VICTORY
"Only reason you matter right now is because I feel like fucking you up and then fucking you. How does that feel, Will Graham?"
It feels fucking horrible is how it feels. Worse than pain is the knowledge of pain, its inescapable pointlessness, stretching out into eternity.
"Eternity's a tough concept."
"You'll get used to it. Probably a lot sooner than everything else."
All that agony, all that horror, laid out behind in memory and before in imagination-- God, for a shitty imagination right now-- filling every moment, every breath, until the only thing left to do is... give up. Let it go. No way out. Accept it.
"Do what you want and get it over with."
But that's a way out, in a sense, and Chainsaw won't let that happen. He loves the reaction too much. To stop reacting is to invite more creative provocations.
"Aw, I took all the fight out of you. That's no good. Hey. Hey, Will. Will. You listening?"
Of course. What the hell else is there to listen to? No. Don't engage, don't-- fuck. Fuck. Damn you, Chainsaw, you fucking sick son of a bitch.
"Good. I'll make you a deal. If you can make it to the door? I'll let you go. Cross my heart, hope to cry, stick a needle in your eye."
It gets worse, too. It always gets worse. Chainsaw's ability to make things get worse is near-miraculous. At the first glimmer of hope that he might actually have run out of power tools, the bastard pulls out-- what the fuck is that, a nailgun? Fuck. Nor is that the end of it; who knows how many thousands of years this son of a bitch has had to perfect his art, but he's damn well not going to run out of inspiration soon, that's for sure.
"Oh no, there's no getting it over with this time. No time limits. Nothing but you..."
The gentle moments are the worst. When he pauses, sets down his latest instrument of pain, and his hand or his lips or his cheek find their way to some unmarred patch of skin. The softest of brushes, like a man caressing his fragile lover. Or his fragile pet. Hope is worn too thin too quickly by this twisted friction. It gets so even tenderness is a form of torture; is Chainsaw out to ruin everything?
"...And me."
Yes. Yes he is.
"The things I would do to you if I had the chance."
It's almost a surprise when it finally happens. Too much build-up; the suspense pulled so taut it snapped. It's as though Chainsaw made a mistake-- but he didn't. He never fucking does. Like everything else, this is planned. Engineered. Maximum anguish for minimum effort, like a fucking economic reform of torture. Right through anticipation and out the other side, until it's an honest shock to hear it, warm breath whispering sick promise in a trembling sweat-streaked ear.
"And I want you to like it."
Almost a surprise. Almost meaningless, too, endless hours of torture having wrung out the capacity for terror until there's hardly anything left but a smear of cold despair. But Chainsaw's careful, especially after that first mistake. He hates it when his victims just give up; that's clear as day. He delights in finding new ways to--
"It's no fun if you invite me, though."
Shit. The realization is as abrupt and painful as a bullet to the chest. (The memory triggers a brief cascade, easily ignored; if nothing else, this is good practice for shoving old pain aside. In favour of new pain, when necessary.) Chainsaw is speaking; the words aren't important. The tone is. Self-satisfied amusement, as he leans in for a forceful kiss, and the order-- it can't be-- don't let it--
"It's going to be bad, huh."
Don't resist. Good. Control can't order lust. And resistance isn't the plan. Wait for it. Wait for it. As his lips descend again, rise up to meet them. Ignore pain. Ignore fear. Ignore missing limbs and the sharp bright memory of same. Is this what Eights feels like?
"And you'd take it."
"In a heartbeat."
"I can't make you want me, you know," says Chainsaw in a breathless mocking murmur when he finally breaks for air, his hands sliding down over raw and bloody flesh. "But it looks like you've got that covered all by yourself, huh, Willy."
Wait for it. Look him in the eye. Let the smile show, through agony and terror, a smirk of pure triumph.
"I know."
Watch him realize, and listen to the frustrated growl as he stands, heading for the wall. For his precious chainsaws. Pissing a torturer off like this has got to be the dumbest stunt anyone Downside has ever pulled, and it doesn't matter. Chainsaw is going to take bloody revenge for this over and over, and it doesn't matter.
However much it hurts, however much it's going to hurt, however much brutal payment he's going to extract: right here, right now, this is victory, and the memory will never fade.
Comments (0)
You don't have permission to comment on this page.