his shoulders. "I assure you, I have no intention of torturing you. Not in the physical sense." His eyes narrow on me, now thick with amusement. "Not yet."
I swallow, loathing the way my lips tremble.
"After all, I made a promise that your spirit would be the first thing to go." He laughs again and crouches beside the bag. "I intend to honour that promise. And there are far more… intriguing ways to do so than by mere physical torture- ways I plan to make ample use of."
Marik buries a hand in the bag and steadily withdraws something I sure as heck don't expect. It's a jar, its smooth surface the colour of limestone and its base engraved with a group of hieroglyphics that I could never hope to decipher. The lid has been carved into the head of a falcon, a god whose name I can't recall.
No, all I know from the few documentaries that I've seen is that the thing is Egyptian.
And that jars just like it were once used to contain the organs of—
My face slowly falls.
Marik's unfittingly white teeth are revealed as a grin splits his lips, somehow reminding me of some giddy, five-year-old boy scout showing off his badge collection. Only a lot less cute and a lot more terrifying.
"You're somewhat familiar with canopic jars, I see." He strides closer and my foot twitches, only for reality to slap me hard across the face. I'm already against the wall. I can't step back.
"It's customary, is it not?" Marik halts only a foot from me and plucks off the lid. "For a man to introduce the only woman in his life to his family." He shoves the jar in my face, the pungent scent of cinnamon, sawdust and salt filling my lungs, and I glimpse shrivelled twists of pale pink within it.
Oh… Oh my fucking God.
That thing in the jar.
That's… That's what's left of his…
A retch erupts in my throat.
Marik throws back his head and roars with laughter. "Not all that fond of my dear sister, are you?" He pops the lid back on the jar. "Don't you worry, my little pet. It may come as a bit of a surprise, but I wasn't exactly too fond of her myself." He laughs again, like he's a world class comedian or something.
I scream that he's one sick motherfucker.
Or rather, I try to.
All that leaves my lips is a choking cough, my attempt at stifling another retch.
Or an ever-swelling tide of tears.
The… The hell if I friggin' know anymore—
A sudden snarl rips me back to reality. Before me, Marik's free hand slaps his forehead and grips it tightly, each vein in his wrist throbbing beneath his russet skin. He staggers back, right across the room, until his hand leaves his forehead to clutch the doorway instead.
"Be… Begone, you little pest!" Marik barks.
"Leave… them… alone…"
Those three words; they were uttered by Marik, but they sounded… normal, untainted, afraid.
"You're… interrupting… my fun!"
"You're…" Marik stumbles forward, the jar stretched before him in one hand as he heads for the bag. Even from here, I can tell that hand is shaking. "You're disrespecting my family!"
"You deem that disrespectful to our dearly departed family?" A low chuckle leaves his lips, his grip on the jar tightening. "I'll show you disrespect, little Marik!"
Suddenly, Marik launches the jar at the wall to his left, narrowly missing the only torch in the room. In a cloud of brown spices, the item shatters against rock, shards of limestone clattering to the ground along with a clump of spice-dusted flesh—a preserved, shrunken loop of… of intestines.
That golden sceptre soon follows, bouncing off that very same wall; it rings as it hits the floor, then stills among the shards of shattered limestone.
Marik bellows with laughter as he staggers, though a little less than before, toward that lone cuff on the wall. My brows soar, bewilderment racking my brain, when he drops to his knees and shoves his right hand into the shackle. He clicks it in place, binding himself to the wall right along with me, and he peers my way, his lips curling into a feral smile.
"I'll see you later this evening, my little pet."
And with that, Marik's face softens – his hair settling on his shoulders, that glowing eye on his forehead fading from existence – as he slumps against the stone wall behind him.
Blinking back my shock, I keep a sharp eye on the blond. I'm ninety nine percent sure that every variation of WTF has just crossed my mind in the span of a minute.
One moment he's shoving canopic jars in my face.
The next he's cuffed and collapsed against the damn wall.
I have a few theories as to what could cause such a sudden shift in someone (besides the obvious he's fucking insane) but—
The strong scent of cinnamon hits me like a freight train, all but curdling my stomach, and my eyes snap to the remnants of the shattered jar. To my dismay, not a single shard is within arm's – or foot's – reach. Just another thing to taunt me, like the opened door straight ahead.
A groan steals my focus. Again, it sounds relatively normal. Not disturbingly deep. Not dastardly. Not otherworldly.
He's stirring.
And somehow, his presence isn't threatening.
Not like before.
No, it's definitely not like before!
Marik lugs his chin from his chest like a starving man, weak and trembling. His blond bangs shift, revealing a pair of lavender eyes that look very much alive- not empty voids of crazy like before. I catch his gaze move to the bag, full of what I assume are more jars. Then, his attention turns to the shards of limestone on the floor and… and eventually, it falls on the… remains.
That's when a sob lurches from his lips.
Then another.
And another.
They hiccup in his throat. They wrack his shaking body. They seem to have no end.
"Br-Brother," Marik chokes, slackening against the stone wall. "Sister…"
He's whimpering, lost and lonely, almost like a child… almost like Toby. And I realise that for the first time since this whole thing began, my own lips are quivering from something other than fear.
"Odion... Ishizu... Oh Ra, I'm sorry…" His chin hits his chest, tears streaking his cheeks. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry!"
So… that happened. ^_^U
Ahem. Yeah. Anyway, I listened to creepy as heck ambience music while writing the first half of this chapter and it was actually super unsettling, so I really hope it helped. If not, well… then all it did was make me realise how much of a giant wuss I am. For the second half of this chapter, I did a full one-eighty and listened to 90's pop music… which I feel was mildly inappropriate of me given what I was writing. XD
Oh and by the way, if you're wondering if I've mentioned the OC's name in this fic yet… no, I haven't and you're not going crazy. I find it kinda interesting to have her unnamed. For now, anyway.
Anywho, please do review to let me know your thoughts so far—and have a great day or night ahead!