Slow Bleed (167 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (View user info) at 2006-10-08 22:31:03 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
Drip.
The lone drop of water falls from the spigot, swiftly falling towards earth until my forehead intervenes. I blink unconsciously at the unwanted visitor knock-knocking at my door, the blinds swiftly being closed.
"So Dr. Bogolubov, I imagine you're wondering why you're here."
I have seen the Bond movies which are just now being smuggled in from America. While the smooth talking Brit may be able to wittily retort in situations such as this, I know my place. I keep my mouth closed.
Drip.
"Nothing to say?" asks the man in uniform before me. "Well then."
He paces around the table I currently lie on, his boots softly tapping the stone floor with every slow step.
Drip.
"I am curious, are you knowledgeable in the field of arts?" he asks suddenly, continuing his circling.
I turn my head to face him, keep my eyes trained on his as he moves along my horizon. I know not why he asks this, but the question seems harmless enough. I shake my head sideways.
"Haha, this is good!" he chuckles. "We pay you to know science! Not such simple, meaningless things as art."
Drip.
"But there is one work of art I am quite familiar with, and I think it will interest you," he continues. "Artists call the final hours in the life of Christ one of the most suffering events in human history. Here was a man, who wanted to save the world, to help us all...and the very people he preached to-"
Drip.
"-End up sentencing him to death, brutally nailing his wrists and feet to a wooden cross. They cut open his side, and make him wear a crown of thorns. They curse him, mock him, spit in his face. They ruin his life in every aspect. In a sense, they make his life a living hell."
Drip.
He finally stops at my feet, looking up the length of my body as he grasps my ankle.
"I hope you see the irony in this," he speaks with careful inflection. "They call this event the 'Slow Bleed.'"
Smiling at me, he says after a pause, "I am sure I don't need to explain why."
Drip.
"'Now what does this have to do with me?' you ask yourself." He grins, as if to say he is my friend. "Well, Dr. Bogolubov, it seems that members of the KGB have discovered that several scientists in your laboratory have been attempting to find a cure for cancer. Very noble, a true testament to Russian science!" he punctuates.
Drip.
"Normally, we would applaud such humanity, give funding, equipment, medals, the usual things. But we also learned something else in our investigation, that in order to research this cure, those scientists sought help from," he pauses, "America."
Drip.
"I am sure I don't need to explain to you our position on foreign relations," he says, as he begins his shark-like circling once more. "And I am sure I don't need to tell you the punishment for such treason. So here is where you come into play:"
Drip.
"I want names. And until I get those names, you will remain strapped to this table, under silent observation. You will not be fed, bathed, or comforted in any way."
He paces for a few moments, taking a deep breath as he comes to a stop above my head.
Drip.
Looking down upon my face, he calmly explains, "Now getting back to Christ; We are not as barbaric as the Romans, there will be no physical pain. Instead, the tap above you will leak one drop of water every twenty seconds, until you give me the information I want."
"You will know the mental anguish of Christ, feel the blood fall from his wounds to your forehead, know the hatred that comes when the world treats you as if you do not exist," he spits, his face furrowing into intense anger.
Drip.
"I know nothing," I reply, the water falling down my face in mock tears. "This torture will bring you nothing but wasted time and a wet floor."
He chuckles, heading towards the metal door, pulling it open with a piercing squeak.
"We will see," he says, slamming the door behind him.
Drip.
/////
Several hours have passed, since I was left alone, here in this dungeon of a room. I have examined my surroundings carefully, searching for any weakness, any flaw, any exploit I could use to my advantage.
As of yet, I have found nothing.
The walls are constructed of darkened stone, with no windows to tell day from night. Instead, a bare light bulb hangs in the corner of the room nearest my right foot, illuminating the area with the power of a candle. Somewhere, though I am not quite sure where, I am certain there is a videocamera, recording my every move.
I have tried to keep my mind occupied in the meantime, by reciting simple information that I have stored in my head.
"My name is Ilya Bogolubov. I work at Svyatoy Laboratories. I am engaged to Anna Strichnova, and we live in the Nyebnesny Apartments. My favorite color is blue, and I am thirty-nine years old."
