Still blindfolded, he looked where he imagined Bear was. He wasn't glaring, or pleading, just looking to where another person might be in this empty room. After a moment, the hand pulled away, delivering one gentle, almost teasing pat to his cheek before it was gone.
Contains: Sensory deprivation, beatings, dissociation
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He wasn't scared. He'd had worse than this before.
It had taken him a moment to realize he was awake, floating in and out of consciousness without the light of fluorescent bulbs to solidify it. The first thing that made him realize he wasn't dreaming was the feeling of his arms secured behind his back, twisted uncomfortably and aching.
He was on the floor again, blindfolded this time, and he could still catch glimpses of shadows moving around him by the light filtering in at the fabric against his nose. Somebody spoke, and it was quiet and far away. There was a heavy weight on his head and pressure over his ears; nothing quite registered for what it was until he tried to speak himself.
It came out as a tired whimper, muffled to him by what he now realized must be headphones.
That same voice, muted and calm, said something he couldn't make out. He didn't have the strength to talk back, and for a moment he drifted back into unconsciousness.
A hand on his face, gripping his jaw and pulling him back to reality. He didn't have the strength to fight back, to even bare his teeth in protest, he just let the unseen figure manhandle him.
When the hand pulled away, he couldn't help but flinch, anticipating the heavy impact of that armored fist against his jaw. But the pain never came, just the gentle touch of someone adjusting his blindfold so that he couldn't see the shadows anymore.
He was in complete darkness, complete silence, awaiting the feeling of electricity or a hand twisting in his hair. Every time the air seemed to shift, or a noise made its way past the headphones, he flinched. Every time he flinched, the room would still, and nothing would hurt him.
But he knew. He knew he was still being kept in that same cold room, with the same guard that drugged him, that same masked guard with that damn gummy bear tattoo.
There was the feeling of a hand—or a boot?—wedging itself under his back. He cooperated as much as he could as it pushed him onto his side. He still wasn't being hurt, and as much as that was relieving, it was equally infuriating.
"C-come on." He managed in his void of silence, tongue still heavy from whatever they'd put him to sleep with. "That still you, Bear? Still gonna hurt me?"
For a moment, there was nothing: no movement, no pain, no shift in the air. Then, all at once, adrenaline and fear as a hand landed gently on his cheek. It was gentle, the way a friend would touch him, but his body reacted as if he'd been punched again. He flinched away with a whimper, pulling himself away only to flinch again when he'd relax and realize the hand was still there. It took him a moment to calm down, for his brain to realize he wasn't being hurt. For a moment he almost leaned into the touch, though he couldn't begin to understand why.
Still blindfolded, he looked where he imagined Bear was. He wasn't glaring, or pleading, just looking to where another person might be in this empty room. After a moment, the hand pulled away, delivering one gentle, almost teasing pat to his cheek before it was gone.
For a while, the room was still. He hoped he was alone, but knew in the back of his mind Bear was still standing over him.
He pressed his face to the cold tile, if he could move the blindfold, knock the headphones off his head, he could at least see what was going on.
And there was the pain, the decisive blow of a steel toed boot to his stomach. It was nauseating; it stole the breath out of his lungs and left him reeling. He barely had time to process it before another strike met his ribs.
He tried to cry out, choking on his breath even as a hand finally tangled in his hair to pin him to the floor. He was on his back now, and fear settled like ice in his stomach as he felt Bear settle in to straddle his chest.
"Fuck—what…" His words were cut short again as an armored fist connected with his jaw. The cry that escaped was undignified, pathetic. Marcello would have cursed himself for it had he been in the right mind to notice, but before he could think to be embarrassed Bear hit him again.
Over and over, against the cold tile floor, Marcello took the brute force of Bear's fists. Unable to bring his hands up to block his face, he could only endure and hope the beating would stop.
It felt like it went on forever. One blow after the other adding to the ringing in his ears and the warm wetness on his face. Every now and them he managed a word, a meager, "please" or "stop." He didn't think it would work, but the pleas came out like instinct.
It went on until Marcello was far away, swimming in a distant sea of pain and fear. He didn't notice when the pressure on his chest lifted, or when the presence around him retreated from the room. He just laid on the floor, sobbing quietly into the linoleum.
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