GETTING FREE (PART TWO)
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Wednesday night..
Nothing. Just darkness. It takes me a while to realize that it is because my eyes are closed. When did I fall asleep? I raise a hand to my face to wipe away all vestiges of sleep when my fingertips brush the side of my head, scraping against dried, crusted blood.
Pain lances down my jaw and spreads across my skull, making me clench my eyes shut again. I take several deep calming breaths, but I lose control again when I remember the events that led to my present state. On the verge of hyperventilating, I try not to think of what will happen if no one finds me in the following.days, or maybe hours if I am not lucky.
I am not sure how long I've been here, only that I am ready to leave...any way I can. I lie on the floor, shivering. I don't know if the room is actually cold or if fever is beginning to rage through my weakened body. My entire body is sweat soaked from.fever I rationally think given the circumstances I'm in. I know that the room is cold, but my skin feels hot and salty sweat mingles with open wounds causing intermittent snaps of stinging pain.
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Later.
If, by taking away my watch and therefore my sense of time, they intended to drive me over the edge, it is working. I have given up my attempt to keep track of the days in my head, unable to sort out the hours of unconsciousness and pain.
I know I was unconscious for a long time yesterday, after they put my shoulder back in its socket, but I'm afraid they will come back now, for more "truth seeking sessions". Just to prove me right, the door is opened.but only one of the men comes in, one of the gorillas. I swallow hard, excepting another beating but none comes. He stares at me for a long time, then pulls something out into the light so that I can see it: water, and a piece of bread.
I try not to look like I'm starving, but I really am. He smiles at me knowingly and puts the food on the floor. It's too far for me to reach it from where I am, but I manage to move toward my goal on my knees, feeling like a stupid animal that must be fed in order to live. I look at the food, then at the man standing above me and I'm glad his smile remains on his lips as he exits the room.
I drink all the water but keep half of the bread into my chino's pocket.which was very hard to reach as my left shoulder is still sore. I won't thank them for what they did to me, I suffered like hell, but now the pain is almost gone: it's more like a dull ache.and I can manage with that.
I try not to give in to slumber but my mind and body are both so tired that it's impossible for me not to close my eyes. Just a minute.my brain keeps saying, just a little minute of rest just.
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Later.
I cringe as I realize that it is time for another session. They seem to last forever; but rationally, I figure they never go on for longer than an hour or two. During these times I am introduced and reintroduced to pain. Just when I think my mind has become immune, just when I think I can't feel any new sensations over the dull throb that has become my body, these men seem able to find a way. Through something that could only be called demonic genius, these men are able, not only to remind me that I am alive, but also make me wish I were not.
In a vain attempt to preserve my sanity, I have begun to keep a running catalogue of my injuries. It is thankfully short, but I have a feeling that that isn't going to last.
My temper flares momentarily and I struggle weakly against the strong arms that are holding me down on the cold cement floor. They keep asking me the same question over and over again: "Where's the chip?" and I always answer that I don't know.but they never seem to be satisfied. Hell, I think that even if I told them where the chip was, they would beat the shit out of me in exactly the same way. They take pleasure in it and they're not about to stop soon, I feel that in all of their blows against my back, chest, face, legs.
I stop fighting back as I just don't have the strength anymore.I wish I still had a motive to make my life worth living. Scully, Scully, Scully. I keep calling her in my head like a mantra. She's my saviour, the only thread that keeps me attached to saneness and reality. She *is* my motive.
Every weak muscle in my body strains against my captors, but to no avail. I dig my fingers vainly into the unyielding cement, but it does nothing to quell the pain. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of Scully, but no thoughts materialize through the haze of pain. Instead, I wait, wait for the end.maybe *my* end, my death. But right now I don't really care, because I shut myself off and wait for those sick fucks to finish doing whatever it is they are trying to accomplish.
I have closed myself off. I have shut down. I feel nothing.
