Torn Up

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I.

The clangorous silver-gray chains are beginning to give a significant semblance of his life; they are dry, malleable and often beaten, just like him. The persistent clatter is metamorphosing into the theme tone of his self-dreaded life, as the continuous pulling, plunging and repelling, is something he'd always had to live with.

He remembers nothing before what happened. That could be explained by the piercing pain at the back of his head; like a set of masonry nails, constantly being hammered in and removed; just to be hammered in again.  The only thing he’s certain of, is that he’d been here for at least a week. 

He has both of his hands tightly cuffed into the wall behind him, in opposing directions, leaving him to lay uncomfortably with only his shoulders falling against the bleak, concrete-wall, and the small of his back falling short.

The palm of his hands is blemished with scars; abrasive, jagged scars. They are the result of the countless times he had clinched his fist so hard, his sharp, grubby nails pierced right through his rough, malnourished skin, leaving the—now dry—blood adjacent to the wounds.


"Why are you doing this?" he cried, desperately asking for what seemed like the thousandth time. He knew full well that he would be left unanswered; just like all the other times.

"Please, who are you?" he cried even louder. He had never heard nor seen his overseer.

The overseer headed towards him until the captive could see nothing but a large shadow taking up the most of his blindfold. The overseer graciously squatted and held his hand, cordially tapping it.

“Water,” the captive begged.

This prompted his overseer. His hand tapping came to a halt. He abruptly stood up and walked away, but didn’t leave the room. He could still see the man’s shadow through his blindfold, moving around, unable to pinpoint what he’s doing.

The captive is beginning to form an idea that he’s in a basement. The distinct smell of mold, like wet socks or rotten wood. The fact that his overseer seemingly goes upstairs whenever he leaves. The perpetual clinking and splashing of water, presumably from a leakage.

The man trotted to a metal table, approximately one-meter away from his captive. He then took a towel off the table, ambled towards the sink and damped it in water.

He then walked back towards his victim. His strong hand firmly fastened around his helpless captive’s mouth, swiping down to his bony chin, as the debris ceaselessly fell from his mustache and messy stubble. 

He pointed his captive’s chin up towards him with a gentle tap of his index finger, simultaneously pulling his lower jaw down with the tip of his thumb; the captive knew not to resist, otherwise he'd be wasting precious drips of water.

The overseer’s focused back to the wet towel, cleansing his hands after touching the chained man, till his hands were squeaky clean. Then he wrung the towel using both of his hands, dripping it down the chained man's mouth.



DystopianTruth

Edited: 11.08.2019

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