Amaranthine

Chapter 1: Click

CHAPTER 1

Click.

My chest blossoms red, and it's as if I'm being gently pushed backward. The searing pain comes shortly after, and each breath just may be my last one. I can feel the bullet piercing my rib cage, wreaking havoc upon my internal organs. With each second I near closer to the point of no return.

Click.

I slump backward, my head hitting the cold floor with a sickening thud. The lights are a bright, harsh white, but they seem to be getting dimmer. I fear closing my eyes, because they may never open again. Darkness is encroaching upon the edges of my vision.

Click.

My breathing is shallower now. I'm breathing harder than I've ever had to before, but it's not enough. I know it's never going to be enough, because I'm quickly fading.

Click.

I can feel my heartrate increasing as it tries to keep blood coursing throughout my body, but it's only getting weaker. I've given up. I accept that I'm dying, and there's nothing that I can do to change that.

Click.

My breath is a slow rattle and my vision fades to black. Despite my heart's best efforts, blood has stopped reaching my brain. The cold concrete around me is stained red with my blood, and at this point it doesn't even frighten me. It's hard to believe that at one point my body held so much blood, yet now it holds so little. The last thing I feel is the rough concrete floor tearing into my skin, a final embrace from the only place I've ever known.

Bang!

If only death could really be so easy. The revolver reaches its final cylinder, and this time a bullet is propelled straight into my chest, accompanied with the crack of a gunshot. I'm pushed backwards by the impact of the bullet, forcefully slumped against the wall. It's a game of Russian Roulette, but I'm the only one that will ever experience the pain. He enjoys that, seeing my fear, never knowing when it'll be an actual bullet. I've learned to suppress my fear, but I don't. If they knew I wasn't actually scared of what they might do to me, they might try something worse. Something I might actually fear.

I crumple to the ground, clutching the entry wound. I writhe in agony, hoping that every minute will be my last with him. He fractures in maniacal laughter, relishing every bit of my pain. He's been the most difficult interrogator so far. This one in particular has delighted in my suffering the most.

He reloads and shoots me again while I'm down, cackling gleefully at the symphony of my screams. I scream louder than I have to, hoping it will satisfy him like it has satisfied the rest, but it never does.

This bullet has entered my back, piercing my lungs. It's as if I'm breathing fire in with every breath. I'm in the fetal position to prevent him from reaching the first wound. He might not be satisfied, and I want to stop him from aggravating the hole in my chest. I wish I could kill them all, to have them feel the constant suffering that is my current condition, but I must contain myself. I have to believe things will get better, or I will lose my sanity.

I refuse to allow my will to break. I will not allow myself to submit to the welcoming sway of insanity. They once called my kind the Amaranthine. Despite my best efforts, I am unable to die.