My skin is fucking raw. One minute, my chest feels like a burning fire that simply won’t calm down, and the next, I can't feel a thing. My internal emergency system is shutting down and the pain-killing chemicals are steaming through my veins, causing my blood to boil from anger. My own brother is behind the torture, and his hysterical laughter after each session tells me he's enjoying it immensely. It's a different feeling when the enemy is my own flesh and blood.
I’ve been beaten with a whip among many other things. The first striking sensation brings fire to my skin, then every strike, slash, and gouge after pulls a numbness to the surface that nearly matches my internal feelings about everything in the world, except my hatred for my brother and my love for Jade. A slow burn continues down my back as my skin continues to be ripped apart, and the feeling of blood dripping after a few strikes reminds me I still actually have feeling in some places.
And my dick. That motherfucker will pay for that one. I’ve never felt pain like a straight-up strike from a leather whip can cause to my dick before in my life. You could shoot me. Stab me. Burn me. But this…I have no fucking words. Not a damn thing to explain the pain that continues to shoot through my balls, up my spine, and through every other muscle in my body. It’s a constant suffering that’s indescribable.
The minute my body tries to relax is the minute the excruciating shit zig-zags throughout my entire nervous system. I physically want to shut down and drop my dead weight right here, but I won’t. Revenge is a beautiful thing, they say. I’ll get mine. On every last one of these drug-smuggling heathen motherfuckers.
Now, my skin itches, my muscles cramp, and my arms shake from the uncontrollable urge to writhe their way out of these restraints.
He will not break me. The drug king piece of shit.
“Motherfucker,” I whisper into the night.
Jade. My mind needs her. My body is beaten down, and I’m so damn weak and tired. My will to live for us will endure the physical pain they inflict on me. It’s my damn heart that’s breaking and splitting in two. For her. All for her.
I throw my head back, wincing as my skin pulls tight on my chest. This is all kinds of fucked up. I desperately try to vision Jade standing in front of me, but somehow I can’t. All I can see is the loathing on my little brother’s face. All I can hear is his laugh when the whip cracks against my skin and his hateful words of how I ruined his life as they echo through the night air.
I’d be a liar if I said I’m not hurt. My heart is bleeding out as bad as the cuts on my skin. Worse even. This is my kid brother.
The memories flood my mind about the trouble we used to get into. Boys being boys. Teasing our sister. Threatening her boyfriends. All of it. That is, until he fucked up his own life, by his choice. Sticking a damn needle in his arm and coming home like he thought I was going to pat him on the back for flying so high he couldn’t see straight.
“You ruined your own life. Not me.”
“Is that so?” His deep, slurry voice calls out from in front of me. I snap. My vocal chords strain and fight against me to speak to a man I don’t even know anymore.
“Damn right, it is. You decided to fuck up your life, not me. And now, look at you. You’re worn. Your skin looks like shit. You disgust me, little brother.” Hissing through the agony of my battered body and my broken heart, I fight to leave him with words that will haunt him during his deepest, darkest nights. He'll remember this until he dies, we both will. Now is my chance to give him this little going-away talk. Because I'm afraid that one way or another, I'll be going away from this soon.
“I’m not the one hanging by a tree with my bare ass and my worthless dick dangling in the breeze. It isn't my raw flesh waiting for one of these vultures to swarm around here and pick at my fucking bleeding skin. So, you tell me who looks like shit, smells like shit, and is about to eat fucking shit if he doesn't shut his fucking mouth.” He grinds his cigarette into the ground before he takes a swig of whatever he has in his bottle then stumbles his way to an inch within my face. His breath is disgusting, and his eyes flare with a loathing desire to just end me. His nostrils move in and out like the madman he is while he shows an ounce of restraint in his actions.
“You high, drunk, or both?” I question. Not that I give a rat’s ass, but my intelligence needs to know what I’m up against here. If he’s drunk, like I suspect he is, a nice head butt to the face should knock his stupid ass out and break his nose. Fuck. I wish my legs were free. I’d bash his skull into the ground once he drops, then I’d make damn sure they wouldn’t be able to identify him. No one would miss him anyway. He’s been dead to us since the day he disappeared. Well, dead to everyone except our mother. Yet, he has no remorse for what he has done to her. I'll let the runaway continue to think she hates him, because there's no way in hell I want him to think he has an in with her again.