annie are you okay, are you okay? [closed & finished]

[virucide]

WHO: Mello (virucide) & Brian Moser (salvationdenied) -- open to Matt (lungrot) via phone, if he'd like!
WHAT: Revenge. (See this.)
WHERE: The center of town, and then an anonymous hotel room.
WHEN: Day 75, late at night.
WARNINGS: Very, very graphic violence. This is rape, so proceed at your own risk.

Comments

[salvationdenied]

The blade is kissing deep now, wrapping it's tongue into the open slit of his wound caressing the inside of it, licking and whining at the bone like a bitch in heat and---

Brian's phone rings.

And it's not the normal ring. Its high, bright urgent tone lifts up over the whine of the saw (and Mello's screaming) forcing Brian to hear it and pay attention.

It's his Vescovo ring.

Brian lifts the saw off the bone and shuts it off.

He reaches into his pocket, lifting the phone to his masked face and clicking into the message he had been sent.

And all at once, Brian watches that white space he had been cradled in, burn yellow hot, replacing cool, clean white for blinding, blue-furious rage.

He wouldn't be able to finish.

"God--- DAMN IT!" The scream rips from his lungs, rattling against the walls as he clenches his fists and takes a deep heaving breath, and-- and--

Releases it.

He takes the saw and cuts neatly through the man's restraints and then folds, neatly, the large plastic sheet over him, like a shroud (which it might as well be) using the ends of the rope to bind the edges together, not allowing a drop to spill.

When the blond is covered, Brian lifts a hand, palming the bottom half of the mask and pulls it, sweat lined, from his face.

So much for that.

The rage ebbs, slinks away as he moves, cleaning what little there is to clean (Mello's phone, some odds and ends like doorknobs and chairbacks) and repacking his bag before moving to the car and redepositing the body into the trunk.

There is no deliberate nor driving purpose this time as he starts the car, and he takes his time going from the center of the town to the beach, near the underpass, by the train tracks.

Carelessly, and with as much thought as he would have given a cigarette butt, Brian dumps the blond onto the beach, near the coast and drives away, forgetting him before he's even turned the corner.

[virucide]

His world is black, but it's still there.

He doesn't know exactly what's happening to him. Gaps of time are sliding together and overlapping, sucking out whole minutes of his most immediate reality. He sees the bloodied bone saw one moment, and then he sees the white mask, and then he hears something ringing. At first, Mello's blood runs cold -- but no, that isn't Matt calling. This is something else. Someone else seeking someone else. Not him. No one seeking him.

Mello's suspicions are confirmed when he feels the restraints on his body loosen and fall away, though he's in no state to lash out and attack even if he wants to, even if he's thinking it. Something cold envelopes him, seals him in with his own generous pool of blood. The darkness terrifies him. He sees white in the corners of his eyes, a slit of a smirk, pin-hole eyes, a smooth voice.

Why is he alive?

He can't move in here. He tries to struggle, but the slightest movement sends unbearable backlashes of pain through his body, through his bones -- which are all surprisingly still attached, he realizes belatedly. There's something wrong with his leg, but it isn't severed from him. That's all that should matter.

Why am I alive? Why the fuck am I alive?

Silence descends onto his black world.

His blood is smearing into his skin. Occasionally his world would rock and jerk, sending the pooling blood in violent sloshes against his face, splattering his eyes and getting up his nose, into his mouth, down his throat. His body shivers with a feeling far past the boundary of comprehensible pain, far past the boundary of everything physical. The steady thrum of an engine somewhere below him remains the only reliable constant in this mess.

...Then there are waves of sound. Calming. Crashing, roaring, calling out to him. Somewhere in this black world. He's being carried. Why isn't he dead yet this doesn't make any sense this doesn't make any fucking sense--

A collision with something -- what is it? Soft, uneven, shifting with his weight. Accommodating. Not dirt. Not solid. Not ground.

Mello's eyes flutter in the darkness of his claustrophobic prison. He tries to breathe through the thick, sticky liquid in his throat, but it's hard and getting harder.

And then the conscious world slides out from under his feet, and he succumbs to sleep in this grave.

So
They came into the outway.
It was Sunday.
What a black day.
I could make a salutation,
Sounding heartbeats.

Intimidations.