I don't own MR

Fang

I was locked in a room. A small room with gray walls on all four sides of me along with a ceiling to match, and a tar black floor as rough as sandpaper that constantly moved, just like a treadmill- only there was no stop option. So I was forced to jog in place in a claustrophobic room, for if I didn't the sandpaper floor would drag itself against my bare feet and scratch them into a bloody mess that I wouldn't be able to jog on.

Sometimes I tried to walk quickly, but every time I slowed my pace the machine sped up, and so I had to speed up, and soon I had to sprint in order to keep from getting cut, although I could still feel slight scratches, and see bright red flashes of blood on the black ground that led me to know my feet were getting hurt. My only option was to move faster, but if I did I feared my heart would pound right out of my chest and explode. It was already beating at least twice a human's (Or in this case, Mutant's) average rate.

I was gasping for breath, vaguely wondering how long I had been at this. Hours, maybe days. It was hard to tell since it all ran together.

Damnit Fang, there has to be a way out of this, I thought, glancing around at the walls. Although my energy was low, and my breathing too erratic to focus on anything else. At one moment an idea managed to pop into my mind before sighing out along with a breath.

A while later it came back, and I forced myself to multitask, putting all my energy to the plan. If I could just stop for a minute and catch my breath…

I pushed myself a little faster until my toes lightly scratched against the wall in front of me, then stopped running just long enough to crouch down and jump. I had been hoping that the compact walls that surrounded me would serve as something I could stand on almost, if I put enough pressure against them.

My hands reached out and slapped against the gray wall in front of me, and my legs kicked out against the one behind me, and I pushed hard against both of them, trying to hold myself up as I caught my breath.

"Great," I sighed out sarcastically, sucking in air slowly so as to fix my heartbeat so it went back to normal. Although this wasn't the best position to be in, it was something. It gave me time to breathe while I contemplated how hard I'd have to swing to get my feet on the ground in such a way I'd be stable enough to start running again.

I never got to finish my calculations though, because just as I had finally gotten my heart rate under a thousand, tiny spikes erupted from the walls, and one managed to poke all the way through my hand in one quick motion.

I cried out in pain and dropped onto the rough sandpaper floor, my stomach flat against it. Get up, I thought furiously, but my body didn't seem to move with as much speed as my mind did. The ground began to drag at my clothes, catching onto the fabric and tearing it away as I lay there, breathing roughly, unable to move because I was too tired, too exhausted. A groan escaped my lips and my shirt began to rip away, leaving my torso bare to be shredded by the floor. Weakly, I rolled onto my side, figuring it would hurt a little less, but all too late I realized it didn't.

The sandpaper floor slowly tore away my flesh, dragging the skin with it as the conveyer belt moved in circles, becoming stained with blood with each circle it made. My fingers pressed against the wall I was against, and I bit my lip, debating whether or not to scream. It wouldn't stop the pain, so what was the point? All I could do now was breathe until I bled out or the agony of it all sent me into a coma I didn't plan on waking up from.

Just breathe, Fang. In and out, That's it. Don't try to fight it. You're going to die. It wasn't my voice talking, but it might as well have been. I was going to die. Crimson red was going to pour out of me, and I was going to black out, and then my heart would stop beating, and I would die.

I had it all planned out in my head, and I closed my eyes, waiting for Death to take me wherever I was supposed to go, when I heard a scream.

It was one word. My name, but what the voice said didn't matter, it was who the voice belonged to.

"Fang!" Max. My eyes widened and I sat up inspite of the pain, looking around the small room that now had an open door right at the end. One quick sprint and I could get out of here. Max was just outside the door, screaming for me. Alive. Awake. Her eyes shining with fear, but not the fear that was caused by me, the fear that was caused by loss.

"Max!" I called out, trying to let her know I was okay, although my voice croaked and cracked, making it quieter, less audible. Maybe she couldn't even hear me. Maybe she could only watch my lips move and try in vain to read them.

"Fang!" She cried out again and I forced myself to my feet which were bleeding now.

"I'm coming Max." I promised, sprinting right through the door and out of the room of gray walls and sandpaper floors. I reached out for Max, who was no more than a foot in front of me, but just as I grabbed her she dissipated into thin air. Nothing more than a hallucination.

"Max!" I yelled, or at least tried to. My voice no longer worked; it was almost as if the sandpaper had clawed at my throat, had ripped my vocal cords out. I couldn't talk, I could only open my mouth in a silent wail, and hope somebody understood.

But there was nobody around to decode me. I was all alone, though I was not in that horrible room anymore, I was still alone. Max was still dead. Everything was pointless.

"Keep running, you don't want to get caught, do you?" A voice whispered into my ear. It could have been Ari; a more menacing Ari who genuinely hated me.

I don't care anymore, I thought, taking deep breaths as I looked down at my ripped-apart side. Blood covered most of my skin, but where there wasn't blood there was bone. White, chipped bone that belonged to my rib cage.

"Well you should. Run, or your own shadow will catch up, and trust me Fang, your shadow is worse than death." Shadow? I blinked and looked around, only to find nothingness. There was only black around me, nowhere for a shadow to emerge from, and even if one did, how could a shadow, much less my own, harm me?

I was about to find out.

Aw, poor Fang.

Review to get him out of his worst nightmares? 10 maybe?

Soar on

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