Post by Nadir on Sept 15, 2020 18:56:42 GMT -5
“Greetings”.
That’s all that’s been said to you. Nothing else. Since then the person in the mask has sat in silence, his only action being the occasional balling and relaxing of his fists. The only sound in the room is the person’s breathing, which sounds more like a muffled growl. The only lights in the room are a single, dull light in a far off corner, a single candle, which sits on a table a few feet away and the single light that burns over your head. Everything else is smothered in darkness.
You hadn’t consciously noticed the overhead light before now. Now that you have, all that you can focus on is how hot it is under it. If the person sitting in front of you was under it, he’d probably be really uncomfortable right now given his all black outfit, heavy duster included. He, at least you assume it’s a he based on the single word that was said, appears to be perfectly fine sitting just beyond the edge of the light.
You have so many questions to ask and they dance in your brain like fish in the ocean. But you can’t ask them because of the gag.
The infernal gag.
The fibrous saw blade.
As if the zip ties lacerating your wrists weren’t torture enough.
You almost get yourself lost in those thoughts when you hear a door close. A door that you don't remember hearing open. You go to turn your head towards it, but you’re stopped by the masked man when he forcefully and violently lashes out and grabs a handful of your hair. You’d call the act hateful, but you can’t imagine why he’d hate you.
Of course, you can't imagine why any of this is, so why would one random and unprovoked act of hostility be any different?
You wince as his vice-like grip snatches some of the hair from your head. You can feel it ripping out as disparate strands protrude from between his black gloved fingers.
You swear that you hear a laugh come from under his mask.
“It would be polite..."
The voice that says it, which comes to you from your left, drips with snide amusement.
"If you’d not anger my cohort."
A figure materializes out of the darkness and stops at the edge of the light. He stops just over the right shoulder of the one in the demon mask. He slowly slides a pair of sunglasses from his eyes and hangs them from the collar of his shirt, then smiles.
There's no reassurance to be found in it.
That’s all that’s been said to you. Nothing else. Since then the person in the mask has sat in silence, his only action being the occasional balling and relaxing of his fists. The only sound in the room is the person’s breathing, which sounds more like a muffled growl. The only lights in the room are a single, dull light in a far off corner, a single candle, which sits on a table a few feet away and the single light that burns over your head. Everything else is smothered in darkness.
You hadn’t consciously noticed the overhead light before now. Now that you have, all that you can focus on is how hot it is under it. If the person sitting in front of you was under it, he’d probably be really uncomfortable right now given his all black outfit, heavy duster included. He, at least you assume it’s a he based on the single word that was said, appears to be perfectly fine sitting just beyond the edge of the light.
You have so many questions to ask and they dance in your brain like fish in the ocean. But you can’t ask them because of the gag.
The infernal gag.
The fibrous saw blade.
As if the zip ties lacerating your wrists weren’t torture enough.
You almost get yourself lost in those thoughts when you hear a door close. A door that you don't remember hearing open. You go to turn your head towards it, but you’re stopped by the masked man when he forcefully and violently lashes out and grabs a handful of your hair. You’d call the act hateful, but you can’t imagine why he’d hate you.
Of course, you can't imagine why any of this is, so why would one random and unprovoked act of hostility be any different?
You wince as his vice-like grip snatches some of the hair from your head. You can feel it ripping out as disparate strands protrude from between his black gloved fingers.
You swear that you hear a laugh come from under his mask.
“It would be polite..."
The voice that says it, which comes to you from your left, drips with snide amusement.
"If you’d not anger my cohort."
A figure materializes out of the darkness and stops at the edge of the light. He stops just over the right shoulder of the one in the demon mask. He slowly slides a pair of sunglasses from his eyes and hangs them from the collar of his shirt, then smiles.
There's no reassurance to be found in it.