A Sick Party (horror) [2/3]
Title: A Sick Party
Pairings: Ian/ Anthony
Rating/Warnings: r for the other because it gets graphic. PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU RESUME. BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO IAN, OK! This is a horror fic. Pretty dark. Happy things do not take place. If you feel uncomfortable with pain being inflicted on others, do not read.
Summary: You wake up numb and confused and are spiraled into easily the worst day of your life.
Author's Notes: Please don't hate me. AND I AM SORRY FOR DOING THIS TO YOU, IAN. I AM A SICK PERSON, I KNOW!
“Oh goody!” The man’s face is consumed with a broad smile. You watch as he stoops down once again and clicks open the black box. You can only imagine what it contains. He pulls out a few things to add to his already selected hammer and gun; a thin knife and a transparent bottle which sloshes with unidentifiable liquid. You cringe at how calmly he carries out his actions. As if he is simply gathering party favors for his guests, setting them out meticulously so as to impress all that come about.
You are anything but impressed. Fear numbs your limbs and you are grateful for that; maybe it will lessen the pain. You doubt it, but it is the only thing you can cling to right now.
Finally, he seems to be finished arranging the tools at your feet and stands up to gaze at you. He holds the hammer in his hand, poised in the air and you can’t stop staring at the gleaming metal which will soon be covered with your own blood, you realize. You wonder what it will feel like. Curiosity briefly takes over the intense fear that shivers across your flesh. But it’s only momentary because then you remember that there is a fucking psycho standing above you, about to smash your body in with a fucking hammer. Your breathing quickens and you try to calm yourself, a full-blown asthma attack would really suck at a time like this. Although, in all reality, maybe it would quicken your death.
“Well, Ian. I hope you have as much fun as I certainly will. Although they never do. I simply don’t understand that! It’s my favorite.” The man swings the hammer back and smiles sweetly. You forget about trying to calm your hyperventilating as the tool comes at a standstill directly behind his head. His back is curved down and you can see that he is aiming for the lower half of your body. Sweat pours down your face. Your skin stings. You feel every little bump in the floor pressing into your back, see every floating particle in the menacing air, hear every little creak of Anthony’s chair, every breath coming from of the damned lips of your attacker. Your vision wobbles and blurs then switches back to unnatural clarity like someone is screwing around with the focus in a microscope. It makes you dizzy.
“My favorite activity. My favorite party game.” You glance from the hammer to the man’s dull eyes. He doesn’t seem like he is even talking directly to you anymore, he has adopted a distant gaze, staring down at you but not really seeing anything. You suddenly can’t even think straight. Panic seizes you feel as though your brain has switched to survival mode, prompted by the predator above you. Some animalistic instinct causes you to irrationally thrash against the floor and pull futilely at your restraints. Nothing but a trapped little insignificant animal.
But then the hammer begins to lower and you freeze. In fact, you don’t think you can move if you wanted to. You feel as though someone has set time in slow motion. It all happens in a split second, you know. But you don’t see it that way. You see the hammer head travel inch by inch. You see a bead of sweat gracefully fly off the man’s pale face. You hear a scream from somewhere else in the room and glance over to see Anthony pulling at every restraint, face bright red and shining, eyes bugged out and meeting your dazed stare. You catch your name being screamed from his bright red lips before the muffled, slow motion ends and it replaces your focus with seething pain.
The hammer has connected with your knee cap and you can’t even comprehend the feeling. It’s searing pain, fire that explodes and tears through your nerves. You hear a crunch, feel the shock, catch the tremors that run up through every bone and ligament that connect the muscles in your leg together. A scream rips from your throat and tears pour down your face. You can’t stop crying out at the pain and you want to grip your knee, put pressure on the pulsing wound but you can’t bring your hands down to meet the body part. All thoughts are stripped from your mind and so you don’t expect the next blow that comes only seconds after.
The metal head comes in contact with your foot this time. You feel bones snapping and popping and flesh ripping open. But you don’t have time to process the new attack before another comes along, this time directed at your arm. The hammer beats down into your shoulder and your screams reach an ear-splitting crescendo. You feel the joint between your shoulder and arm separate and crack, splintering and stabbing through flesh. You can’t catch your breath. You are crying and panting and gasping and screeching, trying desperately to roll away from that evil hammer. You know if you ever make it out alive you will never be able to look at another one the same way ever again.
