Work Text:
He struggled, cried, whimpered, clawing at his throat as the strings tightened for but a moment, then once again released their grasp, allowing a second more oxygen before squeezing for what felt like the hundredth time.
No matter what he’d say now, it’d be useless. No matter what happens now, everything will shatter and fall apart either way.
Immobile, his wrists bruised as he was dragged back and forth. One side, then the other, he was back in the middle, where he started. Crimson drops, like petals of a rose, fell not only from his wounds, but his eyes as well, but still, his pain could not be expressed. Not by his cries, not by those tears.
It’s not like he could cry. Though he tried, no noise left his lips. As if his vocal cords were snapped apart by suffocation.
Little by little, his resistance weakened. Each time he was dragged, less and less effort was made to stay in place. Like a ragdoll, he was yanked, this, that, this, that. Yet he didn’t get closer to either side. Not to any who held the strings that were causing his body to fail.
If only one side embraced him, if he could just get rid of one, but the mere thought ached like death.
Both ends of the strings were tied to his heart, intertwined deep, if either got severed, his heart would twist apart at the seams.
Which would be more painful, the question was now. Because death was inevitable, no matter the choice he made.
If he lets himself be tugged this way for eternity, at some point his oxygen would run out, and his body would give up its fight, riddled with wounds from the strings that dug into his flesh at each pull.
If he cuts the strings. Even one string. His heart would irreparably bleed until he no longer had any blood left to give.
He was doomed. Torture. Pain. Was all that waited.
The more he thought, the less he could think.
The more time passed, the less time he had.
He’d die.
So at least, let’s not cut the strings.
Let what he loves the most kill him and end this suffering.
He doesn’t want to let go.
At least, let him speak. One last time, if he never spoke before, speak now!
Speak.
He spoke.
No, that’s not the right word.
As he let the strings sink deep into his fingertips, pulling them from his throat just enough to let out a noise.
It didn’t resemble any words, but it had a meaning none of those could convey anyway.
The cry that left his lips was painful, raw, and loud.
Not one bit beautiful.
Ugly, as he was now.
His clothes stained with his own blood, torn apart.
He sang.
He sang his feelings one last time.
Disgusting, yet bewitching.
A last cry of life.
Of the enduring suffering.
All of it
A haunting symphony.
Panting, he finally fell to his knees, he could no longer see, not even the darkness that surrounded him.
People say the last senses that go before death are hearing and touch.
Was it his own heartbeat that he heard echoing in his ears?
Was it death’s arms that gave him that last bit of warmth?
No, it was several. Six pairs of arms, six echoing heartbeats, chasing away the embrace of eternal silence.
The strings pulled in different directions were all here at once, not tugging, but gently resting beside him, in the pool of crimson.
He didn’t have to choose.
They chose him.
Finally, he could breathe.