A simple interlude. Meant to post this yesterday but I got some serious period pains and had to go to bed.

So much grey.

The walls are grey; the floor is grey; the door is grey; the poles are grey; the black and brown blood that had dried so long ago had whittled away to a deep shade of grey.

Creaks echoed across the open space as my head tilted left, the bones grinding against each other with sickening sounds, fresh blood welling in the thickness of my swollen throat. There was no energy left in me to even bother opening my mouth to let the thick, metallic yet sweet-tasting liquid out. Barely warm rivulets trickle down my naked torso, a sudden, but welcoming, contrast to my otherwise cold body.

Maybe it's a miracle that they've kept me awake. Maybe it's more of a punishment – punishment for all the lives ended by my hands. My captors beyond the door, so far away, lowly chatter, their tiny voices seemingly so small in the vast iron chamber.

My eyes flutter opens for a few, scarce seconds and droop close when it's clear nothing has changed.

I know I should feel sorry for killing people, but the only emotion I can feel is the anger of not seeing my son; lost on the fields of World War 1 with only my bloodthirsty brother to protect him. Rather than being scared of those who hold me down, I only want to kill them.

To grasp my hand around their necks and squeeze is what I dream of. To massacre this miserable place and turn it into a red-drenched slaughterhouse is what I drool over. To get my blood soaked hands on the so-called scientists and see what they truly think of my mutations.

I hate the way they've experimented on me. Turned me into the monster I never wanted to be – to be the real, killing machine my brother could only dream of being.

They're already down a hundred and thirteen cannon fodder – shredded into thin strips of loose meat, bones cut clean, grey brain matter thrown atop the blood splatters on the floor like cake toppings, their limbs torn apart and torso peppered with thin slivers of entry wounds from knives as big as my head and as tiny as my pinke – and they would lose more if it wasn't for the iron bars impaled through multiple vital functions, pining me down to the wall behind me.

There's one punctured low on my right hip, five embedded in my legs, at least ten times more in my arms, even a bar through the side of me, impairing my ability to breathe and to process food and water, brushing my feeble, weak heart every time one of my torso muscles constrict.

Sometimes my captors purposely put a stake through my head and sometimes I still wake up during those times, unable to string a thought together due to an object through my brain, sometimes my spinal cord is severed, leaving my body hanging from the poles like the Japanese weather charms and other times the agonising pain freezes me in place, unable to simply pass out.

I still underestimate my god-like healing factor.

A low thunk erupts from the wall as I let my head fall backwards. Today – and I use that term very loosely – my upper body leans away, leaving me stuck high up in the air in a strange angle. But this was intentional.

The unused muscles in my arm grip around the odd-25 poles, reliving the weight from my legs. Ever so slightly my legs drag forward, their path leaving floods of fresh, bright red blood; the pitter-patter of liquid falling from great heights increases with every centimetre a body part slides off the poles, millimetre by millimetre.

But today wasn't the day I would escape and rage war against who was beyond the iron cage. The small exercise steals all the air in my lungs, sapping at the remaining strength.

But I was so close.

Whether it would be tomorrow, or next week, I would escape and slowly kill every single living soul residing in this god-awful bunker.

I will use the iron bars they used to tether me down to crack open their skulls, I will use the guns to mow them down, I will take advantage of their experiments on me, sending them mad or painting the unforgiving walls with their blood.

I will take all the lives, slowly, sometimes one at a time, sometimes five hundred in one hour, and when I am left without any soldiers to murder, I will finally turn on the scientists. I will use their techniques against them; I will empathetically whisper sweet words of freedom into their ears as I slice open their chest; I will show them their intestines when they're so doped up on morphine that they can't tell if they're alive or not; I will keep them in a constricted area and when they finally beg for death I will bring in their family and kill them, all of them, right in front of everyone.

I will destroy for what they've done.

I will kill to see my son again.