Blood streamed from my abdomen where the knife had gone in. It didn't hurt, and I can't explain that. Adrenaline? Now the nails. I always trimmed my nails short. If I didn't, they'd break. The guy was tall. He had black hair and a thick black beard. He wore a dark blue shirt, long-sleeved, button-up. His pants were tan and wrinkled. No belt. The left front pocket bulged. Wallet? Keys? His breath was bad, like everybody here. His eyes were close together, his nose was short and wide. He squeezed the pliers closed on the nail on the index finger of my left hand. It hurt, just the squeezing. The pliers had a squared-off jaw; my nail was round. Jesus the nail is curved, like all nails. He held it there. Our eyes locked. He knew. He knew. The best torturers had been tortured. His pain was mine. It was a transfer of his past onto my present. My breathing was short and clipped. He had something with garlic for lunch. I wasn't hungry, but I bit at that smell, mentally. I bit down on garlic air. Sweat ran into my eyes. I had read about Eastern monks who could shut off pain with the power of thought. I tried. I fucking tried. I used the power of the mind to unlock hidden dividends, just like the late night TV fucks promised. It didn't work. I knew it wouldn't work. Had to try. The nail came right out. My hand was on fire. Not just the finger, the whole hand. The heat was intense. Fuck. Blue shirt. Big dark stains under his arms. No emotion in his eyes. This was his work. Just work. Just. How many bad decisions landed me here? What's wrong with me? I was tested. I have a reasonable IQ. The tests showed I had a "high academic comfort level." I could do almost anything, according to those motherfuckers. I shouldn't be here. The winds would have carried my sailboat in another direction if I had pulled the lines differently.

I pissed my underwear. I didn't try to stop it. It was just a thing that happened. I almost passed out. Being here means failure. You don't say it out loud. You don't stand on the sidewalk with a sign. You know what it is. You know how it feels. The nail on my ring finger came right out. It wasn't any easier, but it might have been a little easier. I wasn't getting used to it, but it was the second time. You anticipate. The first one didn’t kill you. You still sweat. The nail of my middle finger came out. The sweat. The fucking pain. The labored breathing. The everything. My teeth. I could crack them all. I forced them apart. I made myself breathe as if I could get out of this. I made myself breathe because. There's no other reason. I made myself breathe because people who are still alive breathe. Breathing is what we do. It's what we do. Living things breathe. Dead things don't. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. He was older than I thought at first. Another nail. Deep intake of breath. Ego fades to a small circle then disappears, like an old movie transition. Somebody. Somebody. Can somebody please help me. I just want to be out of here.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

How many nails do I have left? I couldn't look. I wouldn't look. My right hand was bloody. I had seven left. Seven demons of hell, writhing and terrible, ready to spit fire. Seven soon pain mine. No. No. No. The blue shirt. The tan pants right beside me. I'll do everything different. I'll do everything better. I'll love her more than I did. I'll tell her every day. Come on. I'm. I'll. Another one. Somebody fucking help me. Jesus. I can keep my teeth apart. Harsh breathing, but breathing. Teeth are okay. Still here. More blood. I'm still here. Breathing like a bellows. Still here. Nowhere to go. The room is filthy. I'm not the first to sit here. Echoey. My heart is at home, with them.

A black wolf with bright eyes biting into a fallen dream. It holds fast with those sharp teeth. Holds. Everything shimmers, the room, the man. Calming throb of chopper blades, like a heart beating fast in the hot desert air. Hypnotic. Soothing. The sound of possibility. Blood dripping. So cold. Blood running. Sanity floats around the room like a feather. The knife again. The knife.

Strobe lights. Percussion. Hot, sandy wind. We're going up. Going home. That's where my heart is. I hope they know that. I hope they know I love them. I hope they know I appreciate everything. I hope they know.

The ceiling. Chipped gray paint, a dent, the grime of a well used machine. Vibration. Very cold. Can't hear the blades now.

I hope they know I appreciate them. Should have made that clear. Should have

the sun shines but it's cold

so so cold

so