On a String

Chapter 10

Kai gave Cole another nod and turned to face the sink, watching as the cold water ran down the lettuce leaves. This... this wasn't too bad, actually.

He wondered if Cole had set this arrangement up deliberately- he would wash the vegetables while Cole dealt with the (hot) frying pan.

'-I'll heat up the frying pan,'

(Heat)

Kai hated heat.

Did that mean that Cole... understood?

(The twisted piece of metal glowed as it left the fire. It was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen; the bright orange colour slicing through air before being pressed on(in)to-)

The cold water flowed over his fingers and swirled away down the plug hole.

(Smoke twisting)

Cold water. It didn't burn him.

(Arm on fire; in agony)

[...He sometimes wonders why people describe agony as being beautiful.

'The song is agonizingly beautiful' or suchlike.

It's sick.

Agony is true pain- something that cannot be blocked out, cannot be opposed. When you're in agony, you cannot feel or think about anything else, because nothing else exists.

There's nothing beautiful about real pain.

Nothing poetic about watching your blood ooze onto a cold, unforgiving floor while the beatings continue and your cries for all of it to stop go unheard.

Nothing gorgeous about hearing the screams of other cell mates echoing down long, empty halls away into the night as they are harvested for answers, knowing that your turn will be coming soon (because it always does).

Nothing heart-warming about finding comfort in unconsciousness- when the only way to stop the agony is by letting your senses become so overwhelmed with the pain that you black out.

Nothing is breath-taking about watching another person die, knowing that their life was wasted needlessly in another's sick game.

When you've experienced real agony, you understand that nothing is agonizingly beautiful.

For agony is not beautiful.

It leads to death.

It's a part of death.

(Because when you're in agony, something always dies.)

... Death.

(The breaking of flames, the tumbling of towers, the silence of graveyards, the solitude of headstones, the darkness of drowning, the echoes of guilt ("...I should have done more...") and the cries of blame.)

... There's nothing beautiful about death, either.]

The cold water didn't burn.