White: The Red

Breathe. Another impact came. He only dimly felt it. Keep breathing. Another struck, and mutedly, he was aware that another bone had snapped. Impulsively, his body groaned, though he was certain he could feel no pain. It was as though the world was outside. He was away, apart from the beating his body had received. Another blow came, and his mind only barely registered the impact. Would they stop before he lost consciousness? Or was this at last the freedom he'd longed for? would he be released from this life and finally move on to the next? "f**k, mate," came a muffled voice, like sound only dimly heard through rushing water," Pops ain't gonna like it 'his golden boy comin' back dead. you gotta stop." There was one final blow, accompanied by an exhausted grunt and he felt his body wrenched from the floor. He felt it revolt, every impulse rejecting the abrupt movement, and his breath caught. No, that wasn't right. He couldn't breathe. Each efforted heave brought nothing, and the distant world was becoming dimmer still. Fuck he thought, keep f*****g breathing! His body refused to listen, aching for any iota of air to give his lungs strength. But what was the point? Truly? What worth would there be in remaining on this godforsaken earth? Could he manage? would he ever find freedom? "Nah, boy. You stay awake! Daddy's gonna love hearin' how you let her get away! Whites don't do that! And then you're gonna get what's comin' to yah," a gravelled voice cut through the murk in his mind, and he knew they were close to his ear. "Pops ain't gonna call you his golden boy no more, Grant. And then the clan'll have you. you know how it goes.... And I want you to be awake when I tear your throat out," the voice whispered this, and all at once, Grant felt his body heave, and again, blessedly, he felt his lungs fill with air.... and blood. And the world rushed back. This time, he groaned for real. And even that sent a searing pain through him. Eyes closed he gulped air in, wishing he couldn't. He couldn't feel his arm, whatever might be left of it. And the air he breathed came laced with the poison of agony. He tried to open his eyes. No... his eyes were already open. He simply couldn't see. "Jeez, mate," the first voice said, and this time Grant recognized it. Aaron. it was Aaron... "Clean 'im up be fore you load him in. Don't want him bleedin' on the seats." Aaron's voice was high for a man of his size. The master of a man stood nearly seven feet tall and was as wide as three doorways. It seemed as though whenever he entered a room it got a hell of a lot smaller, and the atmosphere would shift drastically. Until he spoke. He sounded much like a chipmunk if a chipmunk were a giant hulking psychopath that could quite feasibly tear you in half with his bare hands. Which made it quite hard to take him seriously unless he were standing directly over you. Grant drew in another breath and wheezed, lethargically forming his best approximation of a laugh, " If you didn't... want.... me to bleed.... should've stopped.... at... the first shot." "Maybe," came the high pitched reply, " but it's nice to see you below the workers for once. So enjoy your last moments, boyo. You haven't got long left." There was a pause, and pain landed through Grant's body as he was dragged across the cold stone of concrete, and almost shoved through a car door. "Dose him," came the gravelly voice again," we don't want our pretty work healin' up too quickly now do we?" Vincent. The one man Grant would happily end, and the only one even more sadistic than his father. At the man's words, his blood ran cold, and wheezing, he tried to thrash his already beaten, broken, bloody body away. But to no avail. A deep, cold, piercing fire shook his body as a needle carrying his worst nightmare was depressed into him. It made the previous beating seem like a bed of feathers compared to this. Every part of him balked, shaking, twisting, straining, and sweating against the searing fire now in his veins. And there was no relief. it just kept increasing, and the shackles of his mind shook from the strain. He felt himself being undone, being torn asunder under the brutal assault coursing through him. All sound seemed to drift away into a vast expanse of nothingness as he shook, violently vomiting over himself and the occupants of his vehicular prison. Breathe, he said to himself amidst the panic, the pain. You gotta breathe. Make it through. These were his last thoughts before his mind shattered, scattering across a mental void deeper than the expanse of the universe. He was undone, unaware of his surroundings, unaware of the harsh kick Vincent sent his way in disgust, unaware of the strangled scream echoing from his chest, or the shivers that shot down the spines of a group of unsortly men, giving them pause as they loaded themselves into a caravan of blacked out SUV's. And he was unaware as the caravan began to move, out into the deep recesses of the night, away from towns, cities, people, and the safety the company of others might bring. They careened through back roads, underbrush, and drift, out into the badlands, one might say. and closer to a doom that certainly waited. Beyond the world called human. They were headed toward White Home. A place of demons, corpses, and the devil, an old crook that would give Mephisto himself a run for his money... and liked to name himself Grant's father.