I thrash about, bellowing until I am hoarse, but they only watch and laugh maniacally. They get up, getting of from me, and walk out of the room, closing the heavy door behind them. The lock clicks with a finality that begins to instil an immense fear deep within me. I lie back on the cold floor and begin to shiver again. I try very hard to keep my head very still as I know that the slightest movement on my part will make me violently ill. I close my eyes and think of Scully.
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Later.
They didn't punch me during the last "round". They sat me on a chair (which was a very painful achievement for me) and then gave me more to drink and to eat than they had done since the beginning of the ordeal. They even gave me a sponge to clean the dirt and blood from my face, neck and arms. It wasn't a lot, but I felt much better.
I tried not to show my anxiety, expecting them to react badly and violently once again. But to my great surprise.they didn't touch me. They were very calm, but their questions were the same. Their strategy may have changed, but their goal hadn't: they still wanted the chip.
I tried to explain to them that I *really* didn't know where it was, calmly, without raising my voice, without flinching, without hesitating and showing them how scared I was.
They didn't believe me. They left the room after having switched off the light and I heard my lead captor murmur to the others: "Too bad for him."
Since then I have been lying back on the floor, waiting, scared to the point of forgetting how to breathe.
I have always been confident of my sanity. Sure, I would readily admit that, at times, I can sound and behave quiet.weird; but I never thought I was insane. Even when I see behaviour in myself that I would think abnormal in others, I never once thought myself as anything less than stable. There is, however, a first time for everything and the longer I stay here waiting for Death on that floor, the more I am sure that even if I do get out of there alive, I will spend the rest of my days in a padded cell.
Above all else though, is my constant battle with insanity. I wondered many nights or many days or afternoons if I had, indeed, gone over the edge. I don't feel like I've gone mad though...but they say that's the first sign of true insanity. So, as long as I question my sanity, logically, I was still sane, right?
Of course, by now I want to die. I've wanted to die so many times by now. I would have killed myself had there been a way.
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I don't know how many hours or days I wait, wait for Death to come and get me. But what finally wakes me up from my dreaded sleep is not *It*. Or maybe it is just the same.
The leader enters the room, carrying something he has already used against me; something with which he broke too many of my ribs and then finally knocked me unconscious. So this is it? I was going to be beaten to death with a baseball bat? God, I never imagined myself dying from a glorious death but.
He taps the bat against his leg in an almost impatient gesture.
"Here are the rules: I am the batter. You are the ball."
I snort. "That's it?"
A foul grin spreads across the bigger man's face. "Yeah, that's it."
He hefts the bat into position. "Play ball."
It comes swiftly, but I am prepared. I lurch out of the way, landing heavily on my side. I scramble to my feet just in time to dodge the next swing. I can feel the air brush against my cheek as the bat passes by, me only just stumbling out of its reach.
This luck can't last forever and I know it. I am seriously injured already and so after another minute of struggling from one corner of the cell to the other, my energy runs out. I try to duck under the latest swing but I am too slow, the tip of the bat catches me on my shoulder - thankfully it's the uninjured one - and it spins me into the nearest wall. I slide to the ground, knowing I need to get up, to keep moving. But I can't.
So I decide to make do with what I have. I can still turn at the waist, take the brunt of the blows on my upper back and lessen the chance for internal injuries. This is exactly what I do when the hailstorm of wooden fists comes raining down on me. I twist and turn, keeping the bat at my back. I can feel the blood from reopened cuts trickle down my feverish skin, sending shivers down my spine.
I want to let go of everything right now, and die right here but something holds me back, something that I can see resting on the table.
My gun.
He forgot to take it away.
I could use it.
Against me or.
.against them.
I want to kill them - I will kill them. I'm not going to die. I have to kill them first.
I don't know how I manage to find this new strength but when I'm once again claimed by the darkness, I know I will get up and fight soon.even if it is my last fight: I'm not dead yet.
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One more to go with a suffering Mulder. Don't worry, the cavalry arrives!! (aka Scully, but you all guessed that anyway.)
