limerence (brallon)

s-e-v-e-n-t-e-e-n

It's freezing cold.

That's the first thing I notice when I come to. Skin tingling. Bones grinding against one another like crackling ice. A migraine threatens to crack open my skull. My insides want to rip themselves out of my stomach. This is the part where I force myself to forget and vow never again. My bleak slumber was a welcome, a home with nothing in it but a home nonetheless. I want to go back there. I don't want to wake up.

Stiff limbs rattling, I groan exhaustedly, the sound abrupt and muffled. I try to lift my hands up to rub my sore temples, but they disobey my instruction. Something is holding them firmly in place, palms faced down against a hard, wooded surface. I make an attempt to part my lips, to breathe in, but something glues them shut, pinching at the skin around my mouth, restricting airflow. My heart thuds with a rising panic and I inhale sharply through my nose, shoulders jerking, eyelids snapping open.

That's when I notice the second thing: My vision. I can only barely make out blurry blotches of colour, but I can see... Oh, my God, I can see! Brendon must've packed a stupidly heavy punch...

In conclusion, I should definitely be using this to my advantage, by which I mean searching for a possible escape route before he shows up. Unfortunately, it's not looking too good; even if I were able to see more than five feet in front of me, Brendon isn't dumb. I'm pretty sure the hazy, brown rectangle in the far corner is a door, but it's more than likely locked from the outside, and I can't see anything resembling a window, either. If there are any, they've been left wide open and boarded up, the cracks between the planks just wide enough to allow a steady stream of arctic wind to pass through.

This has got to be some kind of homemade basement warehouse or something. It's too small to actually be a warehouse (real ones are huge, and I'm talking Ikea huge), but it's a little too big to be someone's garage, unless said someone owns three cars. There isn't anything in the room besides me, the table I'm pinned to, and another table standing a few feet in front of it. Arranged on that table is a cluster of various... things: Shiny things, pointy things; instruments, tools; none that particularly jump out at me. Apart from the luminous yellow nail gun sitting right in the middle of it all. And then there's the challenge of getting myself out of this damn chair.

I don't suppose I'm finding my way out of here any time soon. But, I am determined. At the very least, I should be focusing on something. Striving for a goal. "Know your goal and you will reach it." That's the motto I use to motivate my students, though I usually phrase it more along the lines of: "What the hell are you trying to achieve? You don't know? Sorry, Kid. Anyways, good luck trying to achieve your dreams. Oh, that's right. You don't have any."

Christ. I'm going loopy. I think Brendon may have hit me a little too hard.

Time is winning, Dallon. Pay attention.

I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe deeply, tipping my head back to swallow the buildup of saliva in my throat, but I misjudge the angle of incline and end up choking myself until the spittle makes a sharp exit through my nose. Tears of shock pool my stinging eyes, and I throw my head forward to rest it against my hands. The breath I release is a shaky one.

Like a cat looking for something to nuzzle, I roll my head to one side and rub my cheek across my wrists, determining the possible method used to restrain them. But I feel nothing there; no ropes, no zip ties. I try wriggling my fingers, but they are completely paralysed. My nose becomes clogged with a musty smell, and my gag reflex backfires again. My hands smell like torn flesh and rusting metal and blood. Slowly, I lift my head up from the table so I can inspect them further. I wish I hadn't.

Two, thick, three in nails have been hammered into the centre of my downfacing palms, penetrating right through skin and tendon and bone, their tips dug deep into the table. Feeling rushes back into my hands with no warning, and suddenly every broken nerve remembers pain, all at once. My pupils widen, unblinking black holes, and my arms yank violently against the deadly spikes, seizing and wrenching, as if that will tug them free, but it does not. All it does is cause the ridges of metal to tear deeper into my flesh, slicing it open, gradual and torturous, like the beginnings of one of Jigsaws sick games, and my body can do nothing but spasm as a muffled, gut-wrenching scream erupts from the pit of my wheezing lungs.

I half expect the creepy fucker to pootle into the room on his tricycle when the door opens.

"I'd refrain from struggling, if I were you." Brendon closes the door behind him and locks it before striding toward me. From this distance, he is a smudge of grey against... well, a much darker smudge of grey. "Those nails are gonna be a bastard to remove later on. If you deserve it, that is. I'm afraid to say, my hopes aren't high."

I've stopped struggling now, but my forearms still shiver involuntarily against the table. Brendon plops himself down on the edge of the other - the one with all the tools - and cocks his head to one side. Now that he's closer I can almost make out the details of his face, even through the tears streaming from my eyes. His expression is dormant. He's chewing on a piece of gum. His appearance hasn't changed much. I'm mildly disappointed, actually. I'm unsure if he knows I can see him.

Thoughtfully, his hands drift to the selection of instruments laid out behind him. His decision is immediate and certain, but every movement is made with utmost caution, like I'm some timid, abused animal in a petting zoo. Lips slightly parted, he leans forward, his breath misting against my forehead. The silver blade glints, just within my line of sight, letting me know of its superiority before he lowers it toward my right pinky finger and presses the knife edge into the skin just below the knuckle. My breath quickens, but the critical oxygen levels entering my lungs is astonishingly unsubstantial. I want to vomit.

"I'm going to take that tape off of your mouth now," Brendon whispers with a doll faced smile on his lips. Now, the kids at school have encouraged me to watch ASMR on numerous occasions; this is like that, only it's real, and very, very gone wrong. "All I want us to do is talk. But if you try to yell or scream for help, I'll cut your finger off. Got it?"

Bile rises up from my stomach. I nod.

"Good." With no warning, Brendon slams his fist against my jaw, digging his fingernails into my cheek, and tears the tape from my lips in one, quick tug, ripping up clumps of dead skin and stubble with it. Almost immediately, I gag upon the acquaintance of fresh air, and I chuck my head to the side to discard of my insides, viciously shuddering as I cough up the watery contents of my stomach (and lungs, it seems), onto the concrete floor.

Brendon waits patiently for me to finish. He clearly has nothing better to do with his time, as I'm sure he'd just love to sit there and watch me writhe in pain for hours on end. I, on the other hand, would much rather get it over and done with. If he plans on killing me, it'd better be soon and it'd better be fast. Alternatively, he could let me go. I think I'd like that option, too.

Once my stomach is empty, I remain hunched for a few moments, head hanging low with my eyes closed, and pretend that I'm fast asleep at home, in my bed, and this is all just a bad dream. I have no choice but to face reality. "The truth will set you free," as they say, "but first it will make you miserable."

I suck in a lungful of air and sit up straight.

"You're familiar with the word limerence, right?" Brendon questions. "You told me you knew what it meant, just before I knocked you out." I furrow my brow, not where I thought this was going at all, but I'm quick to establish what he's trying to do. "Because I'm not sure you do. But it's not something you're going to find in the dictionary, oh no."

He wants to play me at my own game.

Alright. Let's play.