***WARNING: THIS STORY MIGHT IN THE FUTURE CONTAIN OR ALREADY CONTAINS: DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE, EPISODES OF MADNESS, GORE, DESPAIR OR DEPRESSION INDUCED THOUGHTS OR ACTIONS SUCH AS IDEAS OF SUICIDE, SELF-HARM, OR SIMILAR ACTIONS/THOUGHTS. THIS STORY IS RATED 18 AND UP. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED***
His eyes slid open, and he looked towards the window to his bedroom. Still dark outside. He closed his eyes again, frowning. Why had he woken up so early? It made no sense. He peeked at his alarm clock, or at least tried to, because it was not there. In fact, now that this chock was making him pay more attention to his surroundings, he could see that the bedroom was not exactly like his. There was no clock anywhere, and, even though the window was fairly at the same place as in his bedroom, the curtains on it were of a different style than the one at his home.
He turned around, Mary’s name on the tip of his tongue, but before he could try to wake her up, he fell off the bed, landing awkwardly on knees. He looked back to the bed, confused, and noticed it was nothing else than a table with a thin sheet. How had he been able to sleep on that? There was no way. Someone had probably carried him here while he was unconscious… Talking of which, where was ‘here’?
While standing up, he looked around and saw various bits and pieces on the floor. Then as his vision adjusted to the ambient level of light, he started to distinguish furniture of a way more disturbing type: cages full of dead and dry spiders, as if they’d been left there for ages; brazen bulls, open to bellyfuls of burnt flesh and cold ashes; an Iron chair, surrounded by a dried-up pool of blood, with more of it frozen mid-dripping; a Judas chair, with the body of its latest victim still there, though decayed to little more than bones; an Iron Maiden, closed and locked, but deformed where someone had tried to force their way out. This whole view was fairly unsettling, but what made the man jump the most was the slithering movement he perceived between two of the instruments, at the back of the room.
Worried, he turned around to try and find something to defend himself with, while keeping an eye on the surrounding of where he had perceived the movement. He found something he could hardly identify, that looked a bit like a doubled-ended fork, and seemed quite rusty but was still in one piece.
This ‘weapon’ in hand, he slowly inched towards the location of the movement he had seen, his weapon awkward to take in hands. Once there, he looked around and investigated a bit, but quickly concluded that whatever the thing had been, it was somewhere else. He moved back to the table he had woken on, wary, and leaned on it a bit, ears perking up at each and every little sound that came from the decayed torture instruments.
Suddenly something landed on his shoulder. He twisted around and tried a blind blow. It was avoided by the form. Facing the form, he squinted to discern… a man.
“Careful.”, he heard the other say.
However, with the light only entering faintly from the window, and all the instruments scattered around the room catching most of it, he could not seem to recognize the person.
“I’m Ken," he tried. "Who are you?”
The man seemed to recognize the name, and inched closer.
“I’m Snake. I’m a friend of Cry.”