A fist connects hard into his left eye, and there is a rupture of pain as his neck snaps back, flashing colours and trailing sparks of disconnected light. The hand in his hair is moving, and then his head is slammed hard into the bar. There is the crunch of glass shattering on impact beneath him, and then there is agony burning across one side of his face. He gags on a scream as his face is ground down hard, shards ripping, mangling up into his skin.
His face is held down while something is pulled off the bar with a lazy drag.
“Want a drink?” a low mocking voice asks, and something cold and fizzing is being poured over his head. There is the sound of laughter, and then there is the smash of a half-empty bottle across his head, muffling his wail further as his head thuds again into the unforgiving biting sensation of glass digging grooves into his face. There is a sticky wetness on his scalp, and he’s not sure if it’s the dredges of the alcohol dripping down his face and back, or the blood welling up in his hair.
He’s dragged back, and he must have been pushed or he must have staggered because he glances hard off the corner of a table which collapses beneath him, his whole body jarring from the impact as he lands on his back. He cries out, trying to curl up on himself, and then hands are grabbing him, forcing him over onto his stomach. There is a weight pressing down on him, and he doesn’t understand what’s happening, can barely breathe from the pain, before he hears a tearing noise, and angles his head slightly to see that the man in the suit has straddled his back, cut through the sodden cloth of Foggy’s polo.
There is air cooling the sweat that’s damp on his skin. A sliver-thin sharpness balances between the centre of his shoulder blades.
“When you next see your Mr Murdock,” the man grabs his hair again, dragging his head up so he can snarl into his ear, “I want him to know these are there.” Foggy’s head is slammed down so hard there are starbursts behind his eyes, and he whimpers. “ I want you to tell him that each one is an operation he ruined, a project he took from me.” The point lingering over his skin digs in, slices down. “I want him to know that I’m simply repaying him for what he cost me. I want him to know that this – “ Another vicious dig-and-drag, and Foggy’s fingers scrabble against the floor as he wails in pain, his legs kicking out wildly. “This could have been avoided.”
It’s like neat trenches of fire are being gouged out of his skin. He’s not sure whether he’s screaming or crying. He struggles to remember anything beyond this. He doesn’t count each cut. This mind goes offline.
When the man has finished, he pushes his thumb hard into a particularly deep cut. Foggy definitely screams them. He’s breathless and crying soundlessly by the time the weight is lifted off him. His back feels feverish, damp, burning. His body is shivering and shell-shocked.
He wants Matt to be here. Matt would protect him, Matt would be stronger than this.
“Beg me to stop, Mr Nelson,” the man says. “I’ll stop if you beg me.”
“Please,” Foggy whispers, blood in his mouth, his chest filled with shame.
“I can’t hear you.”
Foggy swallows down his humiliation. “Please,” he says again.
The man laughs and doesn’t stop. Foggy didn’t think he would.
A heavy heel comes down on his outstretched fingers once, and then again. There is a snapping noise like it’s fall and he’s stepping on twigs, and everything goes blurry when the second time, the heel grinds his hand down. He thinks hysterically at least I don’t write with that hand.
He’s barely thinking in words any more. There is a blocked, wheezing noise when he tries to inhale through his nose. It feels hot, swollen. He can’t open one eye, and the other one is struggling to focus. He’s breathing in more blood than air, and he wonders if now he’ll pass out, prays for it like some kind of blessing.
He’s changed his mind. He’s suddenly glad Matt’s not here to see this. Undignified, pathetic, frightened. He doesn’t have to pretend to be brave if it’s only himself he’s letting down.
Oh God. I know we don’t talk much, but I can’t do this.
He thinks of Matt’s quiet murmuring with a hand touching the cross hanging from his neck. He tries to emulate the Lord’s Prayer, before he realises he only knows the first two lines. Something about this makes him sob harder.
“Stop,” he pleads when they turn him over onto his back, his words slurring, trying to speak through his tears. “Please, stop.”
“Not just yet,” a voice says. It sounds far away, like he’s hearing it from another room.
There is the wet soft noise that sounds like a punctured airbag or squashed fruit before his body registers that something sharp has punched into his side. He gurgles on a scream. Our Father, who art in Heaven… The sensation twists, like yanking at a loose tooth, and the world trembles dark before his eyes.
“We need you to listen carefully so you can deliver a message to your Devil.”
There is something being pushed down over his head, something spiked digging gouges out of his skin. They adjust it with a tug, and white-hot agony tears through him, and he feels the skin part easily as it rips. There are slow rivulets of blood welling up, trailing from the scraped-out divots, down his forehead and collecting in his eyelashes. His body’s gone limp, any fight he may have had drained out of him.
Someone says something in a mocking tone, a laugh like a whip-strike and then there is something wet dribbling down his cheek. He realises with a numb detachment that one of the men has spat on him.
“Tell Mr Murdock that this is what happens to those who get in our way,” the man says again, and Foggy’s only coherent though over the harsh whine of his laboured breathing is a wordless understanding that whatever happens next, he will not be repeating one fucking word. “Tell him that if he doesn’t back off, next time he won’t even be able to recognise your body by the time we’ve finished.”
Foggy cries out with a hoarse, shattered sound when a foot is kicked into the weak hollows of his back. Another follows, thudding into his ribs, and then another. Another. Another. The world is reduced to the sound of meat being tenderized. He doesn’t feel like a person any more.
I’m so sorry Matty, he thinks. Chokes his name out, and the word slides into a groan like it’s clotted in his throat.
Our Father, who art… Oh God. Please. I want to live. Please.
A weight slams into his leg, and he can hear the snap of bone, the tear as it’s forced out through his skin. There are things breaking inside him that shouldn’t. The back of his throat is slick with blood, and he can’t swallow. The side of his face feels numb, mutilated. There is blood and spit dripping from his lips.
