sirmyk
New Member
Below is the start of a short story I've been playing with while finishing the first draft of my next novel. It's called "The Trial Chair". A friend of mine asked me to write him a short story, so here's the start of its first draft. I'll post more when more develops. Please, let me know your thoughts.
He woke in blackness. A cold room. Bare toes wiggled against linoleum or tile flooring. Fingers attempted to crawl like stubby caterpillars against arms of a wooden chair. Charles Pierce’s first thought: constrained. His second thought: naked.
Some sort of tape held him to the chair: around his neck, waist, arms and legs. It covered his burning eyes. It held together--in an uncomfortable mess--his nether regions. He felt patches of tape over various other places. It made him itch, if only he could scratch there, and there, and even there. Where the **** am I?
Charles’ left eye worried him the most, given that the abrasive tape held his eye open by an eyelash or two. The ability to simply close it would relieve most of the annoyance, not to mention allow the tears welling up to take course down his cheek. Another itchy place. Another cold place. Yet, he felt wells of sweat forming on his chest, lower back, and under his scrotum, despite the cold room that held him prisoner.
A prisoner? I must be. Who would do this? Not a name came to mind.
Charles tried to yell out. Only a muffled hum escaped the tape covering his mouth. He tried turning his head to no use. The damned tape. A muted cry escaped as he gave his legs a try. The chair was by far too heavy to budge. Rocking did nothing but produce squeaks, the chair either nailed or bolted to the floor. His arms ached. His face strained. His balls itched. The tape holding his feet to the floor pulled at the hairs on his toes.
The sound of a light switch interrupted his efforts. Blackness became hazy-dark redness. Someone else was in the room. And had been for all of his struggles. Charles thought of screaming out, but decided not to. Instead, he focused on the hazy-dark redness. Silence followed. Sensing this other in the room, he attempted to find this person through one open eye glossed in tears, and another sealed shut. Silence. His body trembled beneath the constraints.
He felt the presence take a step forward. His obscured vision darkened. Another step forward. Darker. And another. Warm, quiet breath met his nose, causing Charles Pierce to let out another pathetic, muffled scream. “Mmmph,” is how it sounded. He screamed again and tried to move, to loosen the tape, to head-butt the all-too-close stranger at his face. A worthless attempt.
Charles Pierce shook. Uncontrollably. Sweat trailed down his back and pooled at the tape around his waist. Beads fell from his forehead, gathered on his arms and legs. Perspiration filled the room.
Then, the darkness once again turned hazy-dark, this stranger no longer inches away. Still, only silence from the room as the presence moved behind him.
When will I wake up from this nightmare?
And the tape was ripped from his face. Unbelievable brightness took the room. Horrendous pain took his face. Along with the tape came most of his eyebrows, his left eyelid, and a majority of the soft skin connected to it. Blood poured out from his eye, burning hot down his face, down his torso. Immobile, all Charles could do was take the pain with a halted yelp of agony. He shook.
The room turned black. He passed out. White again, as he quickly came to.
Deep into the socket the eye burned, as if singed with the tip of a branding iron. Soon the room came into focus, a small room, no larger than most bathrooms. No windows. No doors he could see. Completely white. The walls, the ceiling, the polished tile floor, all glistened white. The bastard who had torn his eye open stood behind. This man’s shadow loomed over him like a specter, angled awkward from the source of light behind them both.
Looking down, Charles saw the chair, and he strapped to it. Indeed naked without the tape. Duct tape. Half of the used roll lay on the floor. Just as he felt, the familiar silver-grey tape bound his arms, legs, waist and feet to this enormous chair. He guessed the seat weighed close to three hundred pounds by the look of it, like a stripped down electric chair from long ago. Wooden. Mammoth, as if constructed for giants. Strips of the tape covered a majority of his body. Mimics of oddly placed bandages. He couldn’t discern the condition of his crotch--for he was unable to peer low enough--but he imagined himself in a Speedoesque pair of duct tape underwear. The wetness he felt was either sweat, or urine.
