(no subject)
"If I had the luck of the Irish, I would rather be dead." Benjamin muttered darkly to himself, cigarette held between his teeth. In the back of his mind, he very vaguely recalled that John Lennon had lyrics that went something along those lines. Though that didn't matter now. With or without that stupid, mythological Irish luck, there was a chance he could end up dead anyway.
He'd only been on his way to a doctor after finally having been convinced to get himself checked out and hopefully treated. At first he was against the idea because he had clinic anxiety, but now that he had a stiffening pain on the side of his chest whenever he tried to breathe deeply, he resigned his initial thoughts. Last night he had even fainted for a few minutes, and for a while before that he also had trouble sleeping because he couldn't lay down comfortably. Though it happened a long time ago, it was all due to a fight that resulted in a cracked sternum and detached rib. Reacting too late at such a bad time was his consequence.
But even then, having three cars follow him at night with their lights off was some kind of overdone punishment.
Benjamin growled quietly at his situation, turning a hard right and making an attempt to speed away. Of course, it was futile, and the faster he went, the closer the car behind got. There wasn't much surprise for him in that. Out of instinct he kept away from being at the side of the road in the chance that those three cars would try to corner him, yet he definitely knew that it wouldn't matter. It was just a matter of time before they did something, and the Irishman broke his spiritual barriers to hope to God--any God--that he wouldn't have to get shot at.
Steering and driving with one hand on the wheel usually wasn't so difficult for him, but trying to dial Bethany's number with the other was making it just barely manageable. Speeding with the lights off and phone out was guaranteed to make him crash; that was just a matter of time too. He swerved left and put the phone to his ear, jerking the wheel back to straighten the car.
"Your phone's always on.. Just pick up, Beth," Benjamin had the urge to run a hand through his hair out of frustration, but clearly was unable to. The phone rang several times before he dropped it out of panic and shock due to a strong pound that came from behind him. "Shite!" The first car was forcefully meeting bumpers.
"That's not good, that's not good," Benjamin reached down cursorily to pick up the phone, teeth clenching onto the cigarette. He came back up again quick, afraid to get car-rammed again while his head was down. Against better judgment he pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator to escape this, and leaned down again to pick up the phone. The task took two more tries to do, thankfully of which the car behind didn't do anything, but not-so-thankfully only to catch Bethany's answering machine.
He stuck the device back into his pocket, scowling heavily. "Fuck! You 'always pick up a call', my arse!" He took the Gauloise from his mouth and put it out in the cup holder, so as to not distract himself. The cars impacted again but the strike was more effective, Benjamin shooting out forward and nearly hitting his head against the steering wheel. The seatbelt pulled taut against his torso and the pain he experienced nearly paralyzed him from being able to turn another sharp left.
The 22-year old barely even remembered where he was trying to go because of the stress he was currently pulling through. At first he thought it was Blind Beggar's and nearly yelled out when he realized it was the other way, but calmed down nearly as fast when he collected that he was heading for ATS--And Then Some. Deep's restaurant. Where hopefully he still had employees. And even more hopefully, where Benjamin's own men could be contacted. All he had to do was get there, inform the workers, make a call, and then escape out the back way. If he was lucky it would work, but he reminded himself that Irish luck often failed superbly. With that knowledge, he had to expect the worst and prepare to die.
Having to do that actually wasn't uncommon for him. What was uncommon, however, was being forced not to think about merely dying, but to consider the events that might lead up to his death. His idea of the worst scenario in this type of situation was someone leaning out of one of the cars and shooting at him through the window, where a bullet would drill itself through his head. His image of the worst that would happen was proven wrong when he suddenly turned right and ended up driving his car straight into something. He couldn't see what it was, wouldn't dare to try, and cursed himself several times around Ireland as he got out of the car through the passenger side to run away.
For a microsecond he thought he was safe because it was still dark out; perhaps he could take advantage of this and dash while unseen. What he hadn't anticipated was having one of the cars turn its lights on, which in effect, made the other vehicles turn on their own as well. It took just a glimpse.
