Sick..sick..SICK IN DA HEAD
She screamed.
Agony bloomed and exploded across her vision as emotionless blades cut harsh crimson paths in her skin, the pressure careful enough only to slice through the first few layers. He was very careful, now, and before; never cutting deep enough to cause too much bleeding, always avoiding arteries, despite his ability to slice through flesh and bone with effortless ease.
Time had become irrelevant. She was here, chained to a cold, soiled table caked in dried blood and tears. The room was only dimly lit from a barely functioning wall sconce somewhere to her left, but that was all right. He didn’t need light to do this to her. His highly evolved eyesight could have performed these crimes against her in pitch darkness.
Sharp, glinting knives drew down the length of a sweat-gleamed, heaving chest. Along the collarbone, between bared breasts, down toned and tanned abs they stroked, leaving skin uncleaved in an almost affectionate manner. Why did he touch her like this? Why did her tormentor alternate between the soft whispers of metal grazing skin and the cruel, splitting destruction they mostly chose to leave behind?
With an almost loving air the tools of her destruction drew red and another cry lodged itself in her throat. Deeper they went, until the screams would not be denied and skin parted to reveal the thin membrane encasing her innards. Tears ran hot and her throat bled with the force as he opened her completely despite her pleas to cease the treatment. Living dissection; breathing death; those terrible, tender daggers removed what made her a woman on the inside, just as they had destroyed what made her a woman on the outside the day (or week) before.
It was practice: a lab in human anatomy. Mikeala Banes, strapped to a table, was the living cadaver in today's lesson.
Barricade's cold steel talons served as the scalpels.
Barricade / Mikaela Banes / practice
Agony bloomed and exploded across her vision as emotionless blades cut harsh crimson paths in her skin, the pressure careful enough only to slice through the first few layers. He was very careful, now, and before; never cutting deep enough to cause too much bleeding, always avoiding arteries, despite his ability to slice through flesh and bone with effortless ease.
Time had become irrelevant. She was here, chained to a cold, soiled table caked in dried blood and tears. The room was only dimly lit from a barely functioning wall sconce somewhere to her left, but that was all right. He didn’t need light to do this to her. His highly evolved eyesight could have performed these crimes against her in pitch darkness.
Sharp, glinting knives drew down the length of a sweat-gleamed, heaving chest. Along the collarbone, between bared breasts, down toned and tanned abs they stroked, leaving skin uncleaved in an almost affectionate manner. Why did he touch her like this? Why did her tormentor alternate between the soft whispers of metal grazing skin and the cruel, splitting destruction they mostly chose to leave behind?
With an almost loving air the tools of her destruction drew red and another cry lodged itself in her throat. Deeper they went, until the screams would not be denied and skin parted to reveal the thin membrane encasing her innards. Tears ran hot and her throat bled with the force as he opened her completely despite her pleas to cease the treatment. Living dissection; breathing death; those terrible, tender daggers removed what made her a woman on the inside, just as they had destroyed what made her a woman on the outside the day (or week) before.
It was practice: a lab in human anatomy. Mikeala Banes, strapped to a table, was the living cadaver in today's lesson.
Barricade's cold steel talons served as the scalpels.
Barricade / Mikaela Banes / practice