Don't forget to review!!!!!!!
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Wednesday night..
Nothing. Just darkness. It takes me a while to realize that it is because my eyes are closed. When did I fall asleep? I raise a hand to my face to wipe away all vestiges of sleep when my fingertips brush the side of my head, scraping against dried, crusted blood.
Pain lances down my jaw and spreads across my skull, making me clench my eyes shut again. I take several deep calming breaths, but I lose control again when I remember the events that led to my present state. On the verge of hyperventilating, I try not to think of what will happen if no one finds me in the following.days, or maybe hours if I am not lucky.
I am not sure how long I've been here, only that I am ready to leave...any way I can. I lie on the floor, shivering. I don't know if the room is actually cold or if fever is beginning to rage through my weakened body. My entire body is sweat soaked from.fever I rationally think given the circumstances I'm in. I know that the room is cold, but my skin feels hot and salty sweat mingles with open wounds causing intermittent snaps of stinging pain.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Later.
If, by taking away my watch and therefore my sense of time, they intended to drive me over the edge, it is working. I have given up my attempt to keep track of the days in my head, unable to sort out the hours of unconsciousness and pain.
I know I was unconscious for a long time yesterday, after they put my shoulder back in its socket, but I'm afraid they will come back now, for more "truth seeking sessions". Just to prove me right, the door is opened.but only one of the men comes in, one of the gorillas. I swallow hard, excepting another beating but none comes. He stares at me for a long time, then pulls something out into the light so that I can see it: water, and a piece of bread.
I try not to look like I'm starving, but I really am. He smiles at me knowingly and puts the food on the floor. It's too far for me to reach it from where I am, but I manage to move toward my goal on my knees, feeling like a stupid animal that must be fed in order to live. I look at the food, then at the man standing above me and I'm glad his smile remains on his lips as he exits the room.
I drink all the water but keep half of the bread into my chino's pocket.which was very hard to reach as my left shoulder is still sore. I won't thank them for what they did to me, I suffered like hell, but now the pain is almost gone: it's more like a dull ache.and I can manage with that.
I try not to give in to slumber but my mind and body are both so tired that it's impossible for me not to close my eyes. Just a minute.my brain keeps saying, just a little minute of rest just.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Later.
I cringe as I realize that it is time for another session. They seem to last forever; but rationally, I figure they never go on for longer than an hour or two. During these times I am introduced and reintroduced to pain. Just when I think my mind has become immune, just when I think I can't feel any new sensations over the dull throb that has become my body, these men seem able to find a way. Through something that could only be called demonic genius, these men are able, not only to remind me that I am alive, but also make me wish I were not.
In a vain attempt to preserve my sanity, I have begun to keep a running catalogue of my injuries. It is thankfully short, but I have a feeling that that isn't going to last.
My temper flares momentarily and I struggle weakly against the strong arms that are holding me down on the cold cement floor. They keep asking me the same question over and over again: "Where's the chip?" and I always answer that I don't know.but they never seem to be satisfied. Hell, I think that even if I told them where the chip was, they would beat the shit out of me in exactly the same way. They take pleasure in it and they're not about to stop soon, I feel that in all of their blows against my back, chest, face, legs.
I stop fighting back as I just don't have the strength anymore.I wish I still had a motive to make my life worth living. Scully, Scully, Scully. I keep calling her in my head like a mantra. She's my saviour, the only thread that keeps me attached to saneness and reality. She *is* my motive.
Every weak muscle in my body strains against my captors, but to no avail. I dig my fingers vainly into the unyielding cement, but it does nothing to quell the pain. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of Scully, but no thoughts materialize through the haze of pain. Instead, I wait, wait for the end.maybe *my* end, my death. But right now I don't really care, because I shut myself off and wait for those sick fucks to finish doing whatever it is they are trying to accomplish.
I have closed myself off. I have shut down. I feel nothing.