Benjamin knew that he'd been caught but for some reason continued running anyway, even as he heard one of the cars approaching fast behind him. The moment he thought of diving to the side, he was struck. He hit the road hard, landing very badly on one knee and skinning the side and knuckles of his fists. He also skinned a part of his face close to his brow and hairline, couldn't feel his ear to tell if it was damaged or not, probably cracked his skull. His jaw was numb and his cheekbone was probably fractured. His hip still felt the pressure of the blow and he couldn't bring himself to move his shoulders, but above all, his chest felt as if it was going to implode. As he started to cough he thought, 'I shouldn't be alive right now,' and when he heard people getting out of the cars he told himself, 'but they want me to be.'
He shut his eyes and tried to pass out. This was so damn stupid, but he was afraid.
--
Another hard fist came down heavy upon his face as if it had the intention to give him another black eye. Anytime now, one of those forced-loose teeth was going to get knocked out. It probably wouldn't take much more of a slap to do so. Benjamin's entire body was numb only because his head was; it was one of the worst feelings.
The strongman lifted the Irishman up to his feet and uppercut into his stomach. Benjamin had spit out of the sheer force, and shouted out when another uppercut hit him in the ribs.
"Was that the right spot?"
The man pulled his arm back and launched it onto the same spot. Benjamin had bit his lip to refrain from crying out and ended up biting down much too hard, and when punched again in the chest he couldn't hold it back anymore. It hurt like hell. The pain had put him in such a daze that he could not make out the room or faces anymore. He didn't even feel the sensation of being jostled into someone else, nor did he realize that he was in a different pair of hands until he was shoved through a draped doorway and into a table. Cracked his other hip against it.
It was as if every part of him was reeling. The only thing that he was able to clearly think about was the chance that they might puncture his lung with that detached rib, unless they already had. He collapsed onto the floor, totally incapable of defending himself and yet someone still brought him back onto his feet just to bring him down again. They kept doing this because they knew he couldn't stand on that knee anymore; it was too hurt. They were just letting him deal with the atmospheric pressure pushing his weight down onto his leg, and were probably amused that they wouldn't have to do much to keep him in pain. But they did anyway.
It seemed like forever, having various people try to bash his head in, try to crush his lungs, try to make him stand with that newly terrible knee while some guy on the sidelines slammed a pipe down onto his foot. Benjamin couldn't even hear anything because he had been attacked so violently. The last thing he heard was the sound of his shoulder dislocating after someone had pulled his arm back and yanked it. The sound was loud, dull and thick.
Even when the beating had ceased, Benjamin felt no different. In his point of view he was still receiving various kicks and punches, still being thrown around into walls and windows, still being spat at. The man who had confiscated his phone crouched down next to him, his face straight like a line. "Can't even move to cower, can you?" Then he pushed his hand onto Benjamin's hair, stroking it gently before yanking at the strands closest to his scalp and lifting his head up. "To tell you the truth, it almost blows my mind that you've been carrying a phone with no numbers in it. I know your ties to the Syndicate. Have you deleted them all in anticipation of this sort of event? I must commend you for being clever enough to think ahead like that.."
Unable to turn his head, Benjamin looked at him through a swollen eye. He couldn't speak. The only thing that came out of his mouth was a mixture of blood and saliva.
"But, Mister Murphy," The figure yanked his head back, still holding onto his hair. Benjamin felt the muscles in his neck burning from being stretched that way. He was sure something would pop or tear. "I noticed that you dialed a number recently."
Through the broken bones and numb spots and throbbing pains, Benjamin still felt something inside spasm and turn cold. Maybe it was his stomach or his heart. Whatever it was, he felt a knot of dread form right at his core, as if his organs had twisted themselves.
"So who is it? Boyo." The stress on the last word was a mockery. "I'll have to guess, won't I? Let's see...who would a man call during desperate times...ah, close friends. Well, it couldn't have been that deaf boy, right? Donovan O'Halloran." The man smiled. "Was it your right-hand man, then? A Mister Connor Delaney. But, no, he's always busy, isn't he? Just like Peter." Benjamin knew there was no point to him naming names. It was to show off that he knew things--and he apparently knew a lot. "So if it's not any of those three, it leaves that William Shamus person. Correct me if I'm wrong."
Benjamin had to blink to keep from crying, his tears contained from blurring his vision so he could glare at this man. The audacity was astounding, and whatever he was planning worried Benjamin into more pain and nausea.
