*Heads Up*

*Trigger Warning. Blood and intense suffering*

Chapter 7

Brandon started from the only moment that he remembered as his childhood.

Blood.

It began and ended with that.

Every day. Every night. Every second.

This liquid. This was all that he was. The red. The drip....of crimson. Of power. The blood and the Flame.

A wild energy, crawling inside of him. The energy was him....and yet it wasn’t him.

HE and it were.

There were no words. No emotions. No personality. No Brandon.

It would be....untold years before such simple things as a name or thoughts would be his.

For now blood was him. Flame was all that he knew.

For the Boy these were his earliest memories, moments, and sensations of the world or just where his mind had stopped blocking out reality and suppressing horrors.

Fragile...broken and confused. His mind had eventually opted for the opposite of protection and had shifted instead into acceptance.

He hurt...and he was hungry....all the time, and that was all that there was.

The boys earliest sensations and even his memories consisted entirely of agony and confusion.

The very first touch that he assimilate to was the harsh and unfamiliar glide of fingers across his skin. Poking him. Pinching him...Cutting him.

Invading every private inch, so that the idea of being handled and fondled and caressed became second nature.

Separate from the sensations....were the sounds and the sights.

The first sounds to arise from in Boys mind was the lack of a voice. Screaming.

No sounds seemed able to raise up past his small lips. He didn’t speak...or cry...or even think. He was empty of everything except for pain and energy.

So...he only sounds that rose up in his mind was the wet meaty crunch of flesh being cut from his body.

The only thing left....was the sights.

And all the boy saw was White. A white box. Day in. Day out.

And the White men....

The Men in White...who cut him.

The Men in white did not look like him. No small nubs on the front of their bodies or round split globes on their backs....this would eventually lead the boy to realize that he was naked, while the nameless people in the box with him....were wearing some kind of long, flowing white cloth with giant hoods.

But...there was something else about the Men in White that set them apart from the boy.

Their hands glowed black with swirling lights.

The Men in White ran a hand down the length of his chest. His hand glowed, but it glowed with a black light. Like his hand was covered in a swarm of flies. But it was light. Energy. It crackled, and danced across his nameless hands. Awkward ugly broken shapes floated across his palms, dancing in the dark light. All of the men in white had hands that glowed like this.

All of them used the black light to bleed him.

The men in white ran the black lights on their hands across the boy’s body

Blood ran in rivulets. Blood ran in sheets as his veins were split open. As his muscles were stripped bare and his scalp was peeled away, releasing a warm gush of fluids across his face and chin.

Next his finger nails were ripped out...and placed in clear packs that crinkled and cracked beneath the proficient movements of the men in white.

Finally, the Men in White tilted back his head and inserted their fingers into the caverns of his eyes.

Intense pain tore across the boys mind...as the men...slowly grasped his eyes with their fingers, and ripped the globes from his face.

More blood gushed and the soft crinkle of a bag announced that the boy’s eyes had joined the other pieces that had been taken from him.

After this....the boy was left to bleed.

But....not to die....

Death could not claim one such as him....