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Living/Dying

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Living

"I used to wonder ..." The man smiled mildly, almost friendly. "What is it, that keeps you going?"
Eliot refused to answer. He grit his teeth and waited. Silently, deadly.
"But I think I finally figured you out, Mr. Spencer." He came closer, the knife in his hands was struck by the dim light in the room and sent a flash of reflected light his way. "Tell me," he demanded. Another wide grin split his face, his expression was full of anticipation. "What is the difference between living and dying?"

Eliots muscles were still working, trying to break the binding chains.


Dying

There were no tears on his face or in his eyes. He didn't scream. The cuts would heal fast, they were shallow, meant to hurt, not to kill. The man let go of him after a couple of hours when noises from outside snuck into the room and reached his ears.

"They're here." He smiled and left, thinking Eliot was too exhausted to try and break out.
He wasn't. It took some effort but finally the chains gave in, releasing the prisoner. He jumped to his feet ignored the blood, pain and agony. His shoulder made a cracking noise when he threm himself against the door. Splintering wood accompanied him, when he dashed outside.

Just in time to see them drag the limb body of a six-year-old away. She hadn't been his blood, but close enough to his heart for her death to hurt him badly. She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, her only mistake had been losing her parents, being taken in by him. Not her fault.

He would grieve - by killing each and every one of them.

Blood everywhere. Eliot picked the girl up. He couldn't cry. He was already dead.