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Default A Wolf in Chains   #1  
Warnings: Disturbing content, though not terribly graphic.



A Wolf in Chains


How long had he been here?

The days were blurring. There was no sun here, no sky. Only cold stone walls, constricting chains and the thick stink of human waste. Even his fellow prisoners were little more than the heavy clack of chains and the occasional gasping scream or wretched howl.

What little light that trickled through the, locked, always locked, iron door painted the room a dirty gray. Heath could see a little, a very little, of the four men with whom he shared this pit. He was but newly arrived but they, poor damned souls, had been here for who knew how many long, dark years. He feared they had lost their senses. One, little more than a boy, surely, often fell into loud screaming fits, thrashing against that which bound him wildly.

Heath pitied the boy, for his senseless cries would draw their caretakers, men armed with sticks they used to beat the boy to silence. He had attempted, when he first arrived to calm him but the poor, mad creature did not seem to understand civilized speech. Trying to reason with the guards was just as useless. Now Heath attempted, as best he could from his place chained to the far wall, to draw the guards attention to himself and away from the boy. Unfortunately, such tactics rarely succeeded.

Of the other three there was little to be said, for one spoke not at all and the others were locked in some private illusion. The elder gentleman in particular often seemed to be conversing with his wife or child, though no such persons were present. He had heard that such things came with age, but never had he seen it before. He wondered what these seemingly innocent people were doing in such a prison as this. He, himself, had little idea as to how he came to this place. The days, weeks, before his imprisonment were vague. This worried him.

He, for reasons unknown, was chained apart from his cellmates. Against the opposite wall, close but too far for physical contact, were two beds. His fellows were chained, in pairs, to a bed barely given enough slack to sit upright, while his chains were worked into the wall. He, gladly, was given enough slack to sit upright and, if he stayed hunched over, to stand. In truth, Heath was thankful for this small mercy, though he doubted it was intended as such, for it gave him a freedom of movement, little though it was, that was denied the others. He, at least, was able to relieve himself a short distance, no more than a foot, unfortunately, from where he slept. His fellows, sadly, were forced to release where they lay. The guards would, on the off occasion, throw buckets of water over the bed and floor but could stir themselves for no more than that. It was positively inhuman.

Heath barely noticed the smell, now, though he remembered it to be quite horrific. In the beginning, he requested, quite reasonably, he'd felt, a privy of some kind and been quickly denied. After his many and various attempts to reason with the men, Heath had given in, briefly, to a spell of anger. A swift beating followed, as well as an indeterminably amount of time, for it's passing was impossible to measure here, without food. How any God-fearing man could treat their fellow human beings like this, he was sure he didn't know.

Darkness cocooned him.

He wondered if this was hell, sometimes, Heath was sure it was. That death had visited him some quiet night and this place was punishment for some terrible sin he committed. Perhaps simply that of being born. He prayed often, he imagined most damned souls did. As his despair deepened, his prayers began to reflect that. He cried for God's forgiveness one moment and cursed his cruelty the next.

Could any hell be worse than this?

Eternal damnation from the Heavenly Father or not, Heath would not stay here forever. Despair did not cripple his mind, but seemed, almost, to sharpen it. So, in the weeks (months?) of his imprisonment he had been watching, waiting and planning.

The time was near.

Though he could not count hours or even days in the fluid darkness between their guards visits, he knew they always returned, for sport if naught else. The more common visitations were disciplinary beatings, or so Heath assumed they were meant to be taken as rather than enjoyment of the suffering of those below them. The guards remained, largely, a mystery. One he had little desire to solve. They had become nothing more than jeering, faceless tormentors, pitiless and inhuman. They made what should have been a kindness, however small, into humiliating games. The food they brought wasn't fit for the rats that crept out, bold and savage, when all was still. Food was life, so he played their games. They forced him to beg like a dog for what they offered him, each time he did so shame wriggled a little deeper than before. The thought of escape was all that kept him from rejecting their food and just giving up on this mockery of a life. He would escape and return to- no, he would not think of the why, only of escape.

A single chance had presented itself to him, the only time he had ever been released from his chains. This had happened to Heath only once during his stay and he lamented this lost opportunity. The clatter of chains released had sung of freedom. He had thought, stupidly, that he was to be released. That the true villain of whatever crime he was accused had been caught. He had been dragged up a set of stairs and down a hallway by one burly guard. There had been windows there. The beauty of the sky, overcast though it had been, had nearly caused him to weep. Heath had gone as slow as he was able with the guard's painful grip and harsh tugging. His eyes had devoured the sight of the outside world. It had been so, so beautiful. He had been shoved into a small stone room, he'd noted the lack of windows with a pain so sharp it stole his breath, and shoved into a tub of cold water. The guard, swearing angrily to himself, had ripped off the rags that covered him and proceeded to scrub. The guard hadn't been satisfied until Heath was bleeding from the harsh scrubbing, but clean for the first time since his imprisonment.

