Dramatic Death Scenes!

Cricket

A pained cry escaped me and I clamped down on my tongue to stop it, breath shaking. Don't scream. Don't scream. I refused to open my eyes to watch what he was doing. Occasionally the searing pain would stop, only for a moment, and I could hear Mr. Face's teeth clicking. Peter was talking, as well, but I was too dizzy to hear.

I tried to not think. That didn't work. Images just flashed behing my eyes like lightning.

I was going to die.

This hurt.

Peter was just across the room watching the whole thing.

I'd just whimpered again.

Stop thinking!

Peter

I may not have been looking...but every sound of pain Cricket made cut through me like I was the one being worked on by Mr. Face.

...Because every single cut was my fault.

"St-stop it!" I managed. "Just stop it! Leave him alone!"

Like that would do anything.

Mr.Face:

"My Hostage...You read my mind." I had finished with that leg anyway. I let the leg drop back against the wall, and heard it hit with a satisfying thud.
And he'd screamed too. How nice.
"My Prisoner...It is your turn. Make a choice. Or do I have to give you the multiple choice version as well? Keep in mind that My Hostage is the primary reason that you are here...Bleeding profusely on my floor." I had forgotten a towel for my hands. Shame. I just used a ripped apart piece of My Prisoner's pant leg instead. I really should make a note to put a towel in my toolbox.

Cricket

I winced and tried to breath again. Mr. Face's voice cut through the pain once more. But . . . that wasn't right. I . . . I forced my eyes open again, turning my head to Peter. "I-it's not . . . it's not Peter's fault," I managed, and meant every word of it. Please, look up, see the honesty in my face, I mean it! It's not your fault . . . "Choices," I said to Mr. Face.

Peter

I couldn't bring myself to meet Cricket's eyes.

"It is my fault," I pressed quietly. "You wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me, Cricket... I was already going to die...but it's not fair that you should, too... It's my fault, all of it..."

Mr.Face:

"See? He doesn't even deny it."I told My Prisoner with a grin. "I suppouse I'll just give you the same options then. Arms or legs?" I asked of him casually.

T.Mor:

What do. What do. What do. whatdowhatdowhatdowhatdo.
Kill them.
No.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
No.
MAYBE?...No.

Cricket

No . . . no that wasn't it. I continued to watch him pleadingly. Please, just look up! "Peter," I said, my voice stronger. This was no pre-recorded message. "Peter, look at me. It's not your fault, I-- I would 'ave--" I struggled to find the right words. "I wasn't . . . just coming 'ere for you. I just ended up 'ere . . . and ended up doing something stupid. Even if I 'adn't found you . . . I mean . . ." Stupid words. I tried to sort through my muddled thoughts. "I brought this apon myself."

I felt guilty, admitting that. There was no drawn-out rescue mission, or stealthy plans. It was just me . . . being in the right place at the right time. Just like everything else. Sheer dumb luck. Please, look up...

After a moment I hung my head, retreating back into numb hopelessness. My voice was no longer mine. "Arms."

Peter

I deserved this...all of it...

But Cricket didn't.

And I still couldn't meet his eyes.

"I could've...should've told you no," I said. "I should've told you to leave... Then you wouldn't have gotten caught. But I didn't... Mr. Face is right. I was selfish...and now you're going to die because of it."

Cricket

A humorless chuckle escaped me. I don't know where it came from; I never laughed like that. "Y'know I wouldn't 'ave listened." It felt like I didn't have the strength to lift my head again, so I kept it bowed, looking at him just with my eyes. "You're--you're right about that . . . I didn't 'ave t' be 'ere. I could've been long gone . . . but that's my choice . . . not yours."

Mr.Face:

"Oh how nice. We're blaming ourselves." I said absentmindedly as I felt for another exacto knife. I would gather all the exacto knives up later to replace the blades, but it was easier at this point to just keep on pulling out clean ones than it was to try and get one reasonably ungory enough to reuse. I turned to My Hostage. What to do...What to do. Ligaments were always fun, but quickly becomig overused. I actually could not hear well enough to conduct my own deveining either...This is why I get people trained to do it. So that am not compelled to try it myself. The results would be horrific. Although...I do suppouse that that is rather the point of this whole thing...No but...It would become too messy and...uninformed. Anyone can make a mess.
Well, I could just skin him and dump a gallon of bleach over it...That always worked.
I cut away My Hostage's sleeve. Honestly...nobody wore short sleeves here. It was inconvenient. Maybe I should just mandate that prisoners cut off their own sleeves once they get down here.
So. Skinning people. This...This took some time. I pushed my exacto knife into the base of his wrist, pulling it smoothly up his arm. Not a deep cut...Just enough to get through the skin.

Peter

For a brief moment, I raised my eyes to meet Cricket's...and then squeezed them shut again in pain as the knife was driven into my skin. I clenched my teeth as the burning line was drawn; I couldn't shout here...not in front of Cricket.

Cricket
I saw a flash of pain in Peter's face before I shot my gaze down again. I couldn't watch. No more blood. Nor more knives. That was my friend, over there . . . I felt so helpless. Weak. Worthless. If I could only do anything . . . He was my friend, and all I could do was look down. What a way to die. Always a victim, never a hero . . . Worthless worthless worthless. I was sorry. So sorry.