As Charles blinked his remaining eyelid, the shadow on the floor moved. Without sound, this stranger circled around Charles and appeared before him, dressed in white, nearly camouflage with the rest of the room. This blurry man slowly came into focus. But not quite.
Charles’ next thought: this man is a medical doctor, with his bald head and white apparel. Charles’ next thought: this man has no face. It was either the blurred vision, or this man truly had no face.
His captor leaned in closer, pulled gently on the edge of the duct tape bandage affixed to Charles’ right forearm, just enough so to imply his intentions. Charles looked from his own clenched fist to the faceless doctor, and could only await the pain he knew was coming. Charles grit his jaw shut.
The doctor let go, took a step back.
Charles eased, shook like a scared child.
The doctor stepped forward, tilted his head a bit, and nabbed the edge of another silver piece of tape, this one on his thigh.
Charles hid fear by pretending not to tense. By not clenching his fist. Inside, he was scared to death of this man. Scared of his invulnerability.
The doctor worked the edges of the tape more, testing for a reaction. And yanked.
Charles screamed into the tape.
The doctor waited for Charles to calm down before yanking another piece from his arm.
Again, Charles screamed, writhing against the constraints. Sweat and tears were indistinguishable from each other, as fire burned at his thigh, at his forearm, at his de-skinned left eye socket. The wounds throbbed, synchronous to the rapid beating of his heart. “I’m gonna punch my fist through your fucking face when I get out of this!” Murmurs is all he produced.
The doctor stepped back to watch, folding his arms, almost reverently. When he next stepped forward, the faceless strange, one by one, removed quite violently the rest of the bandage like pieces of duct tape covering Charles Pierce’s body. Those along the backs of his toes. Those on his sweaty cheeks. Those on his chest. Finally, those covering his nether regions. With each piece, Charles writhed in pain, swearing illegible curses, until the pain became too unbearable for he to remain conscious.
Charles fell into the blackness.
Sometime later--one eye closed, the other forced open and blinded with blood--Charles heard and felt his captor affixing new straps of tape to his body, covering him whole. Last, he heard the light switch off.
[ to be continued... ]
THE TRIAL CHAIR
1
1
He woke in blackness. A cold room. Bare toes wiggled against linoleum or tile flooring. Fingers attempted to crawl like stubby caterpillars against arms of a wooden chair. Charles Pierce’s first thought: constrained. His second thought: naked.
Some sort of tape held him to the chair: around his neck, waist, arms and legs. It covered his burning eyes. It held together--in an uncomfortable mess--his nether regions. He felt patches of tape over various other places. It made him itch, if only he could scratch there, and there, and even there. Where the **** am I?
Charles’ left eye worried him the most, given that the abrasive tape held his eye open by an eyelash or two. The ability to simply close it would relieve most of the annoyance, not to mention allow the tears welling up to take course down his cheek. Another itchy place. Another cold place. Yet, he felt wells of sweat forming on his chest, lower back, and under his scrotum, despite the cold room that held him prisoner.
A prisoner? I must be. Who would do this? Not a name came to mind.
Charles tried to yell out. Only a muffled hum escaped the tape covering his mouth. He tried turning his head to no use. The damned tape. A muted cry escaped as he gave his legs a try. The chair was by far too heavy to budge. Rocking did nothing but produce squeaks, the chair either nailed or bolted to the floor. His arms ached. His face strained. His balls itched. The tape holding his feet to the floor pulled at the hairs on his toes.
The sound of a light switch interrupted his efforts. Blackness became hazy-dark redness. Someone else was in the room. And had been for all of his struggles. Charles thought of screaming out, but decided not to. Instead, he focused on the hazy-dark redness. Silence followed. Sensing this other in the room, he attempted to find this person through one open eye glossed in tears, and another sealed shut. Silence. His body trembled beneath the constraints.
He felt the presence take a step forward. His obscured vision darkened. Another step forward. Darker. And another. Warm, quiet breath met his nose, causing Charles Pierce to let out another pathetic, muffled scream. “Mmmph,” is how it sounded. He screamed again and tried to move, to loosen the tape, to head-butt the all-too-close stranger at his face. A worthless attempt.
