The Darkest Horizon (On Hold)

Chapter 10

 Dedicated to RozalittleDhampir for being the first real fan of this story =D Thank you! 

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The silver liquid looked almost alive as it swirled around in the glass syringe, changing from opaque to transparent to a vicious dark grey. Flynn narrowed his eyes as he watched Kate Isabelle pass it over to Dr Jacobs, who let a small amount squirt out into a glass jar before moving over to Flynn. The liquid hissed in the cup, bubbles of gas erupting from the container in thin wisps of grey.

“This is a nasty one, is this.” Dr Jacobs indicated to the Syringe as he pulled Flynn’s left sleeve a little higher, and wiped an area of skin with a strong smelling antiseptic.

Flynn examined his arm. He avoided looking at them as often as he could lately. They were becoming an unsightly shade of purple, and dots of blood surrounded by dark pools of blue-purple bruises bloomed on either arm. At first, the pain was easy to ignore, but it had been almost one and a half months now, and even the shots of pain relief Dr Jacobs had so generously given to him weren’t enough to mask the pain.

“Hold still, son. This might sting just a bit.” The Doctor held his arm as Flynn tensed.

The needle seeped into his skin slowly, followed by the familiar sharpness of shooting pain as the liquid entered his veins. He closed his eyes, ready for his skin to burn off, or blood vessels to erupt, or anything like what had happened in the glass jar. Nothing. Heart beating loudly, he slowly peeled open his eyes to see that Dr Jacobs had already removed the needle and was preparing another antiseptic wipe.

Well that wasn’t as bad as he’d expected! He blew out a heavy sigh of relief and even gave a small chuckle for being so afraid.

Then he gasped as a new sensation invaded his limbs, hot white pain erupted within his left arm and he fell forward off the seat, hitting his head on the equipment table next to him as he landed on his knees, gripping his arm tightly with his right hand. He screamed, white behind his eyelids, red inside his mind, as something sharp and metallic writhed down the bones in his arm, tightening around every vessel and squeezing out every emotion and perception related to pain.

He gasped again, breathing in lungful’s of air, his chest rising and falling heavily as he gritted his teeth, resting his head against a leg of the table with his eyes tight shut. He was shivering, and he could feel cold sweat dripping from his forehead.

Slowly, the pain subsided, but not completely. The agony turned to a dull ache but it was enough to finally bring him back to his senses. His eyes were still pressed shut. As he tried to calm his heartbeat, he became aware of a liquid dripping from the tip of his nose. With a shaky breath he opened his eyes and looked down on to his lap. It was stained a bright red and another droplet of rich coloured blood fell off the tip of his nose to join the pool on his white cotton trousers. Another drop fell from his chin. Slowly, he let go of his arm, unclutching his hand so that he could wipe away the blood from his face. It was coming from a gash in his forehead which stung as his fingers traced it.

Dizzily, he looked at his left arm, wincing in pain as he turned it around, examining it from all angles. There were four curved grooves where his nails had sunk in too deep, drawing out blood. The skin around them was grey. It looked ashen, dead. He felt his heart drop as he stared at his arm in horror, tears blurring his vision, threating to fall.

“You’re alright, son, don’t worry, the colour is just temporary. We’ll check the effects of the chemical in tomorrow’s session.” Confused, Flynn looked up and saw a man in a lab coat holding out his hand in a gesture to help him off the ground. With his better arm, Flynn cautiously stood up, looking around himself, and then blinked twice. He looked back at the man and then realised where he was.

Dr Jacobs patted him on the back lightly “You did great.” He smiled, turning to Kate who was holding out a bowl of steaming water and a washcloth.

Flynn sat back down on his seat, holding on to the sides as though he might fall off any second. His emotions were chaotic and his head felt a mess. This was definitely the worst pain he had experienced yet.

Dr Jacobs dipped the cloth in the bowl, and wiped it over Flynn’s wound, cleaning the blood from his face. He then fumbled around with some creams and sprays, before applying them to the cut. Flynn watched his facial expressions, astounded that the man was so calm after what had just happened. He looked at Kate, who was taking out a fresh pair of clothes for him. She looked so unaffected, unbothered at all that Flynn had just gone through the most difficult experience of his life so far.

Even though he was more than used to this kind of treatment, he still felt his heart fall with sadness when he thought of how these people had no sympathy, no remorse for the pain they inflicted. They just let him writhe around like a dying spider at their feet, and then pulled him back up to carry on with their work.

“It’s just a scratch.” The doctor referred to the cut on his forehead. “It shouldn’t take long to heal at all.” He smiled. Flynn showed no emotion as the man handed him his clothes and walked him to the door. “Make sure you rest well, son, try not to use your arm much, tomorrow we’ll see how our little potion affects your blood.” He beamed excitedly.

“Yes, sir.” Flynn sighed as he walked out. Their attitude made bile rise to his throat, anger bubbling within him made it so difficult to remain calm.

Instead of heading back to Room Four since his session ended earlier than normal, he kept on walking to Room Two, the bathroom. Barely registering his environment, he sauntered over to his cubicle and locked the door. He was still shaking slightly and he sat down on the small white bench, resting his head against the wall. He detested this place. Hated it with a passion. He was NOT a lab rat. They couldn’t do whatever the hell they wanted to him. They COULDN’T! Flynn slammed his fist against the wall, yelling in exasperation. But there was nothing that he could do to stop them. He was helpless, defenceless. For twelve years he had been locked up in the Facility. Why had no one come to save him already? His father was a rich and powerful man, how had he not found him by now?

“Flynn?” A worried sounding voice startled him, and he got up from the bench, hurriedly pulling his tunic over his head and replacing it with the clean one. He bit back the pain which erupted from his arm as he moved, and swapped his trousers for the fresh pair too.

“Flynn, are you okay?” It was Charlotte. He shoved his bloody clothes into the wash basket under his bench and then opened the door.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He tried to smile. He didn’t want her to worry.

With one look at him her eyes widened, and then her expression saddened as she took in his appearance. He moved over to a sink so that she couldn’t take a better look at him, and started washing his hands thoroughly, the blood he had wiped from his face still caked his fingers.

He could hear her take deep breaths, trying to calm herself because the state he was in had no doubt startled her. He looked up at himself in the mirror. He looked a mess. His skin was a shade of pale grey, his brown hair was plastered to his forehead, beads of sweat lined his temple and his eyes were sunken. If it wasn’t for the strong muscles he had acquired due to the intense exercise Mr Henrik was forcing on him, he could have been mistaken for a starving homeless person suffering from drug withdrawal.

He caught Charlotte’s eye in the mirror; she was looking at him with sympathy and his pain reflected in her eyes. She moved closer so that she was standing in front of him, and he tensed. After some hesitation, she raised her hand to his face, slowly tracing her fingers over his wound.

“It’s just a scratch.” He whispered, assuring her that he was fine.  

She looked at him, her eyes searching his, and then she looked away in to the distance, her thoughts elsewhere. She turned back to him, assessing his face, contemplating whether she should tell him something or not.

“It’s almost lunch time.” She finally said, and walked out, leaving him standing alone in the bathroom.

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