The Devil Man

I wake up, violently gasping for air. I try to look around, finding myself surrounded by inescapable darkness. Slowly, I begin to gain an increased awareness of my surroundings, as my senses trickled back to me one by one. Soft humming reaches my ears, though unable to pinpoint the source; It seems to be coming from every direction. I can barely smell anything, save for the faint scent of what I can best describe as metallic condensation My tongue offers nothing in regards to taste; Searching around the cracks of my parched mouth for any signs of moisture. Lastly, I finally realize why I'm surrounded by darkness; I can feel a mask or a bag of some sort resting against my face, covering my eyes. I attempt to reach up and remove it, only to find that my hands won't budge an inch. As i continue to struggle and strain, i feel a cold, textured material pressing against my skin, obviously i am bound down. All of this attempted movement has caused my weight to shift under me all at once along a rigid structure. A chair, most likely a metal one. My wrists no doubt bound to its arms.

I call out for help as loud as my dry throat will allow, each cry more difficult to achieve than the last. The only response I get is the same humming that has been filling my ears. I try to get my bearings and figure things out, feeling around with what little freedom of movement I have left with my hands. The clinking sound i hear when i attempt any sort of movement with my arms leads me to believe that chain links are what's holding them down. I have the same findings when I try to move my legs, as I can hear the strumming of my chain bindings against the chair i'm bound to, creating the sound that only metal rubbing on metal can produce. In an act of desperation and anger, I forcefully and spastically tug and strain with all my might to slide my hands out from the chain bindings to no avail.

Panic begins to grip me as i breathe harder and my heart pounds in my ears. Where am I? How did I get here? It feels like I am just breathing the same hot, stale breath over and over again. My extremities begin to feel like pins and needles as I grow light headed from the lack of proper oxygen. I try my best to calm myself, breathing deeply and slowly to avoid passing out. Lord knows where I'd wake up, correction, IF I'd wake up if I wasn't able to get a hold of myself now.. I'm nearly in control of my breathing when loud slamming sound makes me jump, my limbs catching painfully against the chains. The sound of footsteps gradually gets louder as source approaches me, nearly setting me into a panic. The bag is roughly yanked from my head, leaving me momentarily blinded by the bright light surrounding my eyes.

. Struggling to see, i squint against the harsh glare, trying to quickly scan the location for any familiarities, but nothing is recognizable. Suddenly my vision jolts as I feel a fist strike across my face. I groggily search for my attacker as blurred shapes and colors gradually transform back into something resembling vision. My still blurry gaze swings around for a few seconds before settling on a figure with its back to me; its attention apparently occupied by a table strewn with various objects. My face still throbbing with dull pain, I scream obscenities at this figure.

The figure, a man, slowly turns toward me, seemingly indifferent in regards to my remarks. I study his face, scanning my memories, trying to place if I have seen him before. His eyes, deep blue and glassy, appearing as if to be completely soulless. Cheekbones high and wide, along with his hatchet-like nose almost shadows the remainder of his face. Clean shaven, freshly shaven even, with short black hair; Slicked back with enough gel that I can clearly see the reflection of the fluorescent lights hanging from the dark void served as the room's ceiling. A scar in the shape of an inverted cross along the right side of his slightly tan skinned neck. It appears wet, raw; As if it has never been allowed to heal properly. As his eyes settled on me, an unsettlingly self-indulgent smile creeped across thin lips; A smile of enjoyment.

He rolls up the sleeves of his white button-up shirt, reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a box of cigarettes and a book of matches. He lights one up, flicks the used match off to the side, and leans against one of the tables facing me. His stance, despite the brightly lit fluorescent tubes, casts a shadow across his face. He takes a long drag, the soft glow of the lit cigarette dimly reveals his face. Smoke rolls out of his perverse, unnerving smile looking as if he was the devil himself. I try to speak to him, to reason with him, but i get nothing in return. I grow frustrated and my vocabulary is reduced to insults. No change. No matter what I say to him, whether it be pleading to let me go, or screaming every name in the book at him. He never responds. He never moves an inch. He just wears that same, horrid, too-wide smile.