Charles Pierce shook. Uncontrollably. Sweat trailed down his back and pooled at the tape around his waist. Beads fell from his forehead, gathered on his arms and legs. Perspiration filled the room.
Then, the darkness once again turned hazy-dark, this stranger no longer inches away. Still, only silence from the room as the presence moved behind him.
When will I wake up from this nightmare?
And the tape was ripped from his face. Unbelievable brightness took the room. Horrendous pain took his face. Along with the tape came most of his eyebrows, his left eyelid, and a majority of the soft skin connected to it. Blood poured out from his eye, burning hot down his face, down his torso. Immobile, all Charles could do was take the pain with a halted yelp of agony. He shook.
The room turned black. He passed out. White again, as he quickly came to.
Deep into the socket the eye burned, as if singed with the tip of a branding iron. Soon the room came into focus, a small room, no larger than most bathrooms. No windows. No doors he could see. Completely white. The walls, the ceiling, the polished tile floor, all glistened white. The bastard who had torn his eye open stood behind. This man’s shadow loomed over him like a specter, angled awkward from the source of light behind them both.
Looking down, Charles saw the chair, and he strapped to it. Indeed naked without the tape. Duct tape. Half of the used roll lay on the floor. Just as he felt, the familiar silver-grey tape bound his arms, legs, waist and feet to this enormous chair. He guessed the seat weighed close to three hundred pounds by the look of it, like a stripped down electric chair from long ago. Wooden. Mammoth, as if constructed for giants. Strips of the tape covered a majority of his body. Mimics of oddly placed bandages. He couldn’t discern the condition of his crotch--for he was unable to peer low enough--but he imagined himself in a Speedoesque pair of duct tape underwear. The wetness he felt was either sweat, or urine.
As Charles blinked his remaining eyelid, the shadow on the floor moved. Without sound, this stranger circled around Charles and appeared before him, dressed in white, nearly camouflage with the rest of the room. This blurry man slowly came into focus. But not quite.
Charles’ next thought: this man is a medical doctor, with his bald head and white apparel. Charles’ next thought: this man has no face. It was either the blurred vision, or this man truly had no face.
His captor leaned in closer, pulled gently on the edge of the duct tape bandage affixed to Charles’ right forearm, just enough so to imply his intentions. Charles looked from his own clenched fist to the faceless doctor, and could only await the pain he knew was coming. Charles grit his jaw shut.
The doctor let go, took a step back.
Charles eased, shook like a scared child.
The doctor stepped forward, tilted his head a bit, and nabbed the edge of another silver piece of tape, this one on his thigh.
Charles hid fear by pretending not to tense. By not clenching his fist. Inside, he was scared to death of this man. Scared of his invulnerability.
The doctor worked the edges of the tape more, testing for a reaction. And yanked.
Charles screamed into the tape.
The doctor waited for Charles to calm down before yanking another piece from his arm.
Again, Charles screamed, writhing against the constraints. Sweat and tears were indistinguishable from each other, as fire burned at his thigh, at his forearm, at his de-skinned left eye socket. The wounds throbbed, synchronous to the rapid beating of his heart. “I’m gonna punch my fist through your fucking face when I get out of this!” Murmurs is all he produced.
The doctor stepped back to watch, folding his arms, almost reverently. When he next stepped forward, the faceless strange, one by one, removed quite violently the rest of the bandage like pieces of duct tape covering Charles Pierce’s body. Those along the backs of his toes. Those on his sweaty cheeks. Those on his chest. Finally, those covering his nether regions. With each piece, Charles writhed in pain, swearing illegible curses, until the pain became too unbearable for he to remain conscious.
Charles fell into the blackness.
Sometime later--one eye closed, the other forced open and blinded with blood--Charles heard and felt his captor affixing new straps of tape to his body, covering him whole. Last, he heard the light switch off.
[ to be continued... ]
This is the type of discussion I wanted to incite, since it seems to be the only way of settling in on the details for such a gruesome story(without actually having someone kidnap me in the middle of the night and do the same to me).