Pressure

Author’s Note: I’ve decided on a book cover for RED FIST finally! I will be sharing it sometime soon before I launch. I have another wonderful short story below! Have a great day! And thank you for following or even passing by this blog site

What is this? This unreal place of darkness. I can see nothing but obscurity. Pitch blackness and the sound of absolute nothingness. I am in a whole other dimension, suspended in levels of black. The steady thump of my heartbeat can be heard all around me, and my ears begin to ring at the repetitive sound. I stay there, in place, frozen like a dead carcass in a meat factory. I can’t even tell how much time has passed. Time seems to be non-existent here. Seconds. Minutes, maybe hours go by when finally I feel something. I feel pain, and a little part inside of me grows excited. My whole being reacts joyfully, vibrating, and then the pain comes hard, like, I feel as if I just got smacked by a car, but I didn’t go unconscious. My skins burns, and my bones throb. The blood in me seems to struggle and twist away from my limbs. This uncanny pressure builds in my chest. I am going to go boom, a human bomb, and obliterate into oblivion. The pressure escalates and builds and grows and rises and swarms through me until my head feels so hot, the dark world around me turns white, and I hear voices.

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet.”

“We need the information from him, wake him!”

I smile, I must have passed out. Fresh blood leaks from lips as my skin cracks. I snicker, and someone behind grabs the back of my head.

“I see you’re up,” the assailant whispers.

I was captured on my mission. That’s right. Memories slowly start to float back into my melting brain. Fucking Russians were better than I thought. The fingers that grip the back of my head tighten.

“Speak, American! You know what I want to hear,” the accent on my capturer is thick, and I almost die laughing.

“Speak!!!”

“Eat my shit, Shitovich,” I wheeze out. They’ve been doing a number on me. I don’t know what time it is. Or where I’m at. The last thing I remember is being strapped to a chair, with a pair of pliers to my fingers. My eyes dart around, and there, lying next to me is my pinky finger. Goddamn!

“It’s been two days, he’s useless. We kill him?”

“No!”

All this pressure. All this blood. Blood is pressure. But I can take it. Take all my blood. You took something from me, and I really don’t have much to live for anyway, so that’s why I’m a spy. I’ll take all your time until I rot.

“Darokov, take his right hand.”

I struggle under, what I’m guessing is this large man’s grip and weight. He’s sitting on my back. The chair I had been sitting in seems to have been smashed a long time ago.

“ARGHHHHH!!!!” I resist and struggle.

“Still got some fight left in you, eh?” Darokov asks.

My head rises and then is slammed down into the floor, splinters digging into my face. More blood gushes out of my nose. Darokov bashes my face against the floor two more times until I stop moving. That dizzy feeling is coming back. That pressure is riding my shoulders, literally and figuratively. Another ugly Russian kneels down with a hatchet. I can’t do anything. My face is stuck on its side, my eyes only able to watch my right hand tremble. The giant shit stick on my back is holding my arms down, and I can only scream in silent horror as the hatchet slices through the air in a beautiful, violent arc and makes contact with my wrist. I am shocked. Blood squirts from my limb, all over the man, all over the floor. I watch until the world begins to return to that place. That familiar, cold, dark place. That place with nothing, but hushed thoughts and quiet pressure.