Bronson,
Losing you is the closest I will ever feel to death. For feeling this pain means I am indeed alive. And so, to feel death is worse than the absolute of death itself.
It is a lonely place. For the loss is so personal, as no one is like you. Like me. Like us. No one will fill the emptiness that seems to occupy so much space inside me.
You were a big presence.
The gaping hole filled up with emptiness is a desert where you used to live and thrive and be my guide.
I hold on to the hope that eventually my emotions will die. Or I will.
Bronson
Present day
Fighting to lift my chin,feeling an ache in the back of my skull, I wrestle with the weakness in my mind, in my muscles. The humming of a fan overhead alerts me to where I might be.
Well, this isn’t good.
I shake the fatigue as it wraps around my thoughts, creating a haze of events that are hard to organise. . . Fucking. . . gunfire. Shoshanna. . . I picture her under the bed, covering her ears with her palms, screaming, and crying. I wince through the image, hearing my own deranged mind laughing. . . I fend the noise off, needing to concentrate. Reaching further for understanding. . . I see Kelly. . .Cassidy, they were in Max’s arms. And Xander was. . .Fuck, I can’t remember. I lost him. I growl at my own confused conscious, fighting to find the proceeding memory - what the fuck happened next?
A metallic liquid slides down my throat as my head finally agrees to rise, and given the throbbing in my face, I’m guessing it is blood pissing from my nose and lips. I spit the shit up, but in my clumsy attempt, droplets of the sticky mess land on my face. Opening my eyes, I squint at the back of a thin blindfold. The dim hue of an orange light shining in through the gap at my brow.
I stretch open my jaw, working it in circles, attempting to elevate the tension behind my skin.
“Mother fuckers,” I grunt.
Flexing my arms, I fight against restraints, twisting them behind the chair I’m sitting on. My ankles are bound too. I shuffle my weight, sliding the chair along the ground. The scratch of metal on concrete gives me a sense of what it might be made of and whether I can break it apart.
A low hiss soars through my mouth when I hear a heavy door slide along a concrete floor. I know the sound. And now I know what room I’m in. Usually, I’m not the sad fuck bound to the fucking chair, though. Ironic, really.
Two men laugh with deep, snarly tones that set the laughter in my head to mayhem.
“What’s that around his neck?” one of them says, but I don’t chase the voice with the tilt of my head. I keep my body relaxed, my face square on. I don’t know his voice, but I know where he’s standing - at least three metres from me. Perhaps my bindings don’t give him much sense of security.
Smart man.
“Is that a fucking collar?” another voice about three steps from my right says. He’s much closer than the other, but I don’t humour him with any movement. “Are you a faggot or something like that?”
The grin that creeps across my lips is so manic the swelling below my jaw and cheeks bunch and ache. “Come over here, give me a kiss, and find out.”
My ears twitch as the one closest to me takes a step. Staring down the bridge of my nose, below my thin black veil, I can see dark shoes and the lower part of his leg. His breath hits the side of my cheek, but I keep my head stationary. My smile softens and relaxes while images of a bloody massacre flash behind my eyes.
“I don’t know what you think is so fucking funny,Butcher,” he spits out. “He told me you’re a bit fucked in the head. You’re being executed, you dumb fuck. And I get to do it.”
Sounds like a challenge to me. I launch myself sideways, knocking him to the ground, crushing him beneath my much larger body and the chair. The blindfold slips to my nose, revealing the room, the bitch in the corner advancing on me, and the dipshit below me.
I buck in the chair, worming my way up his body towards the base of his throat. On contact, I maul him, sinking my teeth into the soft flesh covering his trachea. He howls in horror and pain. Flailing around, he beats me with his weak fists. Holding the cord of his throat captive in my jaw, I shake my head like a dog, blood pissing into my mouth. His roars and yelps of panic are suddenly cut short when I squash his airway.
A blow to my chin snaps my head back.
Black engulfs me.
But my mind is far from silent.
Bronson
Present day