Pieces

[Jay Carpenter]

The cutting was slower then it really needed to be. Slow drags of knife against flesh. Two men held him down, while the blue-eyed man diligently sliced and separated and eventually removed the patch of skin that held the tattoo. The piece of skin was slipped into simple Tupperware filled with ice. Bandages were applied; clean, surprisingly. They didn't want him to die of an infection after all.

He was left alone for a time then. They checked his bindings, made sure the chair was secure, then left for...well, who knew? Hours? Minutes? Left him to the pain of the lost skin, the burn of air against ravaged throat and lungs, wracking, throbbing pain of over-taxed, stressed muscles. The cold would settle in after not too long though; as the shock began to wear off, as his over-taxed body began to calm down. Left in relative silence; the subtle drip-drip-drip of the water still pooled on the floor across the room falling into the floor drain. The smell of it still thick in the room. The sight of the alligator-clamp cables laying on the floor not far from the chair, the cable snaking away behind him; a promise of what was to come. The crates still sitting on the distant old TV trays, filled with tools and who-knew-what, another promise of things to come.

There could be no doubt left in his mind that they were not after information. He knew nothing they seemed to care about. The blue-eyed man had a very simple, entertaining task set to him; break a man that thought himself hard, strong. Thought himself untouchable.

And then they returned, the blue-eyed man with his many tattoos, a clean shirt and pants, the hint of a shiny patch seen under the collar near his neck. He seemed happy, smiling, a bit more energy to his step. Not that it touched his too-blue eyes of course, and the man soon came to a stop to stand in front of him again, smiling down in a display of too many teeth. A predatory smile, well matched to the cold blue eyes. He tugged the shirt down a bit, to show a hint of his newest tattoo. Jay's old tattoo. To join the myriad that already adorned his body.

No questions. No conversation. The cables came next. When he picked them up, when the heads touched, sparks danced briefly. There was no play of it either; no threatening gestures, no move to build up Jay's unease. The man just went to work with the cables. No soft touches to skin either; the alligator clamps were opened and allowed to snap shut on Jay's skin, pinching and biting against his skin. Pulled free roughly, skin tearing and burning.