The CellMature

"A-Anna?" he stammered cautiously.

"The child who wants to rule the world. What do you know of her?" Melantha asked again, exercising her little patience.

"Nobody knows where she is. Ever. She just turns up and kills you dead," he muttered.

"But you know her location."

"No-"

"You're lying!" she screeched at him. Her long fingers curled in fury and impatience.

"Nobody knows-"

"You're her uncle! I've spent 3 months tracking you down! Now tell me!" she screamed.

"No!" he shouted, and then his face went slack. Had he just brought about his own death, by angering her?

"Take him back to his cell," she said smoothly, still staring at Thurman. Then a sadistic smile appeared. "And let the girls out."

The guard holding Thurman chuckled and dragged the man from the room. Thurman Nestoruk was terrified now, what he'd felt before was mere fear compared to the feeling he now had. The way the guard had chuckled... It had been dark and twisted. The girls were dangerous, Thurman guessed that. They were another means for his torture.

He glanced back at Melantha Thunders, not that he knew her name. Her smile was a smirk. It was like the laugh of the guard, twisted and dark. Her eyes glittered with excitement, perhaps the excitement of falling asleep to his screams once more. She'd get him to talk, she was determined to.

We'll follow Thurman Nestoruk now. His bloody stump of a leg dragged along the floor, leaving a trail. It hurt him so much he wanted to scream. But he needed to save his screams for the girls. He didn't know who or what they were, but they were to be feared.

His eyes were blank as he looked but didn't see. The guard threw him into the cell and slammed the door. Thurman heard the deadbolt slid shut, locking him in. He looked around the familiar surroundings. He'd been here for a week, but time had passed unnoticed. It felt like weeks since he'd been shoved in here from the car he'd been brought in. It had been a Mercedes S Class. He used to have one before his first business went under.

But enough of Thurman's life. The cell was lit solely by a bare bulb that hung from the ceiling, cobwebs that had long been there were dusty themselves. The light was left on all the time, making it hard for him to sleep. The walls had once been white or cream perhaps. But now they were painted red with the blood of men long dead. In some parts it was a deep brown, showing the age of the life-blood spilled by the girl who took so much pleasure in the pain and suffering of others. Suffering had weaved her life, setting her on a path she could no longer stray from.

The walls were burnt in places. They were black and in one corner there was a human shape on the wall inside the black. Thurman shivered. He was grateful they'd not done that to him, not yet anyway. But they didn't want to kill him, he knew that, they wanted information: the whereabouts of his niece. Indeed he knew her location. Or, rather, whereshemight be. Anna was unpredictable at the best of times, but now that she had the rest of the military after her... Who knew?

The floors of the cell were the same as the walls, except Thurman's own blood pooled in places. It was thick in places, becoming solid, and getting there in other places. He retched, but there was nothing to vomit, he hadn't eaten in days - but the hunger was no longer there, he couldn't feel it anymore.

For the second time in two days, the hatch in the wall slid open and three girls stepped out.

The End

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