"That would make sense, wouldn't it? He's your best friend, after all. Just as you are his. It seems accurate that you would find him to be the most reliable individual for a rescue." Then the man paused, thinking something else over in his head. "Or have I overlooked something? Perhaps it was Miss Bethany. A brother must trust his sister the most."
Although he tried his hardest not to let anything more rise out of him, Benjamin felt some tears roll down. The more he blinked, the more they came. Bethany, his sister. That single connection, that single detail, it broke his heart.
"So! Bethany, is it? I think that's very interesting. From what I have heard of you, you don't seem to care for your sister much at all." The man carefully wiped at Benjamin's eyes with his thumbs. "Yet you're crying. Have you taken her for granted all this time? Are you acknowledging only just now that she has been a vital aspect to your life? You really do love her dearly, don't you? Poor thing. Cry as much as you want and get it out of your system. If you don't you'll feel even more horrible than you already do." All this comfort talk was false. The man was just making fun of him, making him suffer in various ways. The man hadn't even indicated or said a word of harm and yet he had already revealed his intentions with all those questions. That was it. Benjamin didn't know how, but he knew that Bethany would die.
Even with that cold feeling at the pit of his stomach, Benjamin almost became frustrated too. He wanted to bite his man's thumbs off, wanted to spit in his face, wanted to tell him 'I don't love my sister at all, you twit'. Yet he couldn't, and remained crying. 'I don't love Bethany even an ounce,' he wanted to say, 'but she had done nothing wrong at all.' He shut his eyes, falling into a series of tremors. 'She had nothing to do with this. She had nothing to do with me either except for being my sister, but she didn't know anything.' Benjamin couldn't control a sob from coming out. 'She never even picked up.'
The man let out a small tsk and dropped Benjamin's head. Then he stood up and dropped the phone onto the floor, crushing it underneath the heel of his shoe before giving the Irishman one last hard and swift kick to the chest. Benjamin spat up blood. "I have some men watching the house. As soon as she goes in, it gets torched. I suggest you pray soon; if you're lucky, you two will die quickly--Miss Murphy to fire, Mister Murphy to either blood or starvation. Don't think you're lucky enough to get rescued, though." All the men shuffled out of the room, the last one to exit shutting off the lights.
Benjamin laid there, his entire body still numb and pulsing. Couldn't even move an inch and now probably bleeding internally. Or eternally. The words were alike, and they even felt so.
it was like feeling everything, but a part of him swore that he also felt nothing.
He'd only been on his way to a doctor after finally having been convinced to get himself checked out and hopefully treated. At first he was against the idea because he had clinic anxiety, but now that he had a stiffening pain on the side of his chest whenever he tried to breathe deeply, he resigned his initial thoughts. Last night he had even fainted for a few minutes, and for a while before that he also had trouble sleeping because he couldn't lay down comfortably. Though it happened a long time ago, it was all due to a fight that resulted in a cracked sternum and detached rib. Reacting too late at such a bad time was his consequence.
But even then, having three cars follow him at night with their lights off was some kind of overdone punishment.
Benjamin growled quietly at his situation, turning a hard right and making an attempt to speed away. Of course, it was futile, and the faster he went, the closer the car behind got. There wasn't much surprise for him in that. Out of instinct he kept away from being at the side of the road in the chance that those three cars would try to corner him, yet he definitely knew that it wouldn't matter. It was just a matter of time before they did something, and the Irishman broke his spiritual barriers to hope to God--any God--that he wouldn't have to get shot at.
Steering and driving with one hand on the wheel usually wasn't so difficult for him, but trying to dial Bethany's number with the other was making it just barely manageable. Speeding with the lights off and phone out was guaranteed to make him crash; that was just a matter of time too. He swerved left and put the phone to his ear, jerking the wheel back to straighten the car.
"Your phone's always on.. Just pick up, Beth," Benjamin had the urge to run a hand through his hair out of frustration, but clearly was unable to. The phone rang several times before he dropped it out of panic and shock due to a strong pound that came from behind him. "Shite!" The first car was forcefully meeting bumpers.
"That's not good, that's not good," Benjamin reached down cursorily to pick up the phone, teeth clenching onto the cigarette. He came back up again quick, afraid to get car-rammed again while his head was down. Against better judgment he pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator to escape this, and leaned down again to pick up the phone. The task took two more tries to do, thankfully of which the car behind didn't do anything, but not-so-thankfully only to catch Bethany's answering machine.
