Render Her Down. Original.
Summary: What does it take to render someone down? Contains blood, torture and darkness.
Render Her Down.
It hurt.
Not the most original thought, but who was watching anyway? Oh yeah. He was. How stupid of her to have forgotten.
Flash.
That bloody camera. Couldn't he at least use a digital one? That bloody old-fashioned model of his filled the room with smoke, making her gag at the acrid scent. At least it covered the smell of blood though.
Click.
Oh. He was reloading. The sound always made her think of a gun. Give her a gun and five seconds... preferably a gun with two clips. One for him and one for that bloody camera. Though being freed from the restraints would help, she was quite sure that she could kill him as she was.
Swoosh.
He spent so much time cleaning it. Huh. It was pointless. It would just get bloody again. What, did you think that she was being rhetorical? Oh no, the pictures were taken from a camera whose lens was so blood-splattered that sometimes all the pictures showed was darkness muddied by her blood. That seemed fitting though.
Splash.
The fluid dip that would make it develop. It was pure black at the moment though. A photograph of sheer darkness. Sheer being transparent. It was always easy to see through darkness. All you needed was nightvision. Seeing through the light, now that was the real trick. Even looking at the light was dangerous, it blinded you. Seeing through it? Impossible.
Snitch.
She could feel the liquid drip on her as he clipped the photo to the clothesline above her. Cold. Unlike her blood. Though that eventually grew cold as well. Grew cold and coagulated. Like strawberry jam. Not as tasty though. She had never liked strawberry jam anyway. She wondered if he did? No matter. She didn't have any to give him. Only blood. Not that she gave that to him. He took it from her. The difference was debatable, but only to an optimist.
Clank.
The chains clashed against each other as he repositioned her, tilting the table that she was tied to upwards so that her guts fell out in slick, sick-looking blue strands to her knees, looping around each other as if they were the strings of a pearl necklace.
Flash.
The light hurt behind her closed eyes. It flashed red. Like strawberry jam, but less pink. She hated pink. She hated lots of things. Him most of all. Her own self came a close second though. Pink was only third on the list. Or so she thought. If she thought about it too long, she could think of many things that she hated more than pink. Like the pain. But she didn't want to think about it. Hating a color was such a happy, simple thing to do. She needed more simplicity in her life.
Click.
The pattern was simple enough to get used to. The clicks were pure in their lack of complexity. Music of the most primative sort. Better than the sound of her screams at least. Though she had stopped screaming long ago. It was hard to scream with no tongue. She had managed things that were harder still though. Like keeping her eyes closed with no eyelids. She didn't see anything any more. Perhaps he had blinded her.
Swoosh.
Only those who refuse to see are those who are blind. She refused to see the pictures, still dripping, that hung all around the room. Clipped to threads that were woven all around the ceiling of the room, she refused to acknowledge the hundreds of prints of herself. The results of his attempts to carve away at her soul until he reaches her core. It was useless of course. Photos can't capture souls. No matter how many he takes. Not that'll stop him from trying. Indeed no.
Splash.
Something left her body and hit the floor a second or so after he dipped the most current print. Huh. Probably just a chunk of flesh. Possibly an organ, but that was unlikely. He wouldn't want her to die so soon. Her soul would escape when she died, and photographing a lifeless body would bring him nothing. Not that he was getting anything now. Merely taking. Like an optimist.
Snitch.
There were so many things that the sound could have reminded her off. The ball in Quidditch. The cutting of a lifeline. The slang name given to a tale-bearer. These days, it didn't remind her of anything. There was nothing to be reminded of. There was only a large, tall room, crisscrossed with photographs that she couldn't see, a man with a camera, and a slow-dying woman for slow-drying photographs.
Clank.
That's all he needed for his attempts to render her down.
End.
What does it take to render someone down? Contains blood, torture and darkness.
Render Her Down.
It hurt.
Not the most original thought, but who was watching anyway? Oh yeah. He was. How stupid of her to have forgotten.
Flash.
That bloody camera. Couldn't he at least use a digital one? That bloody old-fashioned model of his filled the room with smoke, making her gag at the acrid scent. At least it covered the smell of blood though.
Click.
Oh. He was reloading. The sound always made her think of a gun. Give her a gun and five seconds... preferably a gun with two clips. One for him and one for that bloody camera. Though being freed from the restraints would help, she was quite sure that she could kill him as she was.
Swoosh.
He spent so much time cleaning it. Huh. It was pointless. It would just get bloody again. What, did you think that she was being rhetorical? Oh no, the pictures were taken from a camera whose lens was so blood-splattered that sometimes all the pictures showed was darkness muddied by her blood. That seemed fitting though.
Splash.
The fluid dip that would make it develop. It was pure black at the moment though. A photograph of sheer darkness. Sheer being transparent. It was always easy to see through darkness. All you needed was nightvision. Seeing through the light, now that was the real trick. Even looking at the light was dangerous, it blinded you. Seeing through it? Impossible.
Snitch.
She could feel the liquid drip on her as he clipped the photo to the clothesline above her. Cold. Unlike her blood. Though that eventually grew cold as well. Grew cold and coagulated. Like strawberry jam. Not as tasty though. She had never liked strawberry jam anyway. She wondered if he did? No matter. She didn't have any to give him. Only blood. Not that she gave that to him. He took it from her. The difference was debatable, but only to an optimist.
Clank.
The chains clashed against each other as he repositioned her, tilting the table that she was tied to upwards so that her guts fell out in slick, sick-looking blue strands to her knees, looping around each other as if they were the strings of a pearl necklace.
Flash.
The light hurt behind her closed eyes. It flashed red. Like strawberry jam, but less pink. She hated pink. She hated lots of things. Him most of all. Her own self came a close second though. Pink was only third on the list. Or so she thought. If she thought about it too long, she could think of many things that she hated more than pink. Like the pain. But she didn't want to think about it. Hating a color was such a happy, simple thing to do. She needed more simplicity in her life.
Click.
The pattern was simple enough to get used to. The clicks were pure in their lack of complexity. Music of the most primative sort. Better than the sound of her screams at least. Though she had stopped screaming long ago. It was hard to scream with no tongue. She had managed things that were harder still though. Like keeping her eyes closed with no eyelids. She didn't see anything any more. Perhaps he had blinded her.
Swoosh.
Only those who refuse to see are those who are blind. She refused to see the pictures, still dripping, that hung all around the room. Clipped to threads that were woven all around the ceiling of the room, she refused to acknowledge the hundreds of prints of herself. The results of his attempts to carve away at her soul until he reaches her core. It was useless of course. Photos can't capture souls. No matter how many he takes. Not that'll stop him from trying. Indeed no.
Splash.
Something left her body and hit the floor a second or so after he dipped the most current print. Huh. Probably just a chunk of flesh. Possibly an organ, but that was unlikely. He wouldn't want her to die so soon. Her soul would escape when she died, and photographing a lifeless body would bring him nothing. Not that he was getting anything now. Merely taking. Like an optimist.
Snitch.
There were so many things that the sound could have reminded her off. The ball in Quidditch. The cutting of a lifeline. The slang name given to a tale-bearer. These days, it didn't remind her of anything. There was nothing to be reminded of. There was only a large, tall room, crisscrossed with photographs that she couldn't see, a man with a camera, and a slow-dying woman for slow-drying photographs.
Clank.
That's all he needed for his attempts to render her down.
End.
What does it take to render someone down? Contains blood, torture and darkness.