sirmyk
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The Trial Chair (continued)
“I bet you’re hungry.” It was his captor. He held out to Charles a plate of rare-prepared meat. His face held Charles’ face; that same exhausted-worried expression. “I bet by now your stomach is churning for nourishment.”
Charles’ reflection smiled.
“How long have I been here?” Charles asked. He looked to his hands, which were no longer strapped down by tape, no longer pounded through by rails, but were now free except the rope that bound him to the chair, just above the elbows. No rails. No nails. No hamburgeresque toes smashed to the floor from what he could tell. Another sick dream? He wondered. The only other rope on his body wound around his waist and to the chair. He could feel it tight at his sides. For some reason, a Scarlett towel rested on his lap, covering his thighs and also his knees.
“Time really isn’t the issue here, now is it, Charles? Hungry?”
Indeed he was hungry. His stomach growled empty, as if he hadn’t eaten for weeks. He wasn’t thirsty, but for the blood sweating from the dish held before him.
“How do I know this isn’t another sick mind-****?”
His stranger in white simply stood there, the reflection on his face revealing a famished Charles, eyeing the meat.
“How do I know you haven’t poisoned it, so you can watch me suffer as my bowels explode? How do I know--”
“You don’t.” Charles’ face, as reflected by this man’s, smiled once again. “Hungry?”
“Eat shit and die,” said Charles.
“Would you rather have that? His face, still smiling, turned brownish-red as it looked to the plate in his hands. Thin strips of what looked like slightly cooked steak sat in their juices.
Charles imagined the salty taste in his mouth. His stomach churned once more.
He took a step closer, offering.
Charles reached for it, but his fingertips just met the edge of the plate. Rope held him back.
The face on this man was now Charles’. This face turned mad with rage, its eyes angry daggers.
“I’m messing with your mind,” said his captor, as he moved the plate closer.
Charles hesitated. It was tempting. It was also terrifying at the same time. But he needed the food. His body told him so. His body let him know he needed meat, needed blood. Iron. Potassium. It dizzied his mind.
The face in front of him looked undetermined.
“You think I would hurt you, Charles?” he said. “You’re only hurting yourself. Here...” and he reached for a piece himself, tweezing a dripping strip between his fingers. He brought it to his mirrored face--Charles’ face.
Charles watched as it disappeared behind his own reflection. He watched his own mouth chew it up, swallow, and even lick this man’s fingers clean.
“Now, isn’t that nice?” he asked. The face smiled.
Charles’ stomach eased a bit, perhaps relieved. He eagerly reached for a piece. Ate it. Took another. Ate it. And another. Ate it.
The face in front of him continued smiling.
His stomach urged for more.
“Hungry?” asked the stranger.
He was about to respond, but something wasn’t settling right. Pains grew in his abdomen. It wasn’t his stomach. It was lower. Suddenly, hunger left him. His thighs began to ache, progressively, to his knees.
Hungry, echoed the voice of the stranger.
A series of stings worked his legs as the room began to spin. Any moment Charles knew he would retch.
His captor fixed a strap of duct tape to Charles’ mouth, just in case.
Pain exploded from his waist down. His thighs stung as if again they were pierced by rails, his knees as if they were again smashed by claw hammer. Everything below his knees felt numbed, as if by Novocain.
It was then Charles realized it wasn’t a scarlet towel covering his lower half, but a white towel, soaked evenly though with his own blood. Other white towels lay scattered around, as well as used syringes.
A fire like sensation continued to burn in his lap as this man with Charles’ face removed the towel.
Charles managed to muffle another scream.
“Hungry?”
[ to be continued... ]
6.
“I bet you’re hungry.” It was his captor. He held out to Charles a plate of rare-prepared meat. His face held Charles’ face; that same exhausted-worried expression. “I bet by now your stomach is churning for nourishment.”
Charles’ reflection smiled.
“How long have I been here?” Charles asked. He looked to his hands, which were no longer strapped down by tape, no longer pounded through by rails, but were now free except the rope that bound him to the chair, just above the elbows. No rails. No nails. No hamburgeresque toes smashed to the floor from what he could tell. Another sick dream? He wondered. The only other rope on his body wound around his waist and to the chair. He could feel it tight at his sides. For some reason, a Scarlett towel rested on his lap, covering his thighs and also his knees.
“Time really isn’t the issue here, now is it, Charles? Hungry?”
Indeed he was hungry. His stomach growled empty, as if he hadn’t eaten for weeks. He wasn’t thirsty, but for the blood sweating from the dish held before him.
“How do I know this isn’t another sick mind-****?”
His stranger in white simply stood there, the reflection on his face revealing a famished Charles, eyeing the meat.
“How do I know you haven’t poisoned it, so you can watch me suffer as my bowels explode? How do I know--”
“You don’t.” Charles’ face, as reflected by this man’s, smiled once again. “Hungry?”
“Eat shit and die,” said Charles.
“Would you rather have that? His face, still smiling, turned brownish-red as it looked to the plate in his hands. Thin strips of what looked like slightly cooked steak sat in their juices.
Charles imagined the salty taste in his mouth. His stomach churned once more.
He took a step closer, offering.
Charles reached for it, but his fingertips just met the edge of the plate. Rope held him back.
The face on this man was now Charles’. This face turned mad with rage, its eyes angry daggers.
“I’m messing with your mind,” said his captor, as he moved the plate closer.
Charles hesitated. It was tempting. It was also terrifying at the same time. But he needed the food. His body told him so. His body let him know he needed meat, needed blood. Iron. Potassium. It dizzied his mind.
The face in front of him looked undetermined.
“You think I would hurt you, Charles?” he said. “You’re only hurting yourself. Here...” and he reached for a piece himself, tweezing a dripping strip between his fingers. He brought it to his mirrored face--Charles’ face.
Charles watched as it disappeared behind his own reflection. He watched his own mouth chew it up, swallow, and even lick this man’s fingers clean.
“Now, isn’t that nice?” he asked. The face smiled.
Charles’ stomach eased a bit, perhaps relieved. He eagerly reached for a piece. Ate it. Took another. Ate it. And another. Ate it.
The face in front of him continued smiling.
His stomach urged for more.
“Hungry?” asked the stranger.
He was about to respond, but something wasn’t settling right. Pains grew in his abdomen. It wasn’t his stomach. It was lower. Suddenly, hunger left him. His thighs began to ache, progressively, to his knees.
Hungry, echoed the voice of the stranger.
A series of stings worked his legs as the room began to spin. Any moment Charles knew he would retch.
His captor fixed a strap of duct tape to Charles’ mouth, just in case.
Pain exploded from his waist down. His thighs stung as if again they were pierced by rails, his knees as if they were again smashed by claw hammer. Everything below his knees felt numbed, as if by Novocain.
It was then Charles realized it wasn’t a scarlet towel covering his lower half, but a white towel, soaked evenly though with his own blood. Other white towels lay scattered around, as well as used syringes.
A fire like sensation continued to burn in his lap as this man with Charles’ face removed the towel.
Charles managed to muffle another scream.
“Hungry?”
[ to be continued... ]