He stuck the device back into his pocket, scowling heavily. "Fuck! You 'always pick up a call', my arse!" He took the Gauloise from his mouth and put it out in the cup holder, so as to not distract himself. The cars impacted again but the strike was more effective, Benjamin shooting out forward and nearly hitting his head against the steering wheel. The seatbelt pulled taut against his torso and the pain he experienced nearly paralyzed him from being able to turn another sharp left.
The 22-year old barely even remembered where he was trying to go because of the stress he was currently pulling through. At first he thought it was Blind Beggar's and nearly yelled out when he realized it was the other way, but calmed down nearly as fast when he collected that he was heading for ATS--And Then Some. Deep's restaurant. Where hopefully he still had employees. And even more hopefully, where Benjamin's own men could be contacted. All he had to do was get there, inform the workers, make a call, and then escape out the back way. If he was lucky it would work, but he reminded himself that Irish luck often failed superbly. With that knowledge, he had to expect the worst and prepare to die.
Having to do that actually wasn't uncommon for him. What was uncommon, however, was being forced not to think about merely dying, but to consider the events that might lead up to his death. His idea of the worst scenario in this type of situation was someone leaning out of one of the cars and shooting at him through the window, where a bullet would drill itself through his head. His image of the worst that would happen was proven wrong when he suddenly turned right and ended up driving his car straight into something. He couldn't see what it was, wouldn't dare to try, and cursed himself several times around Ireland as he got out of the car through the passenger side to run away.
For a microsecond he thought he was safe because it was still dark out; perhaps he could take advantage of this and dash while unseen. What he hadn't anticipated was having one of the cars turn its lights on, which in effect, made the other vehicles turn on their own as well. It took just a glimpse.
Benjamin knew that he'd been caught but for some reason continued running anyway, even as he heard one of the cars approaching fast behind him. The moment he thought of diving to the side, he was struck. He hit the road hard, landing very badly on one knee and skinning the side and knuckles of his fists. He also skinned a part of his face close to his brow and hairline, couldn't feel his ear to tell if it was damaged or not, probably cracked his skull. His jaw was numb and his cheekbone was probably fractured. His hip still felt the pressure of the blow and he couldn't bring himself to move his shoulders, but above all, his chest felt as if it was going to implode. As he started to cough he thought, 'I shouldn't be alive right now,' and when he heard people getting out of the cars he told himself, 'but they want me to be.'
He shut his eyes and tried to pass out. This was so damn stupid, but he was afraid.
--
Another hard fist came down heavy upon his face as if it had the intention to give him another black eye. Anytime now, one of those forced-loose teeth was going to get knocked out. It probably wouldn't take much more of a slap to do so. Benjamin's entire body was numb only because his head was; it was one of the worst feelings.
The strongman lifted the Irishman up to his feet and uppercut into his stomach. Benjamin had spit out of the sheer force, and shouted out when another uppercut hit him in the ribs.
"Was that the right spot?"
The man pulled his arm back and launched it onto the same spot. Benjamin had bit his lip to refrain from crying out and ended up biting down much too hard, and when punched again in the chest he couldn't hold it back anymore. It hurt like hell. The pain had put him in such a daze that he could not make out the room or faces anymore. He didn't even feel the sensation of being jostled into someone else, nor did he realize that he was in a different pair of hands until he was shoved through a draped doorway and into a table. Cracked his other hip against it.
It was as if every part of him was reeling. The only thing that he was able to clearly think about was the chance that they might puncture his lung with that detached rib, unless they already had. He collapsed onto the floor, totally incapable of defending himself and yet someone still brought him back onto his feet just to bring him down again. They kept doing this because they knew he couldn't stand on that knee anymore; it was too hurt. They were just letting him deal with the atmospheric pressure pushing his weight down onto his leg, and were probably amused that they wouldn't have to do much to keep him in pain. But they did anyway.
It seemed like forever, having various people try to bash his head in, try to crush his lungs, try to make him stand with that newly terrible knee while some guy on the sidelines slammed a pipe down onto his foot. Benjamin couldn't even hear anything because he had been attacked so violently. The last thing he heard was the sound of his shoulder dislocating after someone had pulled his arm back and yanked it. The sound was loud, dull and thick.
