A Sick Party (horror) [3/3]
Title: A Sick Party
Pairings: Ian/ Anthony
Rating/Warnings: pg-13 PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU RESUME. BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO IAN, OK! This is a horror fic. Pretty dark. Happy things do not take place. If you feel uncomfortable with pain being inflicted on others, do not read.
Summary: They have one chance to make it out alive
Author's Notes: This is not my fic. It is hvnlyumbrlla's. She refuses to post it herself because she claims it'd be too awkward after disappearing for months and thinks everyone will hate it. Ugh! So yeah, if anyone actually posts any comments, I will personally make sure she replies to them herself. -.-
Previous Chapters: Part One Part Two
He is screaming. So very loud. So unbearably, heart-wrenchingly loud. He is screaming and thrashing and crying. He is being maimed and tortured, hurt in the most disgusting, animalistic way. And Anthony can’t take it. He wants to rip off his bindings, spring from the chair, and go save the man that he loves. He wishes that he was there in Ian’s place. He wishes that Ian chose to shoot him instead of going through this intense pain. It’s not fair. Anthony is screaming right along with Ian, pulling at the ropes that keep him glued to his chair. He knows he has no chance of getting to Ian, but he will try nonetheless.
In addition, it distracts the torturer from Anthony desperately trying to free the cell phone from his back pocket.
The man is a horribly sick criminal, but not a particularly smart or thorough one. He didn’t bother going through their pockets, and the chair in which Anthony is seated in has some very convenient slats in them. It allows his nimble fingers to stretch from their binds and wiggle through the openings in the chair. Fingertips scrabble at the black plastic that peaks from his jeans. He hopes to God - if there even is one up there, which he severely doubts at this point - that he will be able to get it out, find the keypad, and type out the numbers that may save both of their lives.
The inhuman man is whispering something that Anthony quite make out and the hammer is smashing down on Ian’s wrist. Anthony tries not to look at the horrible sight but he still hears the audible snapping and popping. He winces at the sound of that coupled with Ian’s screaming coming to an even higher decibel than before, if that was even humanly possible.
“Ian!” Anthony shouts, noticing a rapidly alarming difference in Ian’s voice. Tears rush faster down Anthony’s bright red cheeks; he fears that Ian may not have a lot of time left. Nobody can take much more of the constant pain he must be feeling. He is writhing on the floor, crying out in agony. But Anthony becomes even more alarmed when the screaming slowly dies in Ian’s throat. It is replaced with a constant stream of broken groaning that sends shivers across Anthony’s skin.
“Ian?!” Anthony strains again towards him, wanting so badly that it physically hurts to be able to grab Ian, make all of his pain stop, and kill the motherfucker who is doing this to him. But he can’t, he can only keep his eyes on his boyfriend and continue to struggle with the cell phone which has been miraculously coaxed out of his pocket and lies in the space between his back and the slats of the chair. He breathes a sigh - there’s a possibility that this may work. It could work. Ian and he could be saved.
But then Anthony focuses on Ian’s face which is now surprisingly turned to him. He looks dazed, unfeeling. He hopes, at least, that he is unfeeling. He looks almost peaceful, in fact. Anthony was hoping before that he would be able to hold on. But now, he knows the best thing would be for him to let go. He sobs a little at the fact, knowing that they would now never be together again, safe in each others arms.
He spins the phone with his fingers, and winces at the tiny sound the plastic makes against the wooden chair. But he nonetheless positions it so that it lies the way it would be if he was gripping it in his palm. He takes a deep breath and presses the power button with his shaking pointer finger.
Ian is still staring at Anthony, but his eyelids are drooping. Anthony tries not to look at the horrifying wounds that pepper his body, the bright red blood that glistens sharply against his pallid and graying skin. Anthony holds the gaze of his blue eyes which seem to be losing color along with his complexion. It pains him to say the next few words, but Ian needs to be done with all of this. If not, Anthony could lose him forever. There would be no hope for escape .
“Ian! Let go!
Ian isn’t responding and so Anthony repeats his plea, louder this time. “Let go! Just let go!” And then Ian closes his eyes, his head hits the floor with a light thump. His plea dies on his dry lips and Anthony wants to cry out, go to him, shake him, make sure his is still breathing. Make sure that his heart continues to pump precious life blood through his veins. He hopes that not too much of it has already leaked out of his body. But he calms himself. Ian was just done. He needed to let go. He just hopes that it was only Ian passing out and not something more… drastic.