Mr.Face:

I do recall that My Hostage is not one for screaming. You really have to work at it a bit to get anything out of him. Hmm. I put my exacto knife down, and using both hands, felt along the cut I had just made so I could rip an entire sheet of skin off his arm. Fast. Like...Tape. I grinned, and listened to the room for a moment...normally...somewhere in here...Ah. There it was. I went and pulled a gallon of bleach out of the corner. At least...It appeared to be bleach. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was something else...Bottlemakers didn't typically think of those who cannot see to read the labels. Either way, I emptied about half of the contents onto My Hostage's skinless arm.

T.Mor:

If I killed them...Then I could run home...Tell Ana that she was screwed, and to run...and then I could go to my room and shoot myself. That...That could work...Or...I could say no and let Mr.Face have me...Not like I didn't deserve that for killing people daily...but...still. I mean...Ugh.
Was there protocol for how to answer this question? I mean...I knew that you couldn't kill your friends...that was a moral thing I just learnt...But at the same time...My sister.
But...My friends.
...My sister.
My friends...
I headwalled.

Peter

He tore the skin from my arm... My eyes shot open and I gasped in pain, my chest heaving; I closed my eyes tightly again so I didn't have to look. I heard him get up, pause, and come back...and immediately felt a searing fire in my arm. I bit back a cry of pain, gasping again. I couldn't...couldn't shout in front of Cricket...!

Cricket
I jumped at Peter's gasp like it was me getting my skin torn off, and the shackles dug deeper into my wrists in response. My eyes squeezed shut. I could do this. I could bear with this . . . no I couldn't. This was worse than my turn. I almost asked Mr. Face to come back to work on me. Uncle had once said I learned best through friends . . . I think he was right.

Mr.Face:

A gasp. That was it. No screaming...Nothing. This was infuriating. I liked the screaming. It was fun. "No screaming? Really? Shame." I picked up the exacto knife I'd put down earlier and made little lacerations all along the skinless section of his arm...Before emptying the rest of the bottle into his wound. If that didn't do it...Well...I would be...irritated.

Peter

My arm...oh gods, my arm! I seethed, my breath coming in rapid and short. It hurt... Hurt so much... But I couldn't shout in front of Cricket... The most I let out were quiet, clipped grunts.

Cricket
I clenched my jaw. I knew Peter. Those sounds were as close to screaming as I'd seen him. Just ignore it . . . I couldn't take it. "Stop," I said, barely audible at first. "Stop! That's . . . that's enough."

Mr.Face:

"Well...That's a start..." I muttered, hearing some kind of onomatopoeia from My Hostage. "Hmm. If you really want me to stop...I suppouse I can shift my attention back towards you a bit My Prisoner...My Hostage...Do you need options?" I asked calmly.

Peter

For a few seconds, the only thing I could do was gasp. Options...why? Why did...?

Why did this even have to happen?!

What did we do? We were just...just kids! If there were gods, they weren't watching. Either that, or they had a sick, twisted sense of humor...

"O-options..." I spoke quietly.

Mr.Face:

I had kind of wanted to hear him come up with something, but..I realise that...Well...This isn't for everyone. "Alright fine." I said. I felt through my toolbox some more. Tuning forks? Why were those there? Oh...Right. I grinned. "Disembowelment...Or Eye removal?" I asked, holding a tuning fork in one hand and an exacto knife in the other.

Peter

I winced. Both of those options sounded absolutely horrible... These were worse than the last options!

"...Disembowelment," I answered, grimacing.

Cricket
I felt like I was going to be sick. Just don't think. Just don't think. My head spun. It was better than eye removal . . . the thought of Mr. Face so close to my face made me wince.

But at least it wasn't happening to Peter.

Mr.Face:

Darn. This meant no tuning forks...I had kind of wanted to use the tuning fork, once I'd discovered it, because I remembered having good times with it about a year back. Whatever. He made a choice. I pulled a knife out of my toolbox. Nothing fancy...no exactos for this, it would be ridiculous. Disembowelment with exactos...That...that would be hilarious. I should force Mr.Namechov to do that later...Just to hear him be all...The way he is.
I made two decisive cuts through My Prisoner's stomach, not even bothering to move the clothing out of the way. It wasn't necessary for things that did not involve exacto knives. And...If I was in particularly good form today...I would hear gravity take over and...No. No gravity fun. Shame. I was probably about three inches too high. Oh well. I reached into the newly created gashes, and simply pulled out on a group of intestines right underneath my hand. That...That was really all that it needed, and gravity took over from there. My hand ful of intestines was followed out of My Prisoner's body by another 17 or so feet. That would be a mess to clean up later.

T.Mor:

If I do kill them...Then at least Mr.Face won't. Which would almost be doing them a favour. But You don't kill friends. But...You don't let friends get dismantled by your boss either. But...You don't kill your friends. GAH.

Cricket
I promised myself that I would keep my eyes closed this time, but the sound . . . oi my my, the sound painted a horrifying picture. I swallowed another cry, wishing I could cover my ears. I could hear things being unraveled, sticky and wet, and as I heard, I felt an empty space growing in my gut . . . That shouldn't be there. My heart was racing like mad. That shouldn't be there! Black pulsed in my vision and dulled the pain, but I could still feel blood and water running down my legs.

Stop. Thinking!