As I sit on the chair of wherever I am, I run my tongue along the empty space in my mouth, where one of my bottom front teeth should be. I’ve been spitting blood for the past few hours since I woke up, I don’t remember how I got here, but thinking back it must have been from the fight last night; which now seems to have been more then just a fight, because of the pliers with the dried up blood resting on the table. I don’t remember getting hit in the head in the fight, especially by pliers. Every once in awhile I’ll see a shadow pass in the light coming from outside the door but I can’t yell or scream for help, I’ve recovered enough to know that they’ve drugged me, whoever they are, but it’s only a paralyzing sedative, not the good stuff like acid. You’d figure if they’d leave me all alone in a darkened room, they could have at least given me something to keep entertained.
Give me a noise, anything but this goddamn silence that has been pestering me for the past I-don’t-know how many hours. The shadows outside the door stopped 12,600 seconds ago, I’ve got to keep busy somehow, remember, no acid. A jingle at the door excites me, makes me sit up straight in the chair a little more, in my mind I’m thinking “oh finally…some company”
The door opens and the silhouette of a man fills the light from the hall, he closes the door slowly and locks it behind him. Taking his time, he walks slowly towards the desk, pulling out the chair from the other side far enough away so his face doesn’t show in the dim light. Before he sits down, he pulls out his gun from his shoulder holster and lays it on the table; I can tell it’s a .38 special revolver with which looks to me like an ivory handle.
“Nice gun” I say “but don’t you think it’s a little too small to be intimidating?”
“How do you want to die?”
“Screwing your mother”
“Tsk tsk tsk, now that’s not nice”
He gets up from the seat and walks around the table, his fist backhands me across the face, spraying a mouthful of blood onto my shirt.
“Y’know” I say, twisting my jaw around making sure it’s not broken “I just bought this shirt, it was real expensive, and it doesn’t look well with blood on it”
“Oh c’mon, I think it looks wonderful on you, it is, how fashion people say, in style?”
“Yeh? Blood is the new red?”
“See, now you’re getting it”
He backhands me across my other cheek, just too even things up a bit; he pulls a red handkerchief out of his back pocket to wipe his hands before sitting down again.
“Though” he explains “my all time favourite design is the blood stained curtains, it’s unique in how you can change the pattern each time”
I pretend to yawn.
“Listen here, you’re stalling, and even though I enjoy listening to your psycho ass babble, I’d really appreciate it if you tell me what I’m doing here, if you won’t, then you can go to hell”
“No, Scott, I won’t be going to hell soon, this conversation that we’re having here, is more of a warning, when the time is right, we can go to hell together”