Walk down the hallway

From Reddit Choose Your Own Adventure

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Revision as of 03:01, 11 February 2011

A shadow flickers from a handle crest across the hall, barely hilighting the mess of blood and vomit in the bile stained crevaces lining the walls. Upon steping, counitng each richly (being careful not to make the slightest of noises, the faintest scuff), you edge closer and closer to this tepid source of vile ilumination.

It is a door.

But to your suprise, it is open.

Edging closer, you reach the doorway.

What sounds like a huff of a thourough-bread fills your ears, bursting your fragrant attempt at the reasurance of saftey, not even the swift footed could outrun what lies in this cell, a prison of iron and knives.

But not as the constructors, legendary erectors of this steel chamber could forsee, whomever had been here before did not expect this ancient event.

The creature, whatever it is, which lies inside a room to which you stand adjacent, too nervous to peer within, must have broken free, tasting the sweet temporary thrill of victory, resumed its state of attempted liberation.

I mean afterall, you and him, it , are still here, with what was portrayed as an absalute death sentence.

The fools.

And the nashing of a broken jaw, the crushing of brick, the snorting of think powdering dust resume.

You look.

If a man were to be at one point the vessle which stood before you, so would a vase be called a flower.

His humanity was gone. His mind was gone. His soul, was gone.

No hair except for a pair of resilient threads, no clothes cover him, at least, not anymore..

His left hand removed, instead replaced with a knife so incredibly caked with dried blood it was indistinguishable from his own arm.

It wouldn't even cut. A box of gears turning on his back, powered from his own movement, they seem pointless at first. Until you noticed them turn. And this is to say the least, is difficult to over look.

The box of gears and cogwork were not designed to power, rotate, operate, but to destroy.

Of some unknown torture or purpose, the gears had been cutting, gashing, boring into his own body.

He was built to enrage, to murder, kill, no logic served him. He blames anything that comes his way except that package he is deemed to carry.

Every few moments he yells, screams, cries out so powerfully it seems as though he has never experienced it before. You know better. You know whomever put you here, put him here as well, he just got the shorter end. A simple pawn, with a lifelong instrument of torment to which he can never, and could never remove.

And as the squeak of these wheels, and the tearing of flesh, he turns around yelling again. He must have found a way to live. He smells.

You.