Lucian Bole (_bole_) wrote in plagued_logs, @ 2015-11-06 16:40:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | 1998 november, lucian bole |
Who: Lucian Bole
What: Little mouse
Where: His cell
When: The days all blur together...
Rating: Unpleasant
Complete
When there was nothing else to occupy your mind it was so easy to become utterly obsessed with one thing. No windows meant every day was the soft glow of magical lamps constantly. Was it day? Was it night? Did it matter? There was food, there was warmth, there was light and water; everything needed to survive.
And there was horror.
The little mouse was crawling, dragging a trail of blood across the stone floor of the cell. Its long grey tail had been bitten off, centimetre by centimetre. The new wound had left it but a stump, dripping red droplets to trace the futile route the mouse plotted across the ground. It froze suddenly at the sound of movement. It wasn’t walking anymore, but he could see its little breaths, the twitching whiskers, the thrumming heartbeat, the beading of blood…
It was terrified.
There wasn’t as much pleasure in the fear of an animal versus the fear of a person. But Bole could project, and project he did. He picked a guard, one he could see tense outside his door, and imagined seeing that same animal fear on his face. He imagined stripping away every human thought and feeling until there was nothing left of the Auror but the same desperate, wordless, terror.
And then he would set him free.
Bole picked up the little mouse and smiled at it. It didn’t wriggle in his fingers now. It was frozen with fear. Or perhaps it had simply died. He pressed his fingers around its head, one under its jaw and one between its tattered and shredded ears. Slowly he began to squeeze. Harder. Harder. It wriggled. It wasn’t dead. Not yet. Harder. He felt the crunch under his fingertips, the jolt of agony and death.
Poor little McEwan.
That thought was keeping him going. Imagining every way he would destroy that man. He would make sure there was nothing left inside him. He would reach in and scoop out every fibre of his being; physically, mentally, any way he could. Bole couldn’t wait. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t WAIT. HE COULDN’T WAIT. HE COULDN'T WAIT!
With a roar he threw the bloody remains of the mouse at his cell door. He tugged at his hair and screamed.
He wanted to get OUT!