A/N: I own it, so you don't get to take it.
A thousand words of pure despair for your reading pleasure.

The Faces of Despair

by Xythe Twistvoid

A light bulb that hung from the ceiling with wires swung like a pendulum, bringing light to one side and dragging it to another. A noise emanated from its swing, creaking, creaking and more creaking. Along with the steady drip of gas down his body and the ticking of the dirty old clock in front of him, it was all the sound that he could hear.

Better than silence, at least.

It was dim, torturously dim. Rivier could still see the walls and the smears of blood, both fresh and dried right in front of him but it was darkened by the lack of light. When he stared long enough, the smears would resemble faces as though the ghosts lived in the walls and took their shape by the crimson liquid as if it was their flesh. Closing his eyes was even worse.

He trembled and released a soft groan. It could have been from the cold, for he was stripped of clothing. It could have been from the small pangs of pain somewhere deep in his body from the drugs and the subtle sting on his skin, threatening to grow even stronger as the minutes passed.

Or it could have been fear.

Rivier’s eyes were heavy, his mind was in a whirl sickened with too much thoughts. It hurt and because it hurt he was afraid and because he was afraid, the more than he wanted to-

A surge of pain shot through his body. It was searing but only from the central points in his body as though flesh and bone would tear apart. Rivier cried out, but the merciless gag disallowed any sound but a muffled plea and he couldn’t struggle to at least find a comfortable position for fear of toppling over the clumsily made chair that would send him lying down on the glass fragments littered around the floor.

When it was over, fresh tears streaked his eyes as he tried to gather breath. It wasn’t enough with his mouth bound shut and the scent of gas only made his head spin even further. His chest squeezed in the need for air, more pain, and he inhaled, but stopped midway.

He was getting too dizzy from everything. Why was this happening?

He released a trembling sigh. It was one of tiredness, of defeat. It didn’t matter, there was no hope. He wasn’t going to get out of this alive. Rivier knew he wouldn’t even leave this room of despair. He would be part of the blood on the walls soon, one of the faces that pitied anyone unfortunate enough to be caught and held in this wretched room. He would die and he would be anchored here as a restless ghost.

A small cry left him when he thought of everything he would leave behind. Would he remember them when he haunted those who will die here after he did?

Then the door opened, letting in more light for a brief moment. Footsteps were announced by the crunching of glass, making more shards for him to fall into. A hand gripped his hair and pulled him back. The new pain made him alert once more.

A blur of faces watched him. They were unlike the ones that stared at him through the walls, bemoaning his situation, but he found he was haunted by them too. Hands gripped his shoulders, putting his chair to a complete balance. The movements were rough and it made him even dizzier.

“Who was it?”

“Who planned it?”

“Who gave them to you?”

“Maybe you did it?”

“Well?”

The questions rang in his mind and it smashed through his consciousness like a bottle to the head, a bottle for every question. Rivier felt his head roll, he was ready to give, he was ready to say it, but he could no longer find the words to. Where was he?

He heard a sandpaper friction and the sputter of a matchstick and then saw the blur of yellow and blue threatening to send him to flames in less than a split second. The gas on him was thin; he knew death would not be quick.

Another sound reached him. The soft clicks of a revolver. Rivier felt the smooth and cold tip of a hollow cylinder on his temple. It was in its own way a sweet promise of salvation. If only they would give it to him.

He groaned and tipped his head back, feebly pointing to his gag with his ruined fingers. He was ready to talk.

A dagger slipped underneath the filthy cloth and sliced through it along with his cheek. He felt the clean slice sting and the warm blood that flowed from it.

He gasped for breath as he spoke, “It’s-“ he began, but was cut off as yet another pain shot through him, far more excruciating than the first. He screamed and writhed and struggled as much as he could as if that would rid him of the pain. The effects of the drug wasn’t tearing him apart this time, it was tearing him from the inside and clawing out like an animal in a ruthless carnage. He felt the hands steadying him roughly, a tiny favor for all the things they’ve done to him.

When the drugs were done for the meantime, his voice was small but he told them everything they needed to know in short words. Speaking brought him even further difficulty but the promise of a quick and clean death kept him going. In just a few more words it was going to end.

When he was done, he hung his head. He sold his friends for a merciful death, but the pain that wracked him could not even give him room for shame.

“Please,” he said with the last drop of strength he had left in him, begging to the blurry face he had spoken to and let his eyes close. He was tired, so very tired.

The cold barrel of the revolver left his temple.

Disturbed, he raised his head and squinted. Again he heard the sandpaper friction, the sputter of the matchstick. His eyes widened as he tried to push himself back, but the hands that held him were gone. He fell back; saw the blue and yellow blur coming towards him.

The scorching embrace of fire wrapped mercilessly around him and the faces that haunted him were not those on the bloody wall, but within the colors of red, yellow and orange; the faces of rage. It was an indescribable, suffocating pain that his dying screams and moans could not even begin to describe. And it was long- too long before everything finally became a peaceful, black.

Goodbye.