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He did not sleep.
He sat, he watched.
But he never slept.
He did not move.
He thought, he lived.
But he never moved.
Because he knew they would come for him.
A clock ticked down in his mind to nowhere, the numbers blurred to him. All he knew was that it ticked. It ticked on always, never slowing, never stopping. But only when it stopped would he know the countdown had finished, they were here, he was not.
He sat on the damp floor against the ageing brickwork, air coming in shallow, ragged gasps his lungs forced him to take.
If the decision to die was there, he would have taken it. He would have signed his name, ticked the box, pressed the button to end it all now and stop the ticking in his head, stop the beating of his heart, stop them coming for him. When they came, death would seem a pleasurable excursion.
If he could, he would have ripped the warehouse down around him. He would have buckled and broken the walls and brought the vast expanse of ceiling down on his head, freeing him from his fate in a few seconds.
Bricks crush his skull, glass shards slice his muscle, heavy beams snap his bones and rusty iron-work punctures his organs.
But the warehouse stands strong.
He stared into the puddle beside him formed by the steady dripping from a cracked pipe somewhere overhead. A drop landed in the inky pool, rippling the surface and sending his blood creeping across the surface. He stared and saw the reflection of the fat, grinning moon in shallow depths - a sight he’d probably never see again.
Unless they kept him waiting for days longer. Yeah, they’d probably play it like that. Keep him waiting here with his thoughts, let his hope build a little, let him think it just might be okay. But it wouldn’t be.
He knew it, he’d seen it. And he made sure he never started hoping.
His deep wound still rippled pain through him. He’d prayed to a long-abandoned god to keep him bleeding, keep his blood spilling out into the puddle beside him, let him ebb away into nothing as his lifeblood drained. But his body had stopped it.
The one time, the one and only time he’s wanted his body to not work, it did.
He’d let himself laugh at the irony then, figuring a sense of humour would do him well when they came for him.
But the silence took that from him. Every emotion he dared to show, the dead, mocking silence of the warehouse drained from him so slowly, so stealthily, that he never felt it go but knew it was gone.
The silence, and the dread of knowing they would come for him took everything. The dread that the was no maybe about it, no what ifs, no speculation, nothing. It was just time. They had all the time they needed and that same span was all he had.
The simple passing of time, seconds building to minutes to hours to days to weeks was a deadly weapon in the right hands.
And they were the right hands.
The clock stopped ticking.
He sat, he watched.
But he never slept.
He did not move.
He thought, he lived.
But he never moved.
Because he knew they would come for him.
A clock ticked down in his mind to nowhere, the numbers blurred to him. All he knew was that it ticked. It ticked on always, never slowing, never stopping. But only when it stopped would he know the countdown had finished, they were here, he was not.
He sat on the damp floor against the ageing brickwork, air coming in shallow, ragged gasps his lungs forced him to take.
If the decision to die was there, he would have taken it. He would have signed his name, ticked the box, pressed the button to end it all now and stop the ticking in his head, stop the beating of his heart, stop them coming for him. When they came, death would seem a pleasurable excursion.
If he could, he would have ripped the warehouse down around him. He would have buckled and broken the walls and brought the vast expanse of ceiling down on his head, freeing him from his fate in a few seconds.
Bricks crush his skull, glass shards slice his muscle, heavy beams snap his bones and rusty iron-work punctures his organs.
But the warehouse stands strong.
He stared into the puddle beside him formed by the steady dripping from a cracked pipe somewhere overhead. A drop landed in the inky pool, rippling the surface and sending his blood creeping across the surface. He stared and saw the reflection of the fat, grinning moon in shallow depths - a sight he’d probably never see again.
Unless they kept him waiting for days longer. Yeah, they’d probably play it like that. Keep him waiting here with his thoughts, let his hope build a little, let him think it just might be okay. But it wouldn’t be.
He knew it, he’d seen it. And he made sure he never started hoping.
His deep wound still rippled pain through him. He’d prayed to a long-abandoned god to keep him bleeding, keep his blood spilling out into the puddle beside him, let him ebb away into nothing as his lifeblood drained. But his body had stopped it.
The one time, the one and only time he’s wanted his body to not work, it did.
He’d let himself laugh at the irony then, figuring a sense of humour would do him well when they came for him.
But the silence took that from him. Every emotion he dared to show, the dead, mocking silence of the warehouse drained from him so slowly, so stealthily, that he never felt it go but knew it was gone.
The silence, and the dread of knowing they would come for him took everything. The dread that the was no maybe about it, no what ifs, no speculation, nothing. It was just time. They had all the time they needed and that same span was all he had.
The simple passing of time, seconds building to minutes to hours to days to weeks was a deadly weapon in the right hands.
And they were the right hands.
The clock stopped ticking.
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An f all to myself? It's a childhood dream come true! Oh, gone on then, I'll share.
*Slap*
One f goes there.
And there's a spare one for you
One f goes there.
And there's a spare one for you
Hmm...mainly or making sense...it's a tough decision. I'll go for making sense.
And thankee kindly, BG, Rickoss. Mainly or making sense.
gerrid wrote:
> The last line of your story shouldn't have an 'L' in it.
Ooohh.
Hilarious, or there abouts.
I thought you said "I" which is a capital i. But you said "l" which is a small L. See how confused I got.
> The last line of your story shouldn't have an 'L' in it.
Ooohh.
Hilarious, or there abouts.
I thought you said "I" which is a capital i. But you said "l" which is a small L. See how confused I got.
Great, again, I'm glad to see a bit of an uprise in the amount of dark stories littering these forums.
Good-Good-Good.
3 goods for the 3 Fs.
3 goods for the 3 Fs.
The last line of your story shouldn't have an 'L' in it.
I really would like to understand what the hell you're on about.
Honestly.
Honestly.
That last line shouldn't have an 'l' in it.
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