Even when the beating had ceased, Benjamin felt no different. In his point of view he was still receiving various kicks and punches, still being thrown around into walls and windows, still being spat at. The man who had confiscated his phone crouched down next to him, his face straight like a line. "Can't even move to cower, can you?" Then he pushed his hand onto Benjamin's hair, stroking it gently before yanking at the strands closest to his scalp and lifting his head up. "To tell you the truth, it almost blows my mind that you've been carrying a phone with no numbers in it. I know your ties to the Syndicate. Have you deleted them all in anticipation of this sort of event? I must commend you for being clever enough to think ahead like that.."
Unable to turn his head, Benjamin looked at him through a swollen eye. He couldn't speak. The only thing that came out of his mouth was a mixture of blood and saliva.
"But, Mister Murphy," The figure yanked his head back, still holding onto his hair. Benjamin felt the muscles in his neck burning from being stretched that way. He was sure something would pop or tear. "I noticed that you dialed a number recently."
Through the broken bones and numb spots and throbbing pains, Benjamin still felt something inside spasm and turn cold. Maybe it was his stomach or his heart. Whatever it was, he felt a knot of dread form right at his core, as if his organs had twisted themselves.
"So who is it? Boyo." The stress on the last word was a mockery. "I'll have to guess, won't I? Let's see...who would a man call during desperate times...ah, close friends. Well, it couldn't have been that deaf boy, right? Donovan O'Halloran." The man smiled. "Was it your right-hand man, then? A Mister Connor Delaney. But, no, he's always busy, isn't he? Just like Peter." Benjamin knew there was no point to him naming names. It was to show off that he knew things--and he apparently knew a lot. "So if it's not any of those three, it leaves that William Shamus person. Correct me if I'm wrong."
Benjamin had to blink to keep from crying, his tears contained from blurring his vision so he could glare at this man. The audacity was astounding, and whatever he was planning worried Benjamin into more pain and nausea.
"That would make sense, wouldn't it? He's your best friend, after all. Just as you are his. It seems accurate that you would find him to be the most reliable individual for a rescue." Then the man paused, thinking something else over in his head. "Or have I overlooked something? Perhaps it was Miss Bethany. A brother must trust his sister the most."
Although he tried his hardest not to let anything more rise out of him, Benjamin felt some tears roll down. The more he blinked, the more they came. Bethany, his sister. That single connection, that single detail, it broke his heart.
"So! Bethany, is it? I think that's very interesting. From what I have heard of you, you don't seem to care for your sister much at all." The man carefully wiped at Benjamin's eyes with his thumbs. "Yet you're crying. Have you taken her for granted all this time? Are you acknowledging only just now that she has been a vital aspect to your life? You really do love her dearly, don't you? Poor thing. Cry as much as you want and get it out of your system. If you don't you'll feel even more horrible than you already do." All this comfort talk was false. The man was just making fun of him, making him suffer in various ways. The man hadn't even indicated or said a word of harm and yet he had already revealed his intentions with all those questions. That was it. Benjamin didn't know how, but he knew that Bethany would die.
Even with that cold feeling at the pit of his stomach, Benjamin almost became frustrated too. He wanted to bite his man's thumbs off, wanted to spit in his face, wanted to tell him 'I don't love my sister at all, you twit'. Yet he couldn't, and remained crying. 'I don't love Bethany even an ounce,' he wanted to say, 'but she had done nothing wrong at all.' He shut his eyes, falling into a series of tremors. 'She had nothing to do with this. She had nothing to do with me either except for being my sister, but she didn't know anything.' Benjamin couldn't control a sob from coming out. 'She never even picked up.'
The man let out a small tsk and dropped Benjamin's head. Then he stood up and dropped the phone onto the floor, crushing it underneath the heel of his shoe before giving the Irishman one last hard and swift kick to the chest. Benjamin spat up blood. "I have some men watching the house. As soon as she goes in, it gets torched. I suggest you pray soon; if you're lucky, you two will die quickly--Miss Murphy to fire, Mister Murphy to either blood or starvation. Don't think you're lucky enough to get rescued, though." All the men shuffled out of the room, the last one to exit shutting off the lights.
Benjamin laid there, his entire body still numb and pulsing. Couldn't even move an inch and now probably bleeding internally. Or eternally. The words were alike, and they even felt so.
it was like feeling everything, but a part of him swore that he also felt nothing.