One, two, three. Eins, zwei, drei. Pain isn’t like a waltz but the rhythm’s close enough. So he kept count and tapped his toes. It only proved further irritation for his captors. Two of them take turns hitting his outstretched leg. The sticks splinter and fracture just a short time before Niklas can feel his leg do the same.

And he loves (hate, hate, hate) it. The sound registers more than the feeling, which should really concern him. But hours (days, nights, years) ago he was worse off. His left arm nothing more than shards, dust and strings of flesh crushed underneath the motorcycle (big and black and powerful). Only splintered memories (crack!) remain, dulled and dirtied from what he once knew.

(“Stop stepping on my toes.”)

Then they stop, slowly (one, two, three. Eins, zwei, drei), the last man smashing the stick into the side of his face. Through the haze of drugs (sodium thiopental, valium, three concussions) it’s only another twinge to the dulled pain (scalding, burning, stinging). Drop in a bucket. Drip, drip, drop.

(“Just let me lead.”)

They’re talking again (shriek, shriek, screeeeaaaaam). Niklas can do little more than watch their lips move in one long blur of an unfamiliar tongue. The needle (stabby, stabby, ow) was once more retrieved and Niklas forces himself to remember the beat. They inject out of time and he frowns, trying to bat at them and only succeeding in rattling the chains attached to his shackles (Hello Ebenezer…).

They wait.

He dances amongst the shadows with his eyes.

Fine leather shoes repelling all the dirt and grime. The cell cannot touch the suit. Pristine. White. Perfect. And perfectly in sync.

One, two, three. Eins, zwei, drei. Un, deux, trios. Yi, er, san. Step, step, step. Bleed, bleed, bleed. Pain, pain, pain. Bleed, step, pain. One, deux, drei. Step, pain, bleed. And he didn’t realize when his lips began to move or words garbled forth in the same incoherent torrent he was forced to deal with inside his head.

One, two, three. Eins, zwei, drei.

Another blow to the face is dealt. A split lip and more blood in his mouth but he can’t stop. One, three, die. Wake, step, bleed. Beat, beat, still. Breathe, breath, stop. That also earns a blow. He can’t die, he’s no good to them dead.

“If other arm keep, you talk!” Even when his throat bleeds Niklas keeps laughing. Laugh, laugh, yell. Hurt, hurt, pain. The music that wasn’t roars louder in his ears. To spite the pain he taps one foot, then the other. It hurts. Hurts like he’s never felt pain before and can’t quite register (BANG!) the feeling.

“Sprecht jetzt!” The silhouette’s accent in less horrid in German, but Niklas can still only blink blearily at him and laugh. Kill, love, die. Hate, die, love. Laugh, laugh, kill. Quick sure steps (faster, schnell!), falter and falter till the floor is crumbling beneath him and Niklas finds himself on his feet.

His captors (prey) have moved further away from him now. Startled (scared) expressions marring their faces. Two already reaching for their weapons (sticks, broom sticks like witches) and Niklas laughed again. Die, die live… and the music skips a beat as the world tilts.

As his knees buckled, Niklas swung to the side, connecting to the cement wall (cold) with a sharp slap. There was only one shackle. Only one arm (Crash!) but he doesn’t recall. His shoulder can tell no more than that. Stapled, swollen and red (useless) but there and that’s something at least.

They took his arm (shards, dust, mush).

Niklas slumped against the wall, cheek pressed flush against the cold cement. Listening. Tap, tap, tap. One, zwei, trios. Like jackals to a freshly abandoned kill, they slunk closer. Close enough that he can feel them against his back without turning, though they don’t touch him. Close, come, close.

Then he snapped.

Using the wall for leverage Niklas lashed out with his leg, catching the first guard in the knee. It bent backward with a wet pop and he screamed.

The other two guards paused long enough for Niklas to kick himself to his feet once more. A high kick caught the farther of the two in the face and whilst he stumbled backward, clutching his bloodied and broken nose, Niklas kicked the other nearer captor. The chain proved a decent strangulation device. Or perhaps the man’s neck snapped. It was hard to say.

The body fell limply, the noise of impact echoing the small room (hello, hello, hello). The third man, the only alive man, didn’t stick around for the fight. He bolted and Niklas watched curiously as he did so. Drops of blood laying in his wake.

The dead body was kicked away as Niklas once more settled himself on the floor. His foot tapping along.

One, two, three. Eins, zwei, drei. Live, die, kill.