Untitled for Now

Staring at the cold walls of his box, the slave waited in agony. It had been longer than normal since his master had returned to give him his nightly beating and meal. He had long ago lost track of time. Now all he knew was the frequency of his master's visits. Something was wrong. The slave's mind wandered, worry creased his brow. The Master had gone without feeding him before; this was nothing new to the slave. The beatings, however, were the only reliable event left in his life.

He had vague memories of his previous life; his life before The Master had taken him. He could almost remember his wife's face; her beautiful eyes, bright smile, her golden hair. The memory was one of only a few that he was able to retain in his captivity. His name, however, had been lost over time, as had several digits. The Master could be cruel. Such was evident during the beatings. The Master never held back. Whips, canes, knives, scissors, branding irons; the slave had felt the sting of all of them. The pain had become almost bearable, but that fact simply meant The Master had to become more creative.

The Master had kept many other subjects during the slave's captivity, but none were able to withstand the torture as well as he had been. One young woman lasted three nights, passing on from a heart attack. A young man that had told the slave his name was Joshua lasted three weeks. He refused to give up his identity which infuriated The Master. After losing all of his fingers and toes, he still remained defiant. The Master shot him in the head. The slave didn't see this; The Master would occasionally tell him of the others however. He took pride in knowing that of all of his subjects, one slave had managed to endure. He once told his slave that his goal was not to kill; rather he simply wanted to see what a human can endure once their humanity was stripped from them.

"Will they turn feral? Or will their brain just shut down completely? These are the questions I ask myself whenever I test you or any of the others," The Master told the slave.

The slave never responded. He found it much better to hold his tongue rather than lose it. He had spoken to a few other captives but even that was a rarity; he wasn't sure if The Master was listening in on them or not. Better to be safe than to be sorry.

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The slave's hunger had begun to overwhelm him. It had been possibly four days since his last meal. He couldn't be sure, but he knew it had been too long. His eyes scanned his holding box. Three cold concrete walls, four feet in height, four feet in length with a barred door of rusted iron. Outside was a much larger room, with several other boxes inside. The slave was the only captive left, so the room was quiet other than a faint dripping sound. The door leading into the room had a slight gap underneath where florescent light was visible. The familiar glow was there, as always, but still no Master.

The slave's body ached from the lack of food. His stomach growled faintly. He was unsure of why The Master was missing, but he could wait no longer. He stuck his right index finger into his mouth and bit down. Pain erupted as teeth met bone, one of his teeth shattered as he tried to force through. The slave was persistent however, and after a second attempt, was able to break through. Blood poured from his hand, staining his already tattered and dirty clothes. Triumphantly, the spat the finger into his left hand, looked at it, then began stripping the meager flesh from the bone. He held the bloody mess of his hand against his torn shirt, half-heartedly trying to staunch the flow; but his goal was to finish the tiny meal.

The slave finally was able to stop the bleeding. He laid in his sleeping corner, cradling his few remaining fingers on his right hand. The pain had lessened but it was still there. He dozed off, still wondering what had happened to The Master. HIS Master.

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The slave was awoken by the sound of the door opening. He turned to see The Master entering the room. He crawled to the rusted door to greet him. He grabbed the bars and pulled himself into a sitting position, the ache of the newly missing finger making him wince slightly.

"I see that my absence has not gone lightly," The Master said, his gaze resting on his slave's missing finger. The slave, scared of what his Master may do, hung his head in shame.

"Don't be ashamed. I left you here with no food on purpose. I wanted to see to what extent you would go to survive," he said. "I supply you with water in your box. But the food I provide nightly. As I've told you before, I do not want to kill. You have proven to be a very worthy test subject".

The slave was not angered by The Master's explanation. Instead, he felt a sense of pride. He had made his Master happy. The Master walked to his box, unlocked the cage, and beckoned for the slave to come out. The slave, unsure of the situation hesitated, but came out nonetheless.

As the slave exited his box, The Master let loose on him with a leather whip, raining blows on his head and back. The slave did not try to flee, but rather kneeled, accepting the blows that were being given. His clothing gave under the snap of the whip, as did his flesh. The Master continued whipping him, even after folds of skin hung from his head, shoulders and back. The slave took it all, wincing only when exposed meat was hit. He knew that The Master would sew him back up when he was finished.

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The slave lost consciousness during his whipping session, and was shocked to awaken on a table. The room looked nothing like his usual home. The room was brightly lit, with curtains hanging around him. To him, it resembled a hospital room, but there was no noise to be heard. He noticed a new pain on the side of his head, but he was unable to move to investigate. He looked down and saw that he was in restraints. Had he given The Master trouble when getting stitched up? He didn't know what was going on, but he did know that it wasn't normal.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, turned and saw The Master sitting in a leather chair an arm's length away. He was smoking a cigarette at a small table, the ashtray overflowing with spent cigarette butts. The slave had never known The Master to smoke, but then again, he knew very little outside of his box.

"I am sorry, slave. I have made a terrible mistake regarding one of my other test subjects recently. It would seem that the police have discovered what I have been doing. The dogs dare claim that I am a criminal! So, regretfully, I must end the experiment," The Master explained. "But first, I have to investigate something".

The Master stubbed out is cigarette, stood up from his chair, and walked over to his slave. He pulled a scalpel from a small shiny table near the operating table the slave was held to. The slave watched his Master, awaiting the sting of the cold steel as it pierced his flesh. The Master started cutting through the flesh of his chest, starting the "Y" cut for an autopsy. Blood flowed from the wound, warm and sticky; the slave simply laid there, allowing his Master to perform his task.

As The Master started to make the second incision, the door of the room was rammed open; police began swarming the room, weapons at the ready. One officer began screaming: "Dr. Anderson, drop the weapon!" he commanded. The Master, upset that he had been interrupted, turned to the officer, a sneer of contempt upon his lips.

"Dr. Anderson! Drop it now or we will fire!" the officer yelled. The Master turned back to his slave, intending to finish his work. The officer fired his 9mm into the back of The Master's head, ending not only his work, but his life.

Other officer's rushed to the slave's side, unbuckling the restraints that held him down. One of the officers grabbed gauze from the table holding the operating tools, and tried to stop the bleeding from the autopsy incisions. Tears began to form in the slave's eyes. He began screaming, wordless, bloodcurdling screeches. The officers helped him off the operating table, noticing the plethora of scars covering the man's body. The slave was still screaming unintelligibly as the police tried to remove him from the room. He surprised them as he jerked away and ran back to The Master's corpse.

"No Master, your work wasn't completed!" he screamed. The police scrambled to get the slave under control. Instead, the slave grabbed the scalpel from his Master's cold dead hands. Two officers attempted to grab him, but he slashed out at them with the blade, catching one of the officers in the forearm. Blood poured from the wound. The slave then drove the blade into his heart. As he bled out, he hugged his Master's corpse, tears of sorrow streaming down his cheeks.