He remembers the task that is still at hand and he reaches out his fingers once again to his phone, watching the bastard who possibly just killed Ian stoop over him and pick up a drooping wrist, the one that isn’t shattered and mangled. Anthony grits his teeth; he should be the one checking to see if Ian is till alive. He should be the one over there scooping him up carefully and saving his life. He should be over there, murdering that son of a bitch who did this to Ian. He presses his shaking fingertip to the screen, holding his breath, hoping that he is choosing the right buttons, making his way to the dialer.
He slows his breathing, focusing on Ian, sending prayers to the god-that-may-exist-but-probably-doesn’t. Why would he let this happen if he did?
Please, Ian. Please. Please. Please be alive, you asshole. Don’t die on me now. I have my phone. We can get out of here. We can do it. Anthony shakes the thoughts from his head, sending sweat and tears flying from his face. He watches the man open up a long, white sheet next to his broken boyfriend. The twisted mother fucking is whistling the whole time, a happy smile plastered over his lips, not even regarding him.
Anthony holds his breath and presses what he thinks to be the number 9.
Please help me.
Anthony winces at the tiny beep he can hear coming from his phone. He hopes that he is the only one that can actually hear it, his fear heightening his ability to detect the small sound. He keeps his eyes focused on the man, willing him to keep his head down, his back turned. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me. Anthony could think of nothing else but repeating those words like a prayer to a god that most likely didn’t exist, and trying to guess where the number 1 was.
Suddenly, the man stops his whistling and snaps his head up to look at Anthony, his smile wide but his eyes flat and chilling. Anthony jumps, staring wide-eyed at the disgusting man, and knocking his fingers back into his life-line.
The cell phone.
Shit.
It feels as though everything is in slow motion, Anthony can feel the milliseconds push by, can feel the muscles in his face contorting into a grimace as the phone slips off the chair, bounces a few times on the cement floor and comes to a rest, in many black plastic pieces.
“Well, well, well.”
They never really had a chance.
-Fin-
Pairings: Ian/ Anthony
Rating/Warnings: pg-13 PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU RESUME. BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO IAN, OK! This is a horror fic. Pretty dark. Happy things do not take place. If you feel uncomfortable with pain being inflicted on others, do not read.
Summary: They have one chance to make it out alive
Author's Notes: This is not my fic. It is hvnlyumbrlla's. She refuses to post it herself because she claims it'd be too awkward after disappearing for months and thinks everyone will hate it. Ugh! So yeah, if anyone actually posts any comments, I will personally make sure she replies to them herself. -.-
Previous Chapters: Part One Part Two
He is screaming. So very loud. So unbearably, heart-wrenchingly loud. He is screaming and thrashing and crying. He is being maimed and tortured, hurt in the most disgusting, animalistic way. And Anthony can’t take it. He wants to rip off his bindings, spring from the chair, and go save the man that he loves. He wishes that he was there in Ian’s place. He wishes that Ian chose to shoot him instead of going through this intense pain. It’s not fair. Anthony is screaming right along with Ian, pulling at the ropes that keep him glued to his chair. He knows he has no chance of getting to Ian, but he will try nonetheless.
In addition, it distracts the torturer from Anthony desperately trying to free the cell phone from his back pocket.
The man is a horribly sick criminal, but not a particularly smart or thorough one. He didn’t bother going through their pockets, and the chair in which Anthony is seated in has some very convenient slats in them. It allows his nimble fingers to stretch from their binds and wiggle through the openings in the chair. Fingertips scrabble at the black plastic that peaks from his jeans. He hopes to God - if there even is one up there, which he severely doubts at this point - that he will be able to get it out, find the keypad, and type out the numbers that may save both of their lives.
The inhuman man is whispering something that Anthony quite make out and the hammer is smashing down on Ian’s wrist. Anthony tries not to look at the horrible sight but he still hears the audible snapping and popping. He winces at the sound of that coupled with Ian’s screaming coming to an even higher decibel than before, if that was even humanly possible.
