The Only Man In The Room

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Arthur wakes up to find that he's bound to a bath by wires...it was meant to be an entire novel but I've shortened it because I'm currently feeling lazy and wanted to submit something.

Submitted: June 15, 2009

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Submitted: June 15, 2009

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The Only Man In The Room

By Daniel McCaughtry

1

The only man in the room’s eyes flashed awake violent and dazed as freezing water bubbled and spurted from his choking lungs out of his mouth. Starved for oxygen and fighting for his life his eyes, nose and mouth were flooded and filled with the liquid that he was ensconced in, his face and every single orifice burned and stung forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut and rise bravely into the unknown. He drew himself painstakingly out of the swoon’s prison with vigour and, like the victim of a head-on collision, crashed forehead first into the steel tap protruding from the front of the black bathtub. The steel tap, still as cold as the water itself, struck him in between his eyes, above his nose, sending him flailing backwards and underneath the murky pool of bathwater, in which he had found himself trapped. Once again, struggling with the intense cold and rush of water into his teary, red eyes, he thrust himself out forcefully into a confusion to rise again. Peering upwards he saw two eerily familiar men looking with surprised horror down onto him. Both were bleeding from a relatively superficial, identical gash in between their eyes. The imprisoned man screamed and thrashed, only to see to his disbelief that these two men mimed him with supernatural accuracy.
“They’re me!” He shouted to the empty blurred room with a choked voice he did not recognise. “It’s a goddamnin’ fucking mirror!” He declared laughing, still attempting to gain his natural eyesight, as if it had not scared him like his sister Julianne used to do when they were young and she made a point of switching the light off when he was in the bathroom, leaving him bathed in the darkness that he felt creeping with impending doom in this torturous chamber. “FUCK!” At this the two other bloody twins cursed and copied their brother, their maker, simultaneously.
Tweedle-dee, Tweedle-dum hum-drum...this ain’t no fun. He thought smiling to himself in complete agony. To confirm that he wasn’t going a-crazy or delusional he glanced up to see if the replicas did the same, they did, and he thought once again of the little jingle that he had instantly constructed. The blood cruising down from the cut on Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum’s forehead ran down the bridge of his own nose, into his nostrils, blotting out the dank smells that the ancient bathroom emitted, but were replaced by the painful swelling and fresh aroma of internal bleeding, the colour of rust came to mind, the taste of metal.
“What the fuck, move your fucking hands Arty, old buddy, old pal!’ He persuaded himself in desperation and vain, only to discover that his hands were bound, after all his struggling he had only noticed now. His body formed the shape of an arrow he saw as he assessed his current position by craning his neck up to view his hands clamped down at the wrists by metal wire, which had been wound in countless revolutions so as to ensure his captors that he would not be able to escape. The metal wire was rusty with age and had grazed and torn his tender wrists. His wrists that had not felt the glorious suicidal wrath of razor blades. He had always been a content teenager but after realising his situation there sprung a longing hope that he had at least once attempted elevated depression. Twisting and struggling did nothing but tire him and rape his wrists even more-so to the point where blood has started to trickle freely from his wounded veins. Defeated, he dipped down into the pitch dark water in the black bathtub and shook his head vigorously underwater feeling his hair relieve itself from its matted position over his bloodied and bruised face, in a foetal attempt to wash as much of the maroon blood as he could out of his face and mouth.
2
Sitting up as straight as he could, as though he were preparing to be eradicated by the electric chair, allowed Arthur to survey his unfamiliar surroundings awkwardly but in an effective manner. His vision had undergone an improved metamorphosis from disorientated and doubled to a clarity attained by squinting in the dim light emanating from a single bulb suspended, illuminating the old, dilapidated but complete-with-essentials bathroom in the minutes following his foray with the icy tap. Tweedle-dum had disappeared leaving only one weathered figure to imitate Arthur Kite ‘til death do they part. Arthur guessed that this situation had reached an equilibrium, which depressed his usual jovial, social personality.
Dying alone! No! Fuck no! God cannot be that obsessed with irony...he mused as his inner-self pleaded for freedom, to be relinquished from an end as cruel as this.
The fading dim light, which swayed on a flimsy linked chain, bathing the room in dusk and gloom cast an orangey rotting glow over the entire bathroom, but nevertheless allowed him to recognise what was in his vicinity. Arthur squinted from one corner of the run-down room in a visibly average-sized and vacant house to the next. To his left was only the moulding, E-coli-infected, tiled wall with two dusty, stained windows positioned a metre from where he lay allowing no visible light in. On his right were the regular structures and paraphernalia housed by a bathroom only they bore the signs of age and abandonment by the owners of the house. The former or, less likely, present owners seemed to have left hurriedly as bottles of shampoo, moisturiser and conditioner had been left behind as well as toilet paper, hairbrushes and various other articles that normally would have been taken with if the owners had moved house. Considering the state of the bathroom it seemed as though they had eloped with rushed efficiency. Directly next to him was implanted a porcelain toilet blackened, like every structure in the room reflecting a sepia tone, with a broken seat and the lid lying open. Disgusted by the fermented smell of urine pervading from the stagnant water in the toilet bowl, he shifted his gaze towards the tiled cabinet housing a basin in the centre and two termite eaten cupboards doors on the face of the counter housing a few browning bottles of antiseptics and creams, which would be unhealthier to use presently. Grimy mould had layered itself around the blue and red dotted hot and cold taps and the filtered drain and the silicone corners of the cabinet itself. The counter as a whole looked like a crypt of old, ravaged by tangled dying and thriving ivy and weathered stone. A mirror with a grubby handprint arching across its wide entirety was positioned above the aged crypt of cleanliness, presented by a few nicks on the edges it had essentially held onto its youth longer than any of the other structure sin the bathroom save for some dust and grease.
