You Can't Break Me
A/N: This can get dark. But enjoy and review!
Blood and pain. Everywhere. Dripping, sticking, pooling. In your hair, on your arms, in between your fingers. Dripping off of your chin, sticking on your shoulders, pooling on the floor. Throbbing, pulsing, receding. In your knee, your head, your ankle. Blood and pain, pain and blood. Everywhere.
Dripping, throbbing, sticking, pulsing, pooling, receding.
They would come for you. They always did. Asking you questions for which you had no answers, beating you for knowledge that you don't have. Causing you pain. Making you bleed.
Marque likes guns. You learn that the hard way. Bullets in your knee, your shoulder, marks where bullets had grazed your shins. He likes to watch you squirm when he holds the gun to your shins and feet. He likes your pain. Bang, bang, bang.
Marque's friend likes tazers. His favorite one can melt through skin. He likes to use that one in the same spot. If you had the energy to turn, you could probably see your hip bone. He likes it when you scream and convulse from his electrical shocks. He likes your pain as well. Zap, zap, zap.
Chenille doesn't like your pain as much. She whips you every now and then, but she doesn't seem to take especial joy in your pain. She likes to talk about giving you pain more than she actually does. Sometimes, when she wasn't in a torturous mood, she would sit down next to you and talk about nothing. About everything. She told you about her crush on Marque, how she left her family when she woke up to find her little sister was dead. She claimed it was her step-mom's fault. She told you that you were still here because you wouldn't answer the questions. You never talked back to her. She never expected you to. The sound of her nasally voice was… good. It was nice compared to your own screams, the snickers of Tazer Boy, and Marque's gun.
On a good day, she would come in the torture room (your new home; they no longer brought you back to the cell) without a whip and tell you what the date and day was, and the weather. She would feed you half of her rations, and trickle water down your throat. She would wipe the tears, blood, and sweat off of your face and neck, and tell you how the basketball season was going.
On a bad day, she'd whip you, and let the blood drip off of your forehead.
"Ariel," Chenille said from behind the door. She was like Mr. D- she refused to call you Percy. "I got you some chicken with gravy. It's a Southern meal. I know you're a New Yorker and all…" she rambled on as she came farther into the room. You opened your mouth when she shredded chunks of chicken away from the bone. It was ice cold, and so was the gravy.
It was the best thing you'd ever tasted.
According to Chenille, it was September twelfth. You'd almost been here for a month.
"No one is going to save you, you know. We'd capture or kill them. You're ours now."
You rolled your head across your bare chest to look at her. She looked like she actually thought that that was the truth. You gave her a long look, then turned away.
"It's sunny out, but it's still chilly. You'd probably need a light jacket… and a trip to the hospital." She said, a light smile on her face. It wasn't sadistic. It was happy, guilty, and sorry, all at the same time.
You nod your head. You've stopped talking ever since Marque shot you in the knee for a comment on his intelligence. It was innocent, really. No reason to shoot people!
"The Celtics beat the Lakers by one point. Garnett is out for the season, due to injuries. A shame, really."
You frown and nod. Chenille id sitting across from you. You can hear her breath. In, out. In, out.
She holds a mirror in front of you so you can see what they've done to you. The swelling in your eye had gone down. Your hair is matted with blood. You could see a hole in your shoulder. You look away.
"You'd look better if you'd just answer the questions." She grabs your chin and pulls your face towards hers. You jerk away.
She sighs and leaves.
You move, and a cut on your wrists opens and bleeds. Drip, stick, pool. Your head throbs; you probably have a concussion. Throb, pulse, recede.
You are alone. No one is going to save you, because they don't care.