Sadly, sedatives don't stop that brain. [Narrative for the bound and held]
It was dark but that didn't bother Warren in the least. He liked the dark, the shadows that one could hide in. Yet as one hid, other things, worse things, were hidden.
He walked along the path slowly, eyes down to watch the path before him. Not that he could see much, but that which was underfoot was uneven and badly laid, the surface lightly pitching and rolling beneath his booted gait. He could make out light and dark, shades of grey that made him think of tabby cats. Giggling, wondering if it was actually cats he walked upon. Pausing, he stooped, rubbing his hand over the path before him. It was leathery, like cheap pleather, worn and cracked and sticky in spots as if syrup had been spilled.
He knew in an instant what it was he walked upon.
Bringing one hand to his mouth, Warren lapped at his palm, another small giggle as he tasted not chocolate or strawberry but sweet copper, metallic and stale like old pennies left out on the traintrack in the rain. Still licking at his hand, the boy rose and continued on down the path of bodies as he made his way towards the only light he could see, wavering yellow and seeming ready to disappear in a moment.
It was as if the dark melted and he stood within a clearing. As with the blood, still dark and brown between his fingers and around the cuticles, he had known what the light was before he saw it.
The fire spoke to him, calling to him with the soft, sultry whisper of a lover. Begging him to touch, to come closer. It was seduction, nothing more and nothing less. A wicked and sensual lover who not merely called to the heat in his body but fueled it as well. Flames curled and beckoned, summoning him into the white hot center with promises of such passion that his body swayed and bucked with desire even as his mind fought the siren's call.
It was the second voice that made his mind join his body. Just as dark and sultry, but smoke tinged, steel wrapped in velvet and tinged with barbed wire. Liz. Brown eyes wide, tinged with the fiery echo of flames as he watched her dance. Fishnet and combat boots, her hair a wild, living thing that mingled with the fire.
When she crooked her finger, Warren obeyed.
The fire lapped at his skin as his tongue had but with every lick, flesh was flayed, burning away with a hickory scent that made him laugh. Didn't everything, even human, taste like chicken, so shouldn't it smell that way cooking? But his laugh slowly twisted with pain, becoming high, shrill screams as muscles curled inward and tendons melted to sizzle and snap within the flames below. Curled and contorted, his body slowly spiraling inward with the same lazy motions of paper in fire. Tighter and tighter until he was but a small, charred ball of echoing screams.
Even as he woke, the screams continued and yet there was no sound. Struggling against his bonds in his mind, yet no movement was seen in his room. A nurse noted the elevated blood pressure and how his temperature had spiked but no other notice was made of the terror that gripped Warren as he lay there, rallying against both sedatives and treatment.
He walked along the path slowly, eyes down to watch the path before him. Not that he could see much, but that which was underfoot was uneven and badly laid, the surface lightly pitching and rolling beneath his booted gait. He could make out light and dark, shades of grey that made him think of tabby cats. Giggling, wondering if it was actually cats he walked upon. Pausing, he stooped, rubbing his hand over the path before him. It was leathery, like cheap pleather, worn and cracked and sticky in spots as if syrup had been spilled.
He knew in an instant what it was he walked upon.
Bringing one hand to his mouth, Warren lapped at his palm, another small giggle as he tasted not chocolate or strawberry but sweet copper, metallic and stale like old pennies left out on the traintrack in the rain. Still licking at his hand, the boy rose and continued on down the path of bodies as he made his way towards the only light he could see, wavering yellow and seeming ready to disappear in a moment.
It was as if the dark melted and he stood within a clearing. As with the blood, still dark and brown between his fingers and around the cuticles, he had known what the light was before he saw it.
The fire spoke to him, calling to him with the soft, sultry whisper of a lover. Begging him to touch, to come closer. It was seduction, nothing more and nothing less. A wicked and sensual lover who not merely called to the heat in his body but fueled it as well. Flames curled and beckoned, summoning him into the white hot center with promises of such passion that his body swayed and bucked with desire even as his mind fought the siren's call.
It was the second voice that made his mind join his body. Just as dark and sultry, but smoke tinged, steel wrapped in velvet and tinged with barbed wire. Liz. Brown eyes wide, tinged with the fiery echo of flames as he watched her dance. Fishnet and combat boots, her hair a wild, living thing that mingled with the fire.
When she crooked her finger, Warren obeyed.
The fire lapped at his skin as his tongue had but with every lick, flesh was flayed, burning away with a hickory scent that made him laugh. Didn't everything, even human, taste like chicken, so shouldn't it smell that way cooking? But his laugh slowly twisted with pain, becoming high, shrill screams as muscles curled inward and tendons melted to sizzle and snap within the flames below. Curled and contorted, his body slowly spiraling inward with the same lazy motions of paper in fire. Tighter and tighter until he was but a small, charred ball of echoing screams.
Even as he woke, the screams continued and yet there was no sound. Struggling against his bonds in his mind, yet no movement was seen in his room. A nurse noted the elevated blood pressure and how his temperature had spiked but no other notice was made of the terror that gripped Warren as he lay there, rallying against both sedatives and treatment.