Beyond the Threshold

Time came to a crashing halt, and before I realized what was happening, my world went black.
My eyelids felt so heavy. I stopped trying to open them. It felt too difficult. My arms and legs were limp. They felt dead. Geez. How much did I have to drink? Let me see-two shots, maybe 3? No, had to have been more than that. I need to stop drinking so much.
A few moments and I'll be able to open my eyes. The floor under my back felt ice cold, the air just as cold, but much thinner. I could breath but every breath felt strained and impeded. I started to feel a bit of feeling in my toes. This scared me more than reassured me. Then came my lower legs, and eventually my thighs and the rest of my aching body followed suit. I waited a few seconds before I tried to stand up so I wouldn't keel over. I tried to lift my right hand but was unable to. I know for sure I had feeling in it, but something was holding it down. Why the fuck can I still not open my eyes. Fear and panic began to take over. I suddenly realized thatmy feet were bare. Whatever I had been wearing on my feet was now gone. Maybe I'm in my dorm.
I tried to open my eyes a third time, only this attempt resulted in a sharp pain right where my eyelashes were. It felt like my eyelids would have been shredded if I pulled any harder. I screamed in convulsed in fit of rage and fear. Someone had stitched my eyelids shut, and bound me to some cold metal platform. Somewhere off in the distance I hear a loud buzzing sound. I quieted down and cocked my head to one side, so I could hear better. Seconds passed as the buzzing sound became the distinct roar of a chain saw. It grew louder and louder. My head raced with possiblities, yet none seemed real to me. I'd seen Hostel, and I always dismissed the possiblity that the events of the film could be true. They seemed so distant, unnatural, and inhuman.
The buzzing grew and grew, until it grew so loud that the buzzing consumed my mind and every previous thought I'd had vanished without a trace. A voice, straining to compete with the roar of the chain saw, called for my attention--or someone's attention. "Sherwyn. Can you hear me." The voice was mocking. It sounded familiar, but I couldn't be sure. It was definitely male, and fairly young, but I couldn't put a face to it. The darkness that I was only able to allowed my imagination free reign. I felt like I had already died. There was no refuge--not now, not ever. Tears began to well up within my eyes, and slowly seeped through whatever passage they could find. I wet myself, feeling no embarrassment whatsoever. I didnt want to imagine what the pain was going to feel like, but it was all I could think about. I thought and I thought until the imaginary pain was unbearable. I wanted to truly die now--skip the show and go straight to the finale.
I was never able to take a liking to pain. Sports were ritual I could never understand. I always regarded running as some masochistic rite that only an elite few were permitted. I suddenly lost feeling in my right leg. There was no pain. Just a sudden loss of feeling. Maybe I was in shock. Maybe I'm just imagining this. That's it. It's a dream. But then I thought of all the horror moview where the main character thought he was dreaming, pleading with God. In the end, one truth reigned supreme--dreams are a reflection of reality. Sometimes when you dream, you're really taking flight in another world. Dreams are the only bridges between this reality and others. Scientists pass it off as psychological phenomena-hogwash. In truth, dreams are a realm our minds are too inferior to comprehend. And that is the whole of it.
All of these thoughts passed through my mind within seconds. If I were going to wake up, it would have happened already. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but my throat had long since closed up. It felt as if I were choking on my own scream. I wanted cause as much trouble for this sick bastard as I could. Then I thought, what if there was more than one? What if this was some show, and I was the main attraction?
My mind went back to my leg, and why I couldn't feel any pain. I understand I might be shock but...I tried to wiggle my toes. Nothing. I read somewhere that amputees still felt as if they could still move their arms or legs, well after surgery. That thought brought hope to me--maybe my leg is still attached. Suddenly I realized that the buzzing sound had diminished to a minor whir. I listened intensely. All of a sudden, I felt a sharp pain in my left leg. It felt like a prick initially, but soon enought the pain grew and grew til I couldn't take it anymore. My leg started to convulse like a fish out of water--comepletely out of my control. A gooey, liquid material began to course down the side of my thigh. I couldn't see at all, but I new the color of it was red. I realized the pain was specific to a small area of my thigh. I closed my gaping mouth, finally aware I'd been screaming. Something clamped onto the fleshy lower part of my right ear. It was cold, metallic. It squeezed harder and harder. Part of my ear ruptured, and the blood slowly oozed, ran slowly down the side and back of my neck, and began to accumulate under my head. I couldn't see all of this, but I felt every bit of it. I kicked and screamed, but it just made me more terrified. Even if I'd wanted to calm down I couldn't. The pain was excruciating. My torso twisted and jumped--it was the only part of my body unrestrained. My butt crashed back down onto the metal platform beneath me. I screamed even though it caused me more pain than ever. My throat was dry and my lips were chapped and burned. My nose was also in pain, probably broken. All the while I was trying to determine how I'd gotten myself into this situation, but all I could think about was Sistine. It all suddenly came back to me.
***
Sistine was the name of a female character in a short story I was writing. I'd made her out to be a beauty--the gal every guy wanted to fuck. I wasn't sure why I'd chosen to name her that. "Sistine" usually referred to a male, specifically a pope; Pope Sixtus. It was unique, and that's all that mattered. All in all, the story was one of those that involved torture scenes and gruesome acts of murder. Sistine, of course, was the victim. I'd been in the library writing and thinking for hours one Saturday night. I was alone. The library wasn't exactly the best hangout spot for college students on the Saturday night before Halloween. I needed the isolation. It gave my imagination some leverage.
I couldn't come up with an ending. Writer's block at it's worst. I could have gone out, but I needed to finish my writing. I had to. After three hours, I'd only typed a few hundred words into my word processor. I was frustrated and decided to call it a night. I packed up my laptop, picked up my papers, and made my way to the front door. That was the last thing I remembered. It seemed like ages ago, now.