Nearing the end of his cigarette, he casually pushes himself off the table and walks towards me. He takes one final drag before leaning in and pressing the lit cigarette into my forearm. I scream loudly, writhing against my restraints, trying to wiggle my arm out from under the cigarette. He grabs it and holds it down, looking deeply into my eyes all the while. Gauging the reaction, drinking in the suffering that he has caused.I can feel the flesh searing; My eyes are drawn inexorably towards my arm. After an interminable amount of time, he lifts the cigarette and i can tear my eyes away to look at him. I can only imagine he has either gotten enough of a reaction from me with the burning of my flesh or worse, has simply grown bored with this particular avenue of torture.

I summon the courage to look down at my arm, the dark disc of burnt flesh still tender from the embers. I try to force the pain out of my mind. I close my eyes and concentrate on subsiding the pain. I block everything else out, and it starts to fade. Suddenly and inexplicably,the pain comes back full force and more, this time with overpowering heat. Upon opening my eyes the only thing I can focus on is the fire. Fire covering my arms and legs. I try to figure out how this happened, but my brain can't focus on anything other than the pain. Thoughts not fully actualizing, only receiving bits and pieces. Flashes of flesh and skin melting under the scorching heat. The unmistakable smell of burnt meat. Seeing the skin on my arms blacken and crack in the intense heat, fat tissue starting to melt and drip down onto the arms of the chair. The only thing I can hear over the sound of my own screaming is the sizzling and bubbling of my ever disfiguring arms. I look forward and through the fire I see only him. Staring directly at me. Into my soul. Then I see nothing, blackness.

I awake in class and quickly jump out of my seat. I hear the laughter of my classmates as I fall to the floor. I quickly look over my body and see that I am fully intact, not a single scratch on me. The professor turns to look over and I hurriedly get back in my seat and hide my face in my textbook. He continues his lecture on what I think is an introduction to trigonometry. I let out the biggest sigh of relief of my life and wipe the sweat that had collected on my forehead during my nightmare.

I try and figure out where we are in the textbook, nervously fumbling through page after page. I glance around the desks of the people next to me, but I can't read the page numbers. I look over and I see the girl three seats over laugh quietly then come sit next to me. She turns my book to the correct page and asks if I am all right. I make jokes about how the embarrassment was almost as bad as the nightmare I had. She sits next to me the rest of the lecture to help get me up to speed on what happened in class while I was asleep. This plan fails though, as we spend most of the lecture talking about ourselves and perhaps even flirting a bit. As the class ends she brushes her long blonde hair back and starts to write her number on my hand. I take in her gorgeous face and commit it to memory, never to be forgotten. Her beautiful green eyes, the dimples that form in her cheeks when she smiles. The way she nervously bites her lower lip as she writes down the number. She makes me promise to call her tonight, I look into her eyes and say I'd be crazy not to. She hides a smile and blushes as she walks out the door.

I collect my things and make my way out the door to head home. Every thirty seconds I look down at the number and can't help but picture the girl three seats over. I take in a deep breath and feel a raindrop land on my head. Slowly the raindrops begin to grow more and more frequent. I look at my hand and panic as i can see that the rain has started to deform the ink-written number. I quickly pick up my pace, but nevertheless, the rain falls harder. Within minutes, the ink on my hand is barely legible anymore. I break into a full sprint home to try and save my possible destiny from completely washing away. A snag in the sidewalk causes me to trip and fall, as I plummet towards the ground I brace my body for impact.

My body hits the pavement and breaks through it into a large pool of water. I open my eyes, unable to breathe, I swim up towards the surface. I erupt through the surface of the water and gasp for air, looking around at my surroundings, confused. I make my way to the edge of this large tank and start to climb out. I cough up water from my lungs and collapse to the ground. A shadow emerges and drapes itself over me, surrounding me. I look up and see him. The man from earlier, the man like the devil. No, no, no this can't be. That was just a dream, that wasn't real! I look down at my body and see my burned arms and legs, the flesh twisted and burnt. My once pale skin now only resembles melted plastic. This can't be real, It just can't!

He walks over, still the same unnerving smile on his face. He grabs my arm and drags my body along the ground. Screaming in agony not only from the firm, unmerciful grip he has on my arm, but from the concrete and rocks dragging along my tender legs. Tears rushing down my face as I try to claw my way out of his grip. Even as i draw blood from his hand, it doesn't give him cause to let go. We return to the room where I had woken up earlier, he places me back in the chair I can see blood and melted flesh caked onto the arms of the chair as well as the floor. As he binds my arms and legs to the chair, I can only think about the girl three seats over. About the number. I can still picture her delicate handwriting on my hand. The slashes through her zeroes, the smile drawn underneath, i remember it all perfectly. No matter how real it seemed, or how happy I was, it was just a dream. It never happened.

