Shattered

Percy Jackson P.O.V

Blood and pain. Everywhere. Dripping, sticking, pooling. In my hair, on my arms, in betwen my fingers. Dripping off my chin, sticking on my shoulders, pooling on the floor. Throbbing, pulsing, receding. In my knee, my head, my ankle. Blood and pain, pain and blood. Everywhere.

Dripping, throbbing, sticking, pulsing, pooling, receding.

They would come for me. They always did. Asking me questions for which I had no answers, beating me for knowledge that I didn't have. Causing me pain. Making me bleed.

Mark likes guns. I learn that the hard way. Bullets in my knee, my shoulder, marks where bullets have grazed my shins. He likes to watch me squirm when he holds the gun up to my shins and feet. He likes my pain. Bang, bang, bang.

Mark's friend likes tazers. His favorite one can melt through skin. He likes to use that one in the same spot. If I had the energy to turn, I could possibly see my hip bone. He likes it when I scream and convulse from his electrical shocks. He likes my pain as well. Zap, zap, zap.

Chenille doesn't like my pain as much. She whips me every now and then, but she doesn't seem to take special joy in my pain. She likes to talk about giving me pain more than she actually does. Sometimes, when she wasn't in a torturous mood, she would sit down next to me and talk about nothing. About everything. She told me about her crush on Mark, how she left her family when she woke up to find her little sister was dead. She claimed it was her step-mom's fault. She told me that I was still here because I wouldn't answer the questions. I never talked back to her. She never expected me to. The sound of her nasally voice was... Good. It was nice compared to my own screams, the snickers of Tazor Boy and Mark's gun.

On a good day, she would come in the torture room (my new home; they no longer brought me back to the cell) without a whip and tell me what the date and day was, and the weather. She would feed me half of her rations, and trickle water down my throat. She would wipe the tears, blood, and sweat off of my face and neck, and tell me how the basketball season was going.

On a bad day, she would whip me, and let the blood drip of my forehead.

"Ariel," Chenille said from behind the door. She was like Mr. D-- she refused to call me Percy. "I got you some chicken with gravy. It's a Southern meal. I know your a New Yorker and all..." she rambled on as she came farther into the room. I opened my mouth when she shredded chunks of chicken away from the bone. It was ice cold, and so was the gravy.

It was the best thing I'd ever tasted.

According to Chenille, it was September twelfth. I'd almost been here a month.

"No one is going to save you, you know. We'd capture or kill them. You're ours now."

I rolled my head across my bare chest to look at her. She looked like she actually thought that that was the truth. I gave her a long look, then turned away.

"It's sunny out, but it's still chilly. You'd probably need a light jacket... And a trip to the hospital." She said, with a light smile on her face. It wasn't sadistic. It was happy, guilty, and sorry, all at the same time.

I nod my head. I've stopped talking ever since Mark shot me in the knee for a comment on his intelligence. It was innocent, really. No reason to shoot people!

"The Celtics beat the Lakers by one point. Garnett is out for the season, due to injuries. A shame, really."

I frown and nod. Chenille is sitting across from me. I can hear her breath. In, out. In, out.

She holds a mirror in front of me so I can see what they've done to me. The swelling in my eye had gone down. My hair is matted with blood. I could see a hole in my shoulder. I look away.

"You'd look betterif you'd just answer the questions." She grabs my chin and pulls my face towards hers. I jerk away.

She sighs and leaves.

I move, and a cut on my wrist opens and bleeds. Drip, stick, pool. My heart throbs; I probably have a concussion. Throb, pulse, recede.

I am alone. No one is going to save me, because they don't care.

Notes