Chapter 13, here we go!
It seems the text was in the middle again for the last chapter and I don't know why / if I try to change it it just goes back like that again later. Sorry.
...
Jack's eyes snapped open into an inbearable, cold, overpowering darkness. A stench like rotten corpses drifted into his nostrils, overpowering his senses and making him want to vomit. His bright eyes darted around, producing a striking contrast to the inky blackness of the room. He felt bare, his cold skin hating the stuffiness of the room. Why wasn't he wearing his jumper?
Wait... where was he? He wasn't in the Pole anymore, that he knew for sure. For the first time since he awoke, Jack suddenly realised his feet weren't touching the floor. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before he could see the he was suspended in the air from his wrists hanging above him from old, creaky chains. Panic radiated through him like blood rushing through his veins. He uselessly attempted to move, thrashing against his bindings, swinging back and forth. An aggravated, scared whimper tore from his lips, quickly turning into a scream as he realised the only thing this was doing was making the chains cut into his wrists.
He stopped as soon as he felt it: a presence in the room with him. Only he noticed it too late.
A feeling not unlike fire tore through his shoulder as he saw a sharp blade protrude from his bare flesh. He felt the sickly wet liquid drip down his body, heard the drip drip drip as it collected on the floor beneath him, heard the cackling laugh echoing around him, saw the yellow eyes gleaming with murderous intent as a figure emerged from the shadows infront of him.
Jack swallowed and strained against his bindings, feet kicking uselessly in the air in all directions, putting increasing pressure on the wound in his shoulder. Blood dripped ever-increasingly onto the hard floor below him but he didn't care. He had to find a way out, to get out.
"Why so scared Jackie?" Pitch sneered at the struggling boy infront of him, at the sight of him so weak and helpless. So afraid. He laughed maliciously as he drew his hands up and traced them up and down Jack's stomach, earning a growl in response. Yet, they both knew he could do nothing. So Pitch continued, mockingly tracing his pale, slender fingers over the winter spirits body, making his way up to the boys neck, tracing his every feature until they came to a stop at his cheeks.
Without warning his grip tightened, his bony hands digging into the boys skin producing a small whimper. Pitch relished in the feeling of this boys fear. Why, it was enough to power him through another dark age!
He loved the way the boy squirmed under his touch, he could practically hear his unspoken thoughts to be let go. But the Boogeyman was not one to be sympathetic. His eyes gleamed as they shifted to the silver blade sticking out of Jack's pale skin. An unseeable smirk took over his face as he let go of the spirits face and turned and walked behind him.
Jack didn't have time to rejoice in the sickly feeling of Pitch's fingers being removed from his body all over him as all breath was stolen from his lungs. The spirit of fear twisted the glinting silver, relishing in the blood spilling down the boys back. With a hard yank, he pulled the blade out and Jack could not stop himself as a scream of agony tore from his throat. Sobs echoed in the small cell and he swayed back and forth on the chains that held him in the air. He barely even registered the facts that his chains had become loose and he was falling until he hit the floor with a thud.
Despite the darkness, he could see the omniscient figure of Pitch kneeling next to him. He desperately triesd to move away, to protect himself but his muscles refused to work. Short, sharp breaths forced air into his lungs though he did not feel its effect, a cold numbness settling on his stomach.
Pitch watched from the side at the piteous, glorious sight infront of him. He didn't think it would be this easy. Now, he wanted to have a little fun before he put the winter spirit out of his misery. Creaking vibrated throughout the cell as a black whip made of sand materialised in his hands, sickening spikes protruding from its sleek surface. This is going to hurt Pitch thought as he raised the whip above his head and, with all his might, slammed it down onto the defenceless winter spirit.
...
By the time Pitch had had enough 'fun' for the day, Jack was a shell of what he once was. Now he lay, broken and sobbing on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. His porcelain skin looked as though it was cracked and his hair and pants were matted with brown, dried blood. He could barely process his surroundings, nor did he care: he had never felt so much pain.
He didn't care how, he just wanted it to end.
I think I'll just go hide under my bed now :0
So much angst! Please review and have a lovely morning, afternoon or evening :)
