Of Smoke and Stardust [[COMPLETE]]]

CHAPTER 8-PARKER

        Parker woke up shirtless and bound to a chair, the floor icy beneath his bare feet. The air was stagnant; reeking of blood, mold, his own sweat, and the filth of its previous owner. Hefty chains hung from the ceiling and looped to the wall on a hook. A single blub hung above, just bright enough to dimly cast a yellow glow to the room, but not enough for his eyes to adjust fully. A black dome was embedded beside it, a spy cam. A metal door sat in the center of the opposite wall, bolted with heavy duty locks and latches; streaks of rust ran down the surface.

        He recognized everything. A million years could pass and he'd still remember every single detail; down to each crack in the walls and stain on the floor.

        The clacking of boots sounded outside the door. Parker's heartbeat kicked up as the sound got closer. He tried to wipe his sweaty hands on his cargo pants, only to realize his wrist were strapped to the arms of the chair, metal cuffs cutting into his skin. He had thought he could escape, but those chains were always there, and they'd never be broken.

        The door opened with a groan of metal grinding against itself. Parker winced as the screeching vibrated through his ears, making his skin crawl. His heart slammed into his chest, pumping in overdrive. He swallowed, taking in gulps of thick air, but no matter how hard he tried, it still felt like he was suffocating.

        A pair of shiny, black, combat boots padded their way towards him. Parker's gaze didn't waver from the floor. His body turned into stone; cold and hot at the same time. He felt the person hovering over him, large, bulky and built; felt a pair of hard eyes scorching over the back of his head and shoulders.

        With a jolt, Parker's head was yanked back by his hair. Pain shot down his scalp, a guttural grunt escaped him. He fixed his feet under him so he could rise up and get some slack, but the man pulled harder, clumps of hair yanked from Parker's scalp, burning and stinging with the force.

        The man grabbed Parker's throat and jerked his face up to the ceiling. "Tell us what you know, and things won't have to go badly for you." His gruff voice was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Like a dream he only half remembered—the smell of tobacco, the way the man's callused hands were dry and scratchy around his throat.

        Parker gritted his teeth. "No." The air whooshed out of his lungs with the impact of the man's fist to Parker's stomach. He tried to double over, taking the chair down with him but he was still being held up by his hair. His arms wrenched against the cuffs, instinctively trying to break free, as he wheezed. The metal scrapped into his skin, tearing ragged lines into wrists.

        "This can go a lot better for you if you just start talking, boy."

        "No." It was barely a noise; all air and mucus.

        The pain turned into his life for so long, he forgot where he was. The air always smelled of blood, with a rancid undertone of sweat, vomit and grime. It coated his tongue as he breathed through his mouth, unable to use his broken and bleeding nose. Even breathing hurt. Sometimes he felt like he couldn't stand living anymore. But he had to, for his brother—the only part left of his life, the only thing he had to keep fighting for. If he couldn't live, then how could he expect his brother to too? If he survived, if he lived, then he'd see him again. Someday. It was a promise to himself, to his brothers, to the stars and the universe. He'd get his brother back no matter what.

        Time went by fast when there was no pain, and slow when there was. The room became a metal box, closing in on him. After a lifetime in the cage, he awoke to the smell of anesthetics and rubbing alcohol.