Chapter 3 Detention

Defiled

Crack. 

The back of my head strikes the ground causing all existence to spin on an axis. That sickening sound coupled with the cruel impact jolts me back to whatever this is, be it a fevered dream or reality? No, the pain lets me know this is all too real. Unable to wince or cry out from the excruciating tightness of my charred and blistered corpse’s skin, my body responds with an involuntary spasm.  

Staying untouched and alone through the ages, years, days, or hours, I can’t tell. Time has no meaning anymore. The pain ebbs away enough for thought to cycle through my head, enough to make me question what happened?

The insane moment to ask where I am to the nothing beyond. My red-headed companion had dropped me onto the ground. No, not the ground, the strange bodily awareness I have tells me that my legs are crooked at the knee and dangling although I cannot feel or move them. There is elevation. I must be on a table or something.

Yes, the table tells me through haunted feelings about horrible mistreatment of its life cut short. Even in death, others die upon it. My self-worries dissolve into pity for the table which I lay discarded on.

Approaching footsteps draw me back from the crazed reality of the talking wood, to the horrible reality of this body. Opening my eyelids provides no relief. This room is not very bright. There is only a comfortable gloom and an ominously terrifying shadowy shape. What is that? A demon? Some crazed hell-spawn?

The narrow face hovers near my own. The creature’s hot breath has got to be near the worst smell experienced here. …And that is saying a lot. Is the imp trying to kiss or bite me? It’s devouring my life force? Regardless of this devil’s intentions, I want nothing of them.

The red-headed demon barks orders causing my pupils to shift in that direction. Wow! My eyeballs are now listening to me! That's great! It’s a small but important victory. 

A raspy voice pours from the foul-breathed imp, engulfing my face in a funky miasma. How could I even pretend to understand the wretched sounds vomited by this creature? Yet, for some strange reason, there seems to be something familiar about the sounds. It’s like the words start dancing in my mind, then joining together to form quasi-coherent thoughts. Something has changed but I don’t know what it is. 

The light level in this room wavers as if candles or torches were lighting it. The smell of smoke doesn’t stand a chance of overtaking the foulness of the air. The dank atmosphere isn’t immediately life-threatening, but it is madly uncomfortable. The ill-defined, pointy face moves out of view accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. 

In a breath, the owner of the face has gone. The next breath brings more gloom. His immediate smell was covering up the underlying odor of this place. There is an unmistakable stench of rotting flesh, body odor, and feces. Wherever I am, this wretched place punishes my imagination and nostrils. The building itself screams unheard horrors into my mind. It's too real and too much to focus on.

They must think I am dead so they’re disposing of me in the sewers. Or inside some festering tomb? Are they wrong? I could very well be dead. Is this is what happens when we die? We consciously rot in a tomb and can do nothing but feel the pain. This must be hell. At least I have not gained the appetite for brains, yet.

Distant moans and groans accompanied by the occasional wail tell that this is no solitary hell. I am jealous, for they, at the very least, have the luxury of moaning. 

The anger felt from the cruel mistreatment quickly changes back to fear. A withered form moves into view. In my woe, I didn’t even hear it approach. Is it the same creature from before? Does that even matter? It hovers over my face and then makes a few eager grunts. The hellish creature’s vague image wiggles, and I can’t tell what the hell it is doing. It sounds like it is barking and chuckling. It utters something else in its wretched tones before fading out of view and leaving me even more terrified and confused. 

 I am under the vague impression that it is reporting my dying condition to the red demon, but how would I know this? Somehow, the language continues to mold into shape within my mind. It's as if invisible hands rearrange the letters and sounds into comprehension. It sounds so much more familiar. It’s like something from an old fantasy movie or a nearly forgotten dream.

A pair of those creepy hands grab the lapel of my tattered lab coat. In several rough and jerking motions, they pull and tug, manipulating my arms and contorting my body until the charred thing is ripped away, bringing singed flesh with it. I can hear the creature sniffing the ragged coat, or me. How revolting.  My disgust and anger mirror the place that I am in.

Justifying the hatred, isn’t it natural to hate the demons that torment you? What is it doing with my stuff? What is it going to do to me? Hopelessly helpless, I can only wait for what comes next while anticipating the worst.  

This new fear births seething hatred which burns within my heart. After unknown amounts of undisturbed time, the hatred and the pain throbbing in my head mellows to a dull ache. The incessant wailings composing the background soundtrack are occasionally interrupted by a slimy shout and a loud crack. I imagine some goat demon cracking a whip on tortured souls who are bound to a wall. After enough time, this too is dismissed from my mind as distant and unimportant. Abandoning all hope, I turn inward and reflect.

There is so much more that I wanted with life. A new sensation called despair. Wetness forms in the corner of my left eye, a single tear silently screams to an uncaring reality. No one seeing that tear would care. Why would they? Hell’s host can have no pity on the damned.

Clop, clop, clop.

That sound again. Boots, or cloven feet?

Yearning and grasping for a moment of clarity. There is nothing. Nothing to be had, and I get exactly that in return.

Snotty feeling stubs scratch and brush against my belly as they grab onto the bottom of my frayed shirt, easily jerking it up and over my head.

Falling back against the wooden table, the back of my head cruelly smashes down causing stars to burst before my eyes. The nearly forgotten painful dazed feelings return. How many more concussions can this frail corpse withstand before releasing its hold on me? I am lost in the pain. I’m completely at this monster’s mercy.

Absolute terror.  

Tugging.  

What is happening now?

The tattered remnants of stretch-denim pants are ripped away. Silently screaming in horror and rage. In disdain, this body finally offers a few small convulsions.

Tight pressure squeezes my arms. The wretched creature has me in its grasp. The world turns over and the air is knocked from my lungs as the wretch flips me onto my stomach.  

I am pathetic. Powerless to resist, I can do nothing but anticipate the approaching violation from which there is no salvation.