nervous system totally fried. Heaviness claiming his limbs — dead weights that were nothing but useless appendages. He was just a lump of meat hanging from the butcher's hook, branded yet with no provenance, a creature that had been claimed by too many owners now, identity lost to helplessness.
~~~
Edsel struggled reluctantly to consciousness as a strange pain as cold as ice, like antifreeze running through his veins, pulled him back from oblivion. His blood was liquid nitrogen, cold yet unbearably hot. Strange feelings fought for dominance as they pulled him up to an unwanted awareness. He could feel the shape of the pain, the brands on his skin radiating cool energy that was at the same time as hot as the forge itself.
He was on a large leather sofa, his restraints gone, his body still naked, the large windows allowing light to pour into the penthouse where he had drunk coffee with...
Where is he? Where is my goddamn family?
Edsel jumped to his feet with a start, recent events flooding back like the bright light of the day.
The room was empty of people; it was just him. Quiet, orderly, everything in its place, tastefully decorated and blue with light reflecting off the water.
Blue, just like him.
Stay calm, don't go off on one again. This can't be real, just a bad dream. Michael was a nice man, our friend, our host.
One look down at his body, combined with the pain he was feeling, told him this was anything but a dream. This was the stuff of nightmares come real — ripping apart the happiness he had been cocooned in for years now. After so much, he'd finally been happy, the past put behind him. Now it was back, worse than ever, and he didn't know what to do. Or why it had been done to him.
Edsel put a hand to his left arm, tracing the lines of his veins with a blue finger, tiny swirls following his fingerprint, as it did on each of his digits. The skin was hard, as solid as the scars that criss-crossed his body, a raised line that was about two millimeters high but may as well have been a mountain ridge. The blue was so clear, so prominent and crisp it held none of the old colors of his tattoos — this was pure and almost glowed with an inner white light.
Edsel could swear he could see energy flowing through this strange Ink, something he had never heard of or encountered before, the so-called 'gift' of Michael — a man he was going to kill if it was the last act he ever performed.
Perversely, Edsel felt pleased with himself. He knew that he had tasted madness, was lost to himself for a while, a gibbering wreck of a man after yet another ordeal, but he had come through, not unscathed by any means, and he knew he would never be quite the same again, but at least he still had his sanity.
I do, don't I? Now, what's next?
He got up carefully from the sofa, unsure just how delicate the new Ink was, or how long it had been since the work had been completed, and padded over to the window. His feet felt sore even on the deep pile of the expensive cream carpet. He sighed; it was all so goddamn familiar. He stared out to the sea, looked down to the streets below, felt a gentle breeze tickle his bald head — a strange sensation after having hair for so long.
Everything was quiet; no people; no movement, just birds drifting in the sky, lazy and sedate on the warm afternoon. Litter blew gently across empty streets.
Putting a hand to the window sill for balance, he lifted a foot to inspect the sole, not in the least surprised to see tiny blue lines as fine as cotton decorating his toes. There was some kind of picture of a stylized face, a bulbous head with razor sharp teeth staring back at him in miniature. The other one was the same.
Weird. No, fucking mental.
"Where are they?" Edsel screamed at the top of his lungs. "Where are you Michael? What have you done with them?" His voice echoed through the streets, disturbing the birds that cried back to him in annoyance, looking forward to a day when they never
~~~
Edsel struggled reluctantly to consciousness as a strange pain as cold as ice, like antifreeze running through his veins, pulled him back from oblivion. His blood was liquid nitrogen, cold yet unbearably hot. Strange feelings fought for dominance as they pulled him up to an unwanted awareness. He could feel the shape of the pain, the brands on his skin radiating cool energy that was at the same time as hot as the forge itself.
He was on a large leather sofa, his restraints gone, his body still naked, the large windows allowing light to pour into the penthouse where he had drunk coffee with...
Where is he? Where is my goddamn family?
Edsel jumped to his feet with a start, recent events flooding back like the bright light of the day.
The room was empty of people; it was just him. Quiet, orderly, everything in its place, tastefully decorated and blue with light reflecting off the water.
Blue, just like him.
Stay calm, don't go off on one again. This can't be real, just a bad dream. Michael was a nice man, our friend, our host.
One look down at his body, combined with the pain he was feeling, told him this was anything but a dream. This was the stuff of nightmares come real — ripping apart the happiness he had been cocooned in for years now. After so much, he'd finally been happy, the past put behind him. Now it was back, worse than ever, and he didn't know what to do. Or why it had been done to him.
Edsel put a hand to his left arm, tracing the lines of his veins with a blue finger, tiny swirls following his fingerprint, as it did on each of his digits. The skin was hard, as solid as the scars that criss-crossed his body, a raised line that was about two millimeters high but may as well have been a mountain ridge. The blue was so clear, so prominent and crisp it held none of the old colors of his tattoos — this was pure and almost glowed with an inner white light.
Edsel could swear he could see energy flowing through this strange Ink, something he had never heard of or encountered before, the so-called 'gift' of Michael — a man he was going to kill if it was the last act he ever performed.
Perversely, Edsel felt pleased with himself. He knew that he had tasted madness, was lost to himself for a while, a gibbering wreck of a man after yet another ordeal, but he had come through, not unscathed by any means, and he knew he would never be quite the same again, but at least he still had his sanity.
I do, don't I? Now, what's next?
He got up carefully from the sofa, unsure just how delicate the new Ink was, or how long it had been since the work had been completed, and padded over to the window. His feet felt sore even on the deep pile of the expensive cream carpet. He sighed; it was all so goddamn familiar. He stared out to the sea, looked down to the streets below, felt a gentle breeze tickle his bald head — a strange sensation after having hair for so long.
Everything was quiet; no people; no movement, just birds drifting in the sky, lazy and sedate on the warm afternoon. Litter blew gently across empty streets.
Putting a hand to the window sill for balance, he lifted a foot to inspect the sole, not in the least surprised to see tiny blue lines as fine as cotton decorating his toes. There was some kind of picture of a stylized face, a bulbous head with razor sharp teeth staring back at him in miniature. The other one was the same.
Weird. No, fucking mental.
"Where are they?" Edsel screamed at the top of his lungs. "Where are you Michael? What have you done with them?" His voice echoed through the streets, disturbing the birds that cried back to him in annoyance, looking forward to a day when they never
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