He'd been taken to yet another room, one with windows, and let loose among, what he assumed, were fellow prisoners. A quick glance around the room had revealed, shockingly, a fairly large group of ladies and gentlemen. Finely dressed all and each watching the prisoners as if they were entertainment. Some wandered talking loudly to no one, while others lay curled on the floor, nakedness barely covered by the a sheet similar to the one he'd received to cover himself. Some were dressed in a mockery of fine clothing, while the true gentry looked on and laughed. It had been beyond disgusting. He'd ignored the proceeding as best he could.

It was there an idea hatched. The walk from cell to bathing chamber to parlor he had been in the company of but one guard. A burly man to be sure, but taken by surprise, he might just be able to incapacitate him. And then, then, escape would be within his grasp. In the dark of his cell, Heath smiled and began to hope. With the thought of freedom so close, he allowed himself, for the first time since he was locked away, to think of his reason why. The purpose that drove him to live when life wasn't worth the struggle.

Amelia, his daughter.

She was all he had left of sweet Mary, her mother. Amelia was his everything. His reason for being, his princess and his angel. Heath's heart swelled with joy, even in this dank cell, at the thought of her. How she'd peer up pleadingly through dark bangs when she wanted something. The way she would curl up on his lap when he returned from the shop and ask for a story or song. He'd never been able to deny her anything she desired. He remembered her as a babe, plump and rosy cheeked. When she'd looked at him and smiled, even sick with grief from Mary's passing, he knew he would love her always. He remembered her at seven, gray eyes stern, the gray eyes he had given her, when she declared she was old enough to help her Daddy with cleaning. His sweet, sweet little Amelia.

A scream ripped through his memories like a bird through a spiderweb. Suddenly, he was no longer wrapped in warm memories of love, but here, chained to a wall and trapped. The boy was having another fit. He was here when he should be out there protecting and caring for Amelia. She needed him. He would escape for her. He would get out and find her. The boy's cry became shrill as he trashed against his restraints and then, with a terrible crack, he fell silent. Heath stayed pressed against the wall quietly as the rats crept from their hiding places and the sound of their feeding became a throbbing undercurrent of the dark. His determination hardened under that sound, he would not die here. He would not. He had his plan.

Actions decided, time seemed to slow. It oozed thick and heavy while he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Nightmares crawled from the depths of his mind, pressing close and monstrous.

They always began the same. He was in his house, his cozy little home, he heard Amelia. She was laughing. Heath searched, yet, no matter where he looked, he could never find her. Just as he grew frantic with worry, Amelia screamed and everything shattered around him, became a whirling maelstrom of colors and chaos.

The sounds were the worst.

Crunching, wet and slick. A rip, like meat from a bone. Hoarse, animalistic grunts. A very human moan. A harsh, guttural voice that cooed at how delicious it was. How sweet and tender, that young flesh was always best.

Heath slept very little now and refused to think about his dreams. They were nothing. A sick fantasy born from his worry over Amelia. Nothing more. She was still out there, she was fine, and he would find her.

No matter what.

Food came and begging and beatings, but nothing else. Nothing and nothing and more nothing. His desperation became almost a living thing inside him. It prowled his mind with razor teeth bared, ready always to fall upon him and devour him.

Waiting.

And waiting.

He would go mad if the waiting did no end!

Amelia-Amelia-Amelia-Amelia-Amelia-I-am-coming-Amelia-Amelia-Amelia.

And then, suddenly, it did end.

Disbelief choked him as the chains were released and he was pulled to his feet. Could this truly be happening? Or had he finally lost his wits. The guard yanked him from the room and up a set of stairs. Pain flared sharp and hot through his body. This was happening. A great swell of frantic joy burst in his chest. It almost send him running, almost ruined everything. Heath contained it, barely. He would do this exactly as planned. He would not fail now. Close, so close now. A few more steps, a few more.

Anticipation raked vicious claws down his ribcage. So close, so close. The door, the bathing door. Now. Now! Heath struck with all the fury of his agonizing wait. Luck and surprise were on his side, he was able to rip free of the man's tight grip and, teeth bared in a snarl, he slammed the man's head against the wall.