“Ian!” Anthony shouts, noticing a rapidly alarming difference in Ian’s voice. Tears rush faster down Anthony’s bright red cheeks; he fears that Ian may not have a lot of time left. Nobody can take much more of the constant pain he must be feeling. He is writhing on the floor, crying out in agony. But Anthony becomes even more alarmed when the screaming slowly dies in Ian’s throat. It is replaced with a constant stream of broken groaning that sends shivers across Anthony’s skin.
“Ian?!” Anthony strains again towards him, wanting so badly that it physically hurts to be able to grab Ian, make all of his pain stop, and kill the motherfucker who is doing this to him. But he can’t, he can only keep his eyes on his boyfriend and continue to struggle with the cell phone which has been miraculously coaxed out of his pocket and lies in the space between his back and the slats of the chair. He breathes a sigh - there’s a possibility that this may work. It could work. Ian and he could be saved.
But then Anthony focuses on Ian’s face which is now surprisingly turned to him. He looks dazed, unfeeling. He hopes, at least, that he is unfeeling. He looks almost peaceful, in fact. Anthony was hoping before that he would be able to hold on. But now, he knows the best thing would be for him to let go. He sobs a little at the fact, knowing that they would now never be together again, safe in each others arms.
He spins the phone with his fingers, and winces at the tiny sound the plastic makes against the wooden chair. But he nonetheless positions it so that it lies the way it would be if he was gripping it in his palm. He takes a deep breath and presses the power button with his shaking pointer finger.
Ian is still staring at Anthony, but his eyelids are drooping. Anthony tries not to look at the horrifying wounds that pepper his body, the bright red blood that glistens sharply against his pallid and graying skin. Anthony holds the gaze of his blue eyes which seem to be losing color along with his complexion. It pains him to say the next few words, but Ian needs to be done with all of this. If not, Anthony could lose him forever. There would be no hope for escape .
“Ian! Let go!
Ian isn’t responding and so Anthony repeats his plea, louder this time. “Let go! Just let go!” And then Ian closes his eyes, his head hits the floor with a light thump. His plea dies on his dry lips and Anthony wants to cry out, go to him, shake him, make sure his is still breathing. Make sure that his heart continues to pump precious life blood through his veins. He hopes that not too much of it has already leaked out of his body. But he calms himself. Ian was just done. He needed to let go. He just hopes that it was only Ian passing out and not something more… drastic.
He remembers the task that is still at hand and he reaches out his fingers once again to his phone, watching the bastard who possibly just killed Ian stoop over him and pick up a drooping wrist, the one that isn’t shattered and mangled. Anthony grits his teeth; he should be the one checking to see if Ian is till alive. He should be the one over there scooping him up carefully and saving his life. He should be over there, murdering that son of a bitch who did this to Ian. He presses his shaking fingertip to the screen, holding his breath, hoping that he is choosing the right buttons, making his way to the dialer.
He slows his breathing, focusing on Ian, sending prayers to the god-that-may-exist-but-probably-doesn’t. Why would he let this happen if he did?
Please, Ian. Please. Please. Please be alive, you asshole. Don’t die on me now. I have my phone. We can get out of here. We can do it. Anthony shakes the thoughts from his head, sending sweat and tears flying from his face. He watches the man open up a long, white sheet next to his broken boyfriend. The twisted mother fucking is whistling the whole time, a happy smile plastered over his lips, not even regarding him.
Anthony holds his breath and presses what he thinks to be the number 9.
Please help me.
Anthony winces at the tiny beep he can hear coming from his phone. He hopes that he is the only one that can actually hear it, his fear heightening his ability to detect the small sound. He keeps his eyes focused on the man, willing him to keep his head down, his back turned. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me. Anthony could think of nothing else but repeating those words like a prayer to a god that most likely didn’t exist, and trying to guess where the number 1 was.
Suddenly, the man stops his whistling and snaps his head up to look at Anthony, his smile wide but his eyes flat and chilling. Anthony jumps, staring wide-eyed at the disgusting man, and knocking his fingers back into his life-line.
The cell phone.
Shit.
It feels as though everything is in slow motion, Anthony can feel the milliseconds push by, can feel the muscles in his face contorting into a grimace as the phone slips off the chair, bounces a few times on the cement floor and comes to a rest, in many black plastic pieces.
“Well, well, well.”
They never really had a chance.
-Fin-