Categories > Original > Horror


by Xavernus 0 reviews

A man finds himself in a glass box. Or is it?

Category: Horror - Rating: R - Genres: Horror - Warnings: [V] - Published: 2006-12-13 - Updated: 2006-12-13 - 720 words - Complete

The light streaming in from the small window was faint, hardly noticeable if one was to think about it. Not that the young man in the room was in a position to think about it. The chains around his ankles and wrists, rubbing against raw, reddened skin, made it difficult for him to consider trivial matters such as how much light was coming into the room.

"Need to get the fuck outta here," he mumbled for what was perhaps the fifth time this morning, and leaned against the wall with a sigh. He had already gone through the plans in his mind, each and ever conceivable one, and yet the way out of this hell hole still eluded him. The answer lay in getting rid of the handcuffs, he was sure of it. But how to do it....?

At the sound of a door scraping across concrete, he jerked his head up, a frown already set across his face. A doctor, or what he would consider a doctor, what with the white lab coat was it a lab coat? He wasn't sure anymore what anything was came in and set down a black bag since when did doctor's carry around black bags? That went out of practice ages ago before looking at the patient.

"And how are you doing today, Mr. Marshall?" he asked pleasantly, as if this was an ordinary, routine doctor's checkup, and not taking place in a converted cell.

The man named Mr. Marshall narrowed his eyes at the doctor, tapping a pattern out on his left, the nervous jittering of his hand quite evident. He was sure, absolutely, positively sure that the man had just spoken to him. But that couldn't be possible; there was something off in the sentence. Something unfamiliar, but what it was, he couldn't place.

"Mr. Marshall? I asked you, how you are doing today," the doctor peered over his glasses since when did he get glasses? They weren't there before and took out a syringe from his bag it was brown; he could swear it was brown before moving it to the side where it wouldn't get in the way.

"Mr. Marshall? Je ne sais pas quoi pour toi," the doctor shook his head, tapping the glass of the needle with his nail to clear the bubbles from it.

"W-what?!'t speak....wait, what's going on here!?" Mr. Marshall screamed, pulling himself off the bed, the abrasions to his chest more apparent. He bent down at the waist at the sudden pain where did that come from? And moved as far away from the advancing needle as much as he could, his back hitting the brick of the wall he remembered concrete with a loud thud.

He advanced closer, closer, to the patient, and as the doctor picked up his arm, Mr. Marshall let nature takes its course, his primal instincts taking over. His arm slipped under the good doctor's and gave it a kick hard twist, the sound of snapping bone loud in the Spartan room. The heel of his other hand made a hard thrust forward, hitting the doctor in the solar plexus.

With a anguish cry of pain, the doctor in the white lab coat went flying backwards, before Mr. Marshall caught him again and grabbed his head. With a loud snap, his head was twisted to the side, his neck giving way under the pressure and breaking in three places. Of course, Mr. Marshall had no way of knowing that it was three places, but he knew one thing; he had just killed a man.

"No...n-no, did I....NO!" he cried, dropping the body to the floor with a thud and scrambling to the wall, the glass of the wall wasn't it brick? No, wait, concrete, wait, wasn't it something else, no it was making his hands slide across it as he stumbled to the floor.

Unbeknownst to him, four pairs of eyes watched him from behind the glass, taking in the cushioned walls, the chair in the middle, and the man strapped down on it, multi-colored wires running around various parts of his body.

"It would seem, sir, that when man is confronted by the unknown, he will digress from calm and analytical, to one consumed by basic, primal, instinct,"
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