Rejected Revenge Chapter 2

WARNING GRAPHIC CONTENT

Old 1920's Wheelchair

It is pitch black. The air is cool and damp. The smell of musk and dirt assaults the nose. The sound of breathing and slight movement can be heard from somewhere nearby. The feeling of being watched, every moment being followed, as if there is no escape for being observed. Trying to call out. Mute. Silent agonizing cries. Trying to move. Struggling. An unresponsive body. Failure to work. Nothing. Straining. Nothing. No voice, no movement. Thoughts race. The mind a buzz. Yet, nothing. No movement. No light. Trapped. Alone and afraid. Flashing lights. Bright and blinding. Finally glaring intense white light. Shutting out the light. Sightless. Again battling the light, the pain. The feelings of being trapped. Eyes opening once more. Curious to understand. Blaring light. Finally vision. Blurry silhouettes standing and staring. Terror. Fear. Panic. This cannot be happening. This is not right. Again the fight for freedom is crushed, nonexistent. Immobile. Just like a fly caught on fly paper.
Drool dribbles down. The feeling that something is off, something is wrong. The realization of vice grips holding the tongue out of mouth. Dangling and hanging. Another struggle ensues. The clanking sound of metal hitting teeth. Pain shooting through the body. Against all efforts the tongue remains caught. Doom sweeps over all senses and a knowing that this is the end.
The sky dances with vivid colors, swirling, whirling and shifting as the sun slowly sets on the horizon. They sat on the porch hand in hand, watching the sunset. Gerald curled up in a ball on the porch next to them, peacefully sleeping and Ester playing ball in the front yard. She (meaning Her) giggles consumed with happiness. Tucked away in the Rocky Mountains, their escape from the madness of the world.
The prisoner tries to cry out for help and she snaps back to reality, to the task at hand. She has work to do. This was no time for fantasy, daydreaming or memories.
Slowly, she, meaning Her, takes the old pocket knife to his tongue. He struggles to pull his tongue free. He violently fights to free himself from his restraints. Tied down. Unable to move. His body strapped to the wheelchair. The knife dull and rusty. It has spent years drowning in the rain and covered in the earth. Unhurried she, meaning Her, saws away at the tongue. The agony from the pressure, the pulling, the tearing. It is slow and grueling. It seems never ending. Despite all of this, he remains awake, fully aware of what is happening. The blood trickles down his chin, down his throat, soaking his stained white shirt. A shirt already stained with sweat and food. He is a slob. He smells like week old beer and cigarettes. His appearance is offensive. Unkempt and dirty. His hair greasy and his skin oily. He oozes misery and unhappiness. Life had been hard on him. Lust for life faded from his eyes, years ago.
A grin swept across Her face. The most menacing and evil of grins. Like the grin of a child on Christmas morning, the excitement in her eyes. Terror on his face. Pupils large and fixed. The look of a mouse about ready to eaten by the cat. The moment between two people when they both know what is going to happen, that they can no longer escape fate.
This would be a slow and painful death. All the deaths here would be painful and full of torture. Torture to make up for the years of mistreatment and abuse. Torture to teach the world a lesson. Torture to cure the madness, to ease the pain, the suffering and to make amends.

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