Today Wasn’t Friday

Author’s note: Well there is. Hope you like. Para ler a versão em português desse conto clique aqui.

Should be another day, today was not Friday. Getting out of bed if he could. Ropes tied up in arms and legs kept him still. His eyes were glued with liquid glue, your lashes for being hard covered by a thick layer of glue, remained wet by little tear that trickled through a small opening. His speech had been terminated, with sharp blades, his throat was open, of it withdrew the vocal cords were still used to express the despair.

'Who are you, what you want?' Thought his head while the brain tissue was not removed. He had a few hours since stopped fighting, had no more strength, after all, had never been very athletic. He was alone, somewhere. He tried to breathe, but the oxygen was scarce. If not caught in the ropes around her wrists palpate arround, maybe thought something useful to get rid, was not Friday, but remained motionless, as this was the intent of someone.

Heard the door opening, a deafening noise. Whisper strange things he could not understand. Should be from another country. He despaired, his only hope was to hear what they said, had not crossed his mind that others might not be of him nationality. He stirred. Those perceived them to be heard. They took a small platinum bar and some acid and passed it around him ear. His left hand closed, nailing him small nails into his flesh, to divert his pain. The bar was inserted more deeply in the ear until the eardrum punctured and even melted. The hand that reacted to pain was cut with a scalpel and not stanched the wound. He was bleeding and crying in silence. Was not Friday.

Yesterday was not friday, was another day like all days. Six o’clock in the morning he woke up, ate breakfast, changed clothes, when he has not slept with the uniform, brushed his teeth, looked in the mirror and enjoyed the beautiful boy of fiery red hair and green eyes. Went to school. calculations He made , conjugated verbs, talked about Hitler and Germany. Hitler, the torture of Jews,, he thought as he felt shards of glass piercing his belly. I did everything that any pre-university did on weekdays. His hobby was playing drums. Had Maltese and younger brother, his parents still lived together, he was happy and had never done anything wrong to society. Because was not friday.

While the strangers stitched his throat, the stomach bleeding. He thought as he could, but did not fight. He knew he would be defeated. Was not Friday and were pulling out their fingernails with pliers. Until he was masochistic, stood still while the whole body was bleeding. Think the torturer was stressed about it or thought he was dead. He did not feel any more touch, did not hear any more noise.

He was left alone for centuries, since fixed minutes and injured gives severe impression lasting years. He heard sounds: someone went. He felt his face with hot water and remove the glue from his eyes. The light was intense, even thought it was heaven, but knew it was not, the sky does not stink necrotic flesh, squeezed his eyes so that he could see something. He raised his head and looked around. It was big and gray. There were bodies hanging and skeletons on the floor, his bed had blood, much blood, had a side table with a hand floating in kerosene, was the smell, mixed with the stench of necrosis, alongside a series of instruments was rusty and covered with blood. No, that was definitely not his room. And he saw a man walking, he was familiar. The red hair. From the back he was elegant, wearing an apron over a Polo Shirt, apparently expansive. But had no left hand, was robotic. The man turned to the boy in front. The boy was frightened, not by the scars on his face, not by the apron spattered with blood, not by real fingernails pulled out, not by the stitched throat

- Do not be afraid, child, I do not kill you. That would be suicide. Demons love you, today is still Thursday, and for you, forever will be.

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  1. myhorrortales posted this