Choas

The whiskey had begun to pool at his throat, choking him as he struggled to gulp down the blood. He couldn't bring himself to sit against the wall, let alone stand against the looming danger.

The only thing that resonated his pain was the inferno that raged in the fireplace, its embers and ashes tugging against the fabric of the man's clothing, who very keenly observed as the knife turned neon, its gritty edges turning dark as the flame engulfed its entire length. The man had his eyes set on the scene before him. If Michael truly wanted to save himself, then this was the only chance he had, but he felt himself weak. Even in the face of death, he simply choked on his blood, a consequence of the man's assault. He wished only to find a way to escape, yet as he watched the man hunched against the fireplace, he felt his final hopes diminish.

"What do you want?" he managed to mutter, his blood sputtering against the ragged wooden floor. "What do you want?" he shouted again. He was desperate for an answer but was left looking at the man's back.

"What do you want?" he asked again rather sorrowfully, a desperate plea for an answer, yet again it was ignored. Michael felt his heart clutch in his chest; he wasn't aware of why such a long and turbulent torture was being carried out. The unknown man had an advantage over a drunk man; if he wanted, he could kill him like a pestering fly.

The man held the hilt of the knife, the tip of the knife burned red, yet the man waited a little more. His hands had darkened from the heat, yet he didn't budge. His dark eyes silently contemplated his crime, or rather how to worsen it. He heard the shallow whimpering of the man behind him, and yet the ice didn't melt. Michael had held himself up with one hand and with the other hand, he positioned himself against the wall. He was scared; his heart beat violently against his chest, bludgeoning against his ribs. Yet his heart went still as the man finally arose from his place, clutching the knife as a butcher would. Michael felt his body silence, yet his mind resisted defeat; a final cry broke the silence that clung to the room. Michael's plea hung in his chest, words unspoken from the heaviness of his tears. "Please!" he begged. The man tightened his grip as he approached him.

"Please!" he pleaded again; instead, he was met with a fierce blow. The man held Michael by his hair, forcing him back onto the ground. Michael's head felt so light that he barely felt the attack; the only feeling that remained was the heat of the sweat that trickled down his head.

"Who are you?" he asked finally. It was too late to ask this question; he did realize that. He stood over him, and Michael remained felt like a sacrificial lamb. His fear was so intense; his despair so genuine that he spewed anything to avoid his fate.

"Why are you here?" He shouted over the top of his lungs, hoping someone would arrive to save him. "Why are you here?" he broke down as he spoke; his mouth dry of water, yet the drink he previously had began to sting his wounded gums.

The man lowered himself to his level, gently stared him in the eye. He sensed the fear; he was the most aware of it, the hysteria, the craze for survival, the moral policing. Yet for the very first time, he was asked questions he wasn't going to answer. Michael was well aware, yet he was scared, he was sad, and he was desperate.

He gently leaned into Michael's ears and whispered in a low hum, tickling his senses with each note, "Ce sera facile." The least literate though he was in foreign languages, Michael hnderstood immediately. Michael felt his entire body recoil, a jolt of pain enveloped him. The man had pierced his shoulder, sinking the sharp knife into his flesh as though he had intended to dismember his limb. The flesh sizzled under the heat of the knife, Michael's loud cries echoed, yet he felt that they went unnoticed. The man retreated, removing his knife from the shoulder of the slowly dying man; his eyes took in each moment of his weakness like a desert eagle. He stood up; the sizzling of the flesh continued, like steak on sear. Michael fell onto the floor; his arm no longer supporting the burden of his body. The man again walked towards the fireplace, wallowing his knife into its flame.

Blood pooled from Michael's shoulder onto the floor; he felt each drop of blood leave his body, desperately clinging onto it like an old man's breath. He immediately felt his arm go cold; nothing pained in his fingers yet he could still move them. With a shudder, he raised his finger, immediately falling back into its stillness. Michael pitied himself, yet his self-pity was drowned in a need for escape. He rolled his head onto his side, his final retort to the man who was going to sacrifice him like a cow. His head bobbed to the other side, his eyes unable to stay open.

Michael raised his other hand, a final consolation as he adjusted to the idea of death; gently his hand dipped into his own blood, then onto the wooden floor; he wrote what he knew. "Si" he wrote. His hand was unstable, often going back to correct the two letters he had written down. "Sira" he noted, his hand had closed to give up at that moment. The man arose once more; his knife looking brighter than before, the same nefarious look in his eyes. Though the sight of his victim was not satisfying enough, he saw him writing on the floor, penning his words as incorrectly as one could. He chuckled, almost coughing.

"Tu ferais bien de renoncer maintenant," he said, but Michael continued, his hand picking up pace as he felt the heat emanating off the knife and onto his back.

"Faseek" he wrote, but the man, who now stood on his back, held him by his hair and violently shoved him to the ground. A trail of blood trickled from his nose, leaving Michael in more pain than he already was. Another shout that went unnoticed. Once more the man held his hair in his claws, propelling Michael to once more to a whisper.

"Death is child's play," he said in a thick accent, casting the glowing knife upon his throat. In a swift motion, the man cut open his throat; the wound immediately sealing as the heat on the knife seared into the skin. Michael gagged and gurgled, attempting to make a few words but to no avail, his blood rushed onto the wood, covering more of its expanse. The only clue to the crime was the "Sira Faseek," the remaining of which had been washed away by his own blood.

Though he desperately clung onto life, he lay lifeless; his eyes remained open in horror, slightly tainted with blood, a testimony of his pain. The man who stood before the fireplace took a final glance at the clear fire, its yellow flame and its spread.

The man then turned away, leaving a body and a blazing fire behind, with one more step he had exited the room.

It took only a few moments for the door to creak open once more.