I thrash about, bellowing until I am hoarse, but they only watch and laugh maniacally. They get up, getting of from me, and walk out of the room, closing the heavy door behind them. The lock clicks with a finality that begins to instil an immense fear deep within me. I lie back on the cold floor and begin to shiver again. I try very hard to keep my head very still as I know that the slightest movement on my part will make me violently ill. I close my eyes and think of Scully.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Later.
They didn't punch me during the last "round". They sat me on a chair (which was a very painful achievement for me) and then gave me more to drink and to eat than they had done since the beginning of the ordeal. They even gave me a sponge to clean the dirt and blood from my face, neck and arms. It wasn't a lot, but I felt much better.
I tried not to show my anxiety, expecting them to react badly and violently once again. But to my great surprise.they didn't touch me. They were very calm, but their questions were the same. Their strategy may have changed, but their goal hadn't: they still wanted the chip.
I tried to explain to them that I *really* didn't know where it was, calmly, without raising my voice, without flinching, without hesitating and showing them how scared I was.
They didn't believe me. They left the room after having switched off the light and I heard my lead captor murmur to the others: "Too bad for him."
Since then I have been lying back on the floor, waiting, scared to the point of forgetting how to breathe.
I have always been confident of my sanity. Sure, I would readily admit that, at times, I can sound and behave quiet.weird; but I never thought I was insane. Even when I see behaviour in myself that I would think abnormal in others, I never once thought myself as anything less than stable. There is, however, a first time for everything and the longer I stay here waiting for Death on that floor, the more I am sure that even if I do get out of there alive, I will spend the rest of my days in a padded cell.
Above all else though, is my constant battle with insanity. I wondered many nights or many days or afternoons if I had, indeed, gone over the edge. I don't feel like I've gone mad though...but they say that's the first sign of true insanity. So, as long as I question my sanity, logically, I was still sane, right?
Of course, by now I want to die. I've wanted to die so many times by now. I would have killed myself had there been a way.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
I don't know how many hours or days I wait, wait for Death to come and get me. But what finally wakes me up from my dreaded sleep is not *It*. Or maybe it is just the same.
The leader enters the room, carrying something he has already used against me; something with which he broke too many of my ribs and then finally knocked me unconscious. So this is it? I was going to be beaten to death with a baseball bat? God, I never imagined myself dying from a glorious death but.
He taps the bat against his leg in an almost impatient gesture.
"Here are the rules: I am the batter. You are the ball."
I snort. "That's it?"
A foul grin spreads across the bigger man's face. "Yeah, that's it."
He hefts the bat into position. "Play ball."
It comes swiftly, but I am prepared. I lurch out of the way, landing heavily on my side. I scramble to my feet just in time to dodge the next swing. I can feel the air brush against my cheek as the bat passes by, me only just stumbling out of its reach.
This luck can't last forever and I know it. I am seriously injured already and so after another minute of struggling from one corner of the cell to the other, my energy runs out. I try to duck under the latest swing but I am too slow, the tip of the bat catches me on my shoulder - thankfully it's the uninjured one - and it spins me into the nearest wall. I slide to the ground, knowing I need to get up, to keep moving. But I can't.
So I decide to make do with what I have. I can still turn at the waist, take the brunt of the blows on my upper back and lessen the chance for internal injuries. This is exactly what I do when the hailstorm of wooden fists comes raining down on me. I twist and turn, keeping the bat at my back. I can feel the blood from reopened cuts trickle down my feverish skin, sending shivers down my spine.
I want to let go of everything right now, and die right here but something holds me back, something that I can see resting on the table.
My gun.
He forgot to take it away.
I could use it.
Against me or.
.against them.
I want to kill them - I will kill them. I'm not going to die. I have to kill them first.
I don't know how I manage to find this new strength but when I'm once again claimed by the darkness, I know I will get up and fight soon.even if it is my last fight: I'm not dead yet.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
One more to go with a suffering Mulder. Don't worry, the cavalry arrives!! (aka Scully, but you all guessed that anyway.)
Don't forget to review!!!!!!!