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

[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.