This becomes my mantra, and I speak it to an empty room mechanically, over and over. I fear if I were to stop for even just a second, I would allow the eventual wave of madness to come flooding in. And so I repeat, repeat, repeat, until my throat is parched, and I must shift my head to drink of the water that streams down my face.
Drip.
The water falls deftly into my eye, causing me to twitch with surprise. My arm moves up to wipe it free, but it remains pinned to the table, as useful as a cripple's legs.
And that is when I realize I have lost my train of thought, that I have no idea what was the last thing I said. I lie there, trying to gather myself, wracking my brain for something, anything to focus on.
Drip.
More time passes, and still my mind is blank.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
\\\\\
It has been eight hours, thirty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds since I last had a composed-
Drip.
-thought.
I know this because that was the last time I closed my eyes, the last time I took a deep breath, the last time I swore I would not keep time. I have since lost all sense of dignity, of self-worth.
Eighty-five drips ago, I soiled myself, having no means to do so hygienically.
Drip.
That was not the water.
Drip.
That was.
I am hungry, and I am tired. In all, I have been here for at least two days, each soft drip another chip at the wall that keeps my insanity imprisoned.
Nothing can stop it. Humming, singing, thinking, reciting, moving, they have all been vanquished at the hands of the mighty-
Drip.
And before long, you embrace it, work with it, wait for it. If you can't beat it, join it.
Except this force beats you as it joins you, smacks into your skin and is absorbed, a tiny piece of its chaos entering your head. And all you can do is count the seconds, to wait, wait, wait, wait until you know those twenty seconds are almost up, so you can cringe and tighten and just maybe, maybe fend it off for another fortsecond.
Drip.
But you can't.
It just keeps coming and coming and coming, and soon you're so tense and tired that you swear you can't take another one, that you'll scream if just one more tiny little transparent bead hits your forehead.
And then plop! It kisses your brow with the force of a lightening strike, and you want to scream, oh, you want to scream, but you haven't slept in three days, and you just don't have the str- twenty!
Drip.
You need to save your strength, because you know if you do succumb to unconsciousness, they'll just kill you, and if you do lose your mind, they'll just kill you, and no matter what you do, they'll JUST KILL YOU. And the only way, the only way you can possibly save yourself is to talk, but you can't, you can't! You know nothing, and so you must wait, so you must fight, so you must suffer.
Drip.
And now you know what he meant by the Slow Bleed, the agony that is this unearthly torture, how the world hates you, wants nothing more for you to struggle ignored. Except Jesus had it lucky, his pain ended after a few hours! And here you've been for days, DAYS, listening to the same steady
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
DRIP
DRIP
DRIP
DR-
...It stopped.
Why did it stop?
Is the tank out of water?
Will they refill it?
Or have they given up?
Have I won, was I pardoned, are they bored, am I dead,
What is going ON!?
"You bastards!" I howl, bile now swelling in my throat. "Why are you doing this, I know nothing, nothing!"
Drip.
I wait for that familiar sound, any sound, anything at all to break the screaming silence that has penetrated my skull. But nothing comes, nothing comes!
"Twenty seconds! Twenty seconds, you promised!" I growl through gritted teeth, salt now entering the tears that have strewn down my face all this time.
"Turn the water back on!" I cry, straining the links that hold me to the table.
"Turn it on!"
\\\\\
I know not how long I struggled, putting every bit of strength I still possessed into freeing myself from that accursed table.
Without the steady timing of the water, I have lost all track of time, so I do not recall when it was I slipped into feverish sleep.
Upon awakening, I realized my only salvation now was to play their game, even at the hands of fabrication. I can not take one more moment of this ungodly torture.
"I'll talk..." I moan, my speech frail and broken. "Anything you want to hear, just please...make this stop..."
But still there are no sounds, save for the maddening symphony of silence I have composed in my head. No screech of the heavy metal door, no footsteps of guards rushing in, no final taunting words at my defeat.
My eyes roll back as I give another feeble tug at my chains, consciousness beginning to slip from me once more.
"I said I'll talk," I plead again. "I'll talk, just end this please, please!"
The world begins to blur as I finish my sentence, and I know I can stay awake for precious few seconds more.
But still nothing co-
Drip.
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Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2007-06-04 23:39:00 EDT (#)
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