Breath wheezing painfully through his lungs Heath cast the dazed man only the barest glance and ran. Just as he turned the corner he heard a shout, which drove him all the faster.

Light and light and light. Everything was too bright after his long stay in the dark. The hallways were twisting, sending him in frantic circles. Where was the exit? He had to find it. Another corner and there they were. The tormentors, the guards, just down the hall. A shout! Heath turned, chest screaming, and fled. Another corner, they were there again. Breath coming in pained little pants and heart pounding he slid to a stop, fell and scrambled a short distance on his hands and knees before finding his feet again. Was there no way out!?

A window, a window! Heath slammed against one, hearing pounding footsteps. He beat against the glass, a crack and another! It shattered. Fingers slick with blood Heath gripped the ledge and jumped. Falling only a few feet, he still hit the ground hard and fell. Barely feeling the sharp pain of glass burying themselves in his skin. So tired, he was so tired. They were coming. Trembling and weak, Heath was able to stagger to his feet and flee, lurching and slow away from his prison.

Amelia, Amelia! He was coming. He would get to her. Save her.

Pain!

A flare of white light, he felt his body begin to drop. The light burned and then faded to red, thick and dark. He couldn't move, couldn't move. Black crept around the edges of the red, and, slowly, engulfed it.

A-mel-ia. He needed to---

He woke to darkness and cold stone and the familiar, terribly, horribly familiar feel of manacles on wrists and ankles.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, nononononononono!

The darkness curled around him, it ran long slimy fingers over his body; closer and closer until he could feel its touch in his very mind. Heath jerked backwards, hysterically certain that those fingers would grow barbs, long, sharp and thick. They would rip him apart!

Rough-hewn stone grated harsh against his bare skin as he slid along it, metal clamping cold jaws on his flesh quickly, too quickly. He was trapped. Trapped here, with the dark.

A wild, mindless keening broke the silence. Strangely, the sound eased him. It was the boy. He would start screaming soon and the guards would come. He was not alone with the dark. The boy was-

The boy...

There had been screaming, Heath knew that, then a snap and then the scrabble of tiny claws, the relentless gnashing of teeth. The boy was dead. The keening had not been the dead boy, it had been him.

Calm, he would remain calm. He had nearly escaped, he would try again. He would-

Amelia! He needed to get to her, she was lost and alone and scared. His sweet, sweet Amelia needed him. Sweet, sweet Amelia. Her cheeks rosy with blood. Sweet, sweet-

No! No! No!

Heath thrust his head against the stone behind him, relishing in the red-hot rush of pain that scattered his thoughts. What had he been thinking? Nothing, it was nothing. The darkness was just pressing so close, that was all. He just missed Amelia and worried for her. That was all, that was it.

He was completely alone. There were no fellow prisoners, no faceless tormentors, no bold, hungry rats. Nothing except himself and the darkness. Time did not exist. Hunger existed. Pain existed. The darkness existed.

His dreams existed. His horrible, terrible, sweet, lovely, horrific nightmares. They circled him all the time now. Prowling wolves with glinting fangs and mad, laughing eyes. Awake, asleep, neither mattered anymore. The wolves were always, always there; grinning at him from every direction.

They showed him things, made him want things. They taught him how shrill, terrified screaming was a kind of music. He had heard it before. They showed him the memories. They gave him the first bite of living flesh. It had been so sweet, rich and decadent with blood. Heath groaned low in his throat and growled at the memory. Hunger was a living breathing entity inside him. There were no guards to bring food anymore and cold damp stone offered only very little moisture.

The color red swam in his mind. Rosy cheeks on a lovely little girl. Blood sliding warm and wet down plump, peach skin. Red slicked bone and delicious marrow. The soft slide of dark hair when he had bared her neck for a juicy red mouthful.

Dark hair, gray eyes, the red dress he had given her. His precious, perfect Amelia.

He had-

He had-

He HAD-

HE HAD-

HE HAD-

The wolves laughed and laughed and laughed. They bared blood-stained fangs and laughed. It didn't stop, it didn't stop. The laughter grew louder, deafening. It crawled inside him, in his head and under his skin.

He screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed.



Please, tell me what you think. n.n I hope you enjoyed it~
Clicky pets!



Like dragons they fly
Glory on wings
Like dragons they savage
Fearsome, pretty things.
Old Posted 12-29-2010, 08:41 PM Reply With Quote  
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