Hope
by xbedhead
RATING: R for graphic violence and language
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the character of Jack Bauer - he
belongs to Fox and 24 and I'm just borrowing him.
CATEGORY: angst, torture porn with a point *G*, post Day-5
WORD COUNT: 300
AUTHOR's NOTES: Well, since everyone else is posting
tonight, I figured I would, too. *G* This is not beta'd
as it's hot off the press, written as a distraction from
finishing up my psychology article reviews for class on
Monday. The whole thing was based around Jack's last
lines and it gets kinda graphic up until that point, so
beware if you're squeamish. But, like I said, it's kinda
torture porn, but it's really got a point to it - I didn't
write it just to put Jack in misery. Enjoy. :\
Fuck. Hit me. God. Stop
this and just punch me, please.
The stick makes a cracking noise as it slaps against the
soft flesh behind his knees. He wants to yell, to move
and physically follow his mind as it squirms away from
the pain, but there’s nowhere to go. His back is
strapped so tightly to the table that the skin where his
pelvis juts out starts to bruise.
The pain he’s feeling is one he’s never
experienced. Clubs and fists make a driving impact, boots
are like dulled stabs, but the cane stings like a nest of
wasps have been buried just below the surface of his skin.
And they know how to use that to their advantage.
The same spots are hit, instantly purpling the skin as
the blood begins to pool.
He knows that screaming only encourages them, that they’ll
go at it harder if they think it’s having an effect.
But then if he doesn’t, they’ll only double
their efforts in order to get a reaction.
He tries to twist away again, but his head is held firmly
to the table by a pair of thick hands that drip sweat
into his ear, his arms are tied agonizingly high behind
his back.
He can’t move.
The thought enters his mind and he starts to panic,
fighting the restraints with what little energy he has
left. The resistance is useless, earning him only heavy-handed
slaps to his face and another stick being brought across
the soles of his bare feet.
The skin splits on the sensitive flesh of the arches, so
he rares up and pushes a hoarse yell from his throat,
trying to imagine the snow cooling the burn on the walk
back to his cell.
They’ll come. They’ll come for me. You will.
Please.
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