You want to pass out. You want to die. You want, with every screaming fiber of your being, to stop feeling this indescribable pain. Your head swims from the amount of blood that is rushing from your body and the complete shock of the blows, of the breaking bones. You feel bile rushing up from your stomach and traveling to burn the base of your esophagus. You retch out the acidic contents of your stomach, heaving again and again onto the cold ground.
“This…this is delightful!” You hear the statement from somewhere above you but your head is spinning too much and your vision is entirely too blurred to understand from where and whom it comes from. “You scream so much, Ian. It sounds…so good to my deprived ears.” You shudder at the breathy sound of his voice. “Enough with the hammer though, I don’t want you passing out on me. The weak ones always pass out.”
You can’t grasp the meaning of his words, all you feel is lightheadedness and throbbing pain. You want to die.
“Show me that you’re strong, Ian.” The words wobble and echo in your ears and you think that’s your name, but you can’t really be sure. You catch a strange sound that seems to ping off the walls. Suddenly an ice cold, flat surface is pressed to the skin of your neck which is so hot it feels as though flames are licking up the mangled planes. You wonder what this strange freezing object is but you don’t have a long time to think on it because suddenly you are feeling a new pain. The cold solid no longer provides a welcome coolness, but rather, digs into your flesh, slicing a large gash from one ear to the other. The blade drags along slowly and shallowly, pulling at and separating the skin. You yelp and try to scrabble away from the unforgiving tool but the movement only jars your knee and you shriek again at the pulsing pain.
You feel several more slices hack at your skin, your abdomen, your thigh, your leg: from ankle to calf. Ribbons of blood pour from the small cuts and their sting only add to the constant throb of pain that has captured your body. You open your eyes and look to the blurry, tan form above you. You hear a strange sound, a pop. You groan. What more? What’s next? What more will you be forced to take before you finally pass out, or- better yet- die?
A smell overpowers your olfactory senses. It’s chemical. Acidic. Your eyes water and you feel like retching again, although you know nothing more will be able to be rejected from your body. Suddenly, the cut on your neck is covered in a cool sensation. Liquid slips over your skin, mixing with the blood and dribbling pink over the front of you. Silly, confused you. You welcome the feel; it numbs and cools the wound, takes away from the pain for a moment.
But slowly, the sensation begins to change. It’s heating up. Akin to being placed in a slow simmering liquid which takes you a moment to realize that you are being boiled alive. The liquid sizzles and seeps through your skin and you commence your screaming once again. There is fire on your flesh, in you muscles. Liquid fire. Burning, searing, destroying, disintegrating flesh.
You feel the liquid in your various wounds, mostly the cuts. The smoldering heightens the pain and you groan. You forget that staying still is the best thing to do and you thrash against the floor. Who is screaming so loudly? You realize then that it is, in fact, yourself. You hear nothing else. Just the constant bellow of pain. You hear yourself begging for mercy. You know you won’t get any. You are going to die here.
“S-so deli-lightful”. You hear a shudder and gasp above you and then feel another blow of pain to your wrist this time. Something heavy connected with bone. You can’t remember what it might be. You can’t remember the thing used to do that damage. Hurts. Pain. It’s all you can register. Splintering shards of bone piercing skin and muscle. Nerves crying out for mercy. Your whole body is. You open your eyes again but the world does not look normal at all. It’s bent and dark and blurred. Your perception pitches and skews. You only hear static and the deep thrum of your heart beat reverberating in the atmosphere.
You gaze around distantly; you can feel yourself slipping away. You catch sight of a figure not too far-off in the distance, sitting, leaning toward you; his presence eases something that you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s a distant feeling compared to the pain. However, it’s still slightly comforting through the torture. He is mouthing something. In all reality, he is probably screaming it but your ears are no longer accepting sound waves and your brain refuses to translate them. You can’t even understand the mouthing. The pain throbs. Your ears pound. The world spins.
You close your eyes. Whoever was screaming has stopped. There are no more blows of pain. It seems like everything had gone quiet. You feel numb and your mind wobbles in and out of consciousness. You really want to sleep, now. Maybe then it won’t hurt so much. Maybe then you won’t want to die. Or maybe it will make it easier to die, either sounds fine as long as you are feeling this anymore.
You realize what that figure was mouthing, before you finally slip away into the impeding darkness.
“Let go.”
And so you do.