Approaching the table, he picks up a towel and wipes the smeared blood from his hand. He inspects the deep claw marks going across the back of his hand. I demand to know what he's doing, what he wants, but no response. Only a smile, as i've come to expect. The man walks back over and sits down in front of me, clutching a flat-head screwdriver. He stares at me for a moment before placing the flat-head screwdriver firmly underneath the fingernail of my right pointer finger. I begin to hyperventilate as he holds my hand down and starts to forcefully jimmy the screwdriver underneath my nail, trying to pry it off. I feel the blade of the screwdriver scrape against the underside of my fingernail, snagging on the nerve underneath. It sends pulses of pure pain shooting up my arm as the nail bed is shredded apart. I look down and I can see the blade scrambling under my fingernail. This continues for almost thirty minutes, though it feels as if an eternity has passed, as every single one of my fingernails are broken and pried out from their beds.

The pain and the sight of this becomes too much for my body and mind to handle. Vomit makes its way out of my body and onto my lap. It mixes with the tears that had also made their way down. The man looks at the newly formed puddle of vomit and proceeds to grab handfuls of it. He pours chunks into my newly opened and raw nail beds. The acid from the vomit begins burning and slowly eating the nerves and flesh inside. As I scream, the man rolls over a cart over various tools. He uses a power drill and slowly drills through the palms of my trembling, bloody hands. The drill rips apart the inside of my hands, causing bone and muscle to break apart and bleed profusely. I can feel every single torn nerve, every bone breaking and muscle ripping and twisting around the drill bit. Tears, vomit, mucus, and blood are mixing together underneath my chair forming a thick, brown concoction.

I continue to plead for him to stop, I beg him with every ounce of my being. Words barely understandable through the uncontrolled breathing and crying. He just stares at me, taking in my fear, my pain, devouring my emotion. Quickly without warning, he grabs the ice pick from the cart and forcefully stabs it deeply into my forearm. The pick stopping only when it hits the bone so hard I can feel the tip of it bend slightly as it embeds itself. He leans in real close to my screaming face, tilting his head slightly, inhaling deeply. He grabs the claw hammer off the cart and begins to hammer the pick through my forearm until I hear it screech against the metal arm of the chair. I weep as he lets go of the pick and it stands straight up out of my arm. The hammer rises once again and he swings it at the pick, striking the side of the handle. The impact is so hard that I can both hear and feel my forearm bone snap in two separate pieces. The pain is so intense that i lose any and all hearing for several moments afterwards, as i can only focus on the pain.

I go limp as I feel myself drifting away into shock. That feeling is quickly negated by a flash of light that enters my head as the man's hand slaps the side of my head. I slowly lift my head up, the blood loss becoming staggering. He grabs my face and I weakly attempt to pull away, I hardly have the strength to do anything. I only taste metal as he places pliers in my mouth. He pulls my tongue out as far as it can go. Pulling away is futile anymore, I can see him reach for the wire cutters. Slowly he cuts through my tongue, having to stop and retry several times as the meaty muscle that used to be my tongue refuses to cut to his liking. He finally manages to cut through the tough chunk of meat after seven long tries. What little blood I have left is flowing from my mouth. His hand grabs my hair and hold my head up, I don't even bother to fight back anymore. I have no reason to.

I'm not even me anymore.

I use the small amount of strength I have left to look up into his eyes. The look on his face is both the same and different at the same time. Hard to describe, only to experience. I know now, that this is it, the final moment of my life. This is how I'm going to die. He's going to finally end my misery, the misery he put me through. He pulls a knife from a sheath on his belt. Unlike every other tool he's used, this is something he keeps with him at all times. Something personal. The man raises the knife and cuts his own neck along the same upside down cross. His dark blood slowly flows across the knife. Violently I feel the knife jut into my chest, into my heart. I cough up blood onto him, splattered onto his smiling face. That damn smile, it never changes. Slowly I fade into blackness.

Forever in nothingness, forever feeling only the pain of that knife.

The knife that man put into my heart.

The Devil Man.

Out of the blackness, my brain allows only one thing to stay with me for the rest of eternity. Something that helps to subside the pain of that knife. The last thing I allowed myself to commit to memory.

The image of the beautiful girl three seats over.

The girl who never existed...