Fill: a silhouette and nothing more 2/?
His face is held down while something is pulled off the bar with a lazy drag.
“Want a drink?” a low mocking voice asks, and something cold and fizzing is being poured over his head. There is the sound of laughter, and then there is the smash of a half-empty bottle across his head, muffling his wail further as his head thuds again into the unforgiving biting sensation of glass digging grooves into his face. There is a sticky wetness on his scalp, and he’s not sure if it’s the dredges of the alcohol dripping down his face and back, or the blood welling up in his hair.
He’s dragged back, and he must have been pushed or he must have staggered because he glances hard off the corner of a table which collapses beneath him, his whole body jarring from the impact as he lands on his back. He cries out, trying to curl up on himself, and then hands are grabbing him, forcing him over onto his stomach. There is a weight pressing down on him, and he doesn’t understand what’s happening, can barely breathe from the pain, before he hears a tearing noise, and angles his head slightly to see that the man in the suit has straddled his back, cut through the sodden cloth of Foggy’s polo.
There is air cooling the sweat that’s damp on his skin. A sliver-thin sharpness balances between the centre of his shoulder blades.
“When you next see your Mr Murdock,” the man grabs his hair again, dragging his head up so he can snarl into his ear, “I want him to know these are there.” Foggy’s head is slammed down so hard there are starbursts behind his eyes, and he whimpers. “ I want you to tell him that each one is an operation he ruined, a project he took from me.” The point lingering over his skin digs in, slices down. “I want him to know that I’m simply repaying him for what he cost me. I want him to know that this – “ Another vicious dig-and-drag, and Foggy’s fingers scrabble against the floor as he wails in pain, his legs kicking out wildly. “This could have been avoided.”
It’s like neat trenches of fire are being gouged out of his skin. He’s not sure whether he’s screaming or crying. He struggles to remember anything beyond this. He doesn’t count each cut. This mind goes offline.
When the man has finished, he pushes his thumb hard into a particularly deep cut. Foggy definitely screams them. He’s breathless and crying soundlessly by the time the weight is lifted off him. His back feels feverish, damp, burning. His body is shivering and shell-shocked.
He wants Matt to be here. Matt would protect him, Matt would be stronger than this.
“Beg me to stop, Mr Nelson,” the man says. “I’ll stop if you beg me.”
“Please,” Foggy whispers, blood in his mouth, his chest filled with shame.
“I can’t hear you.”
Foggy swallows down his humiliation. “Please,” he says again.
The man laughs and doesn’t stop. Foggy didn’t think he would.
A heavy heel comes down on his outstretched fingers once, and then again. There is a snapping noise like it’s fall and he’s stepping on twigs, and everything goes blurry when the second time, the heel grinds his hand down. He thinks hysterically at least I don’t write with that hand.
He’s barely thinking in words any more. There is a blocked, wheezing noise when he tries to inhale through his nose. It feels hot, swollen. He can’t open one eye, and the other one is struggling to focus. He’s breathing in more blood than air, and he wonders if now he’ll pass out, prays for it like some kind of blessing.
He’s changed his mind. He’s suddenly glad Matt’s not here to see this. Undignified, pathetic, frightened. He doesn’t have to pretend to be brave if it’s only himself he’s letting down.
Oh God. I know we don’t talk much, but I can’t do this.
He thinks of Matt’s quiet murmuring with a hand touching the cross hanging from his neck. He tries to emulate the Lord’s Prayer, before he realises he only knows the first two lines. Something about this makes him sob harder.
“Stop,” he pleads when they turn him over onto his back, his words slurring, trying to speak through his tears. “Please, stop.”
“Not just yet,” a voice says. It sounds far away, like he’s hearing it from another room.
There is the wet soft noise that sounds like a punctured airbag or squashed fruit before his body registers that something sharp has punched into his side. He gurgles on a scream. Our Father, who art in Heaven… The sensation twists, like yanking at a loose tooth, and the world trembles dark before his eyes.
“We need you to listen carefully so you can deliver a message to your Devil.”
There is something being pushed down over his head, something spiked digging gouges out of his skin. They adjust it with a tug, and white-hot agony tears through him, and he feels the skin part easily as it rips. There are slow rivulets of blood welling up, trailing from the scraped-out divots, down his forehead and collecting in his eyelashes. His body’s gone limp, any fight he may have had drained out of him.
Someone says something in a mocking tone, a laugh like a whip-strike and then there is something wet dribbling down his cheek. He realises with a numb detachment that one of the men has spat on him.
“Tell Mr Murdock that this is what happens to those who get in our way,” the man says again, and Foggy’s only coherent though over the harsh whine of his laboured breathing is a wordless understanding that whatever happens next, he will not be repeating one fucking word. “Tell him that if he doesn’t back off, next time he won’t even be able to recognise your body by the time we’ve finished.”
Foggy cries out with a hoarse, shattered sound when a foot is kicked into the weak hollows of his back. Another follows, thudding into his ribs, and then another. Another. Another. The world is reduced to the sound of meat being tenderized. He doesn’t feel like a person any more.
I’m so sorry Matty, he thinks. Chokes his name out, and the word slides into a groan like it’s clotted in his throat.
Our Father, who art… Oh God. Please. I want to live. Please.
A weight slams into his leg, and he can hear the snap of bone, the tear as it’s forced out through his skin. There are things breaking inside him that shouldn’t. The back of his throat is slick with blood, and he can’t swallow. The side of his face feels numb, mutilated. There is blood and spit dripping from his lips.
He is going to die here.
A foot kicks his head, once, twice.
He loses consciousness long before they stop.