Where am I? Why! Were the only thoughts rushing through his head struggling to be released through the pain and confusion, by which Arthur was harassed. Deprived of his clothes, his captors had strung him down with the cutting wire naked hidden only by the black shades that wisped around him in the water. His incapability to even caress the gash in between his eyes made the pain increasingly unbearable and as he craved to move his hands he slowly struggled and sawed through the tender veins in his wrists creating ghost-like dancers to glide around him in the bath. The blood grew thicker as his frustration was extended. Tears welled up in the corners of his hazel eyes coating them transparent silver. Defeated, he wrenched at the rust around his wrists descending him into a weakness where he tasted copper in his melancholic gummy mouth and felt the lactic acid coursing through his bloodstream. As it deposited itself into his exhaustion he became clouded by delusional denial. The only man in the room writhed in his prison, he screamed, tortured by his inability to save himself he began to sob pathetic tears, wailing at the dying light and the black gloom and the house that hid greater mysteries within its walls, greater than he dared to acknowledge. The bathroom, glazed in night, had affected Arthur’s sense of time from the moment he had erupted from his unconsciousness, now; he squinted inquisitively through the coat of black that befell the room. Time had neither expanded nor contracted, did not even seem to exist, in his holding cell. He glanced down at his arms, retorting his gaze immediately when he discovered what had become of his arms and wrists. Deep gashes appeared at every angle where he had attempted to struggle to release himself in vain.
I don’t even wanna see what my ankles look like. Fuck! Everything! My life! He thought miserably peering all around him, trying to avoid Tweedle-dum’s feeble glare, his merrily composed way of mocking Arthur until both of them died simultaneously. He laid back dejectedly, a look of depression affecting his desperate face into a lacklustre pose. His thighs and biceps had begun to cramp along with straining his neck, craning it above the water rushing in to flood his eyes, nose and mouth, drowning him. He relaxed back allowing the water to bob his dirty hair above and below its depths like a buoy stranded at sea.
3
Arthur waited in the failing light. A crack, shattered glass, he glanced around wearily in the black. There was nothing. The light bulb crashed to the floor splintering glass throughout the tiled floor. His eyes darted blankly from on corner of the room to the next. He struggled to adjust to his new horror. Looking towards the mirrored ceiling Tweedle-dum had assumed the appearance of a dark, jeering figure once more. The silvery shine of the mirror and the outline of himself crashing about in the bath was all he could see in the pitch dark room. His prison had erupted from being a tranquil steady movement to that of waves splashing and causing him to choke as he struggled against his shackles. The wire tore deeper.
“It was just loose, calm down, no one’s here...” He attempted to reassure himself nervously. He wept as his throat tightened and choked his words.
The bathroom door slid open to the left hand side revealing a short, dark, frame of a person standing in the doorway. Arthur had no time to see that the person was not fully built, probably a teenager and that if he broke himself free that he could surely overpower the young man.
“Fuck! What the fuck! Fuck you, you...” Arthur’s strangled words died as the figure moved towards him with a steady, deliberate step. He balled his hands into fists and threw them up and down viciously as the wire began to give way to his violent attempt at emancipation. The blood raced down his forearms and into the bath water below, curdling into ghostly shaped underneath him. He had no time to look down and admire the slow dance of his blood as his tormentor continued to encroach onto the bath that Arthur laid in with the utmost composure. The grim aggressor glanced down onto Arthur’s horrified complexion with disdain and drew a knife from the inside of his ruffled coat.
“You motherfucker! Why me!” Arthur cried hopelessly.
“It’s not you, it’s me.” His attacker said as he grinned with madness. “This has to happen.”
Arthur tried to reply but the knife cut out his last words as it dug deep into the pit of his stomach. The young man’s eyes flashed with glee as he thrust the long blade of the knife deep into Arthur’s flesh, effectively penetrating his vital organs, five more times. Arthur’s eyes died as he collapsed underneath the water limply, strung to either side of the bath by the rusting wire. His tormentor drew him up for one last time by his hair and slid the blade across his throat. Without remorse he left Arthur to disappear into the maroon water. Grinning again the young man left the room; breaking glass underneath his black combat boots. As he slid the door behind him it grated along the dirty tiles. The sound of the shaking of hands could be heard echoing throughout the decaying residence. The stifled whispers, the stuttering laughter, the excited footsteps leaving with doors slamming and sand from old door frames falling onto aged wooden floors were all audible in the empty dwelling. Arthur was left dead, hanging flaccidly by the revolutions of wire, which had bound him and had dug their way into his skin, onto the grey handles of the black bath where he would never be found.


© Copyright 2019 MacAttack. All rights reserved.

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