Day 105 – Relentless

Inspired by my lunch with Chrisy today.


Word count: 653



“No!” he shook his head violently, “No, I cannot – no more! It is too much… I must sleep. I must… I must… I must…”

Suddenly his hair was pulled back and his drooping, sleepy head was thrust backwards and a blinding interrogatory light pierced his retinas.

“You must! You must have more!”

The evil voice cackled and giggled with menace.

C.J’s cheeks were puffed out; he thought he was ready to be sick. There was absolutely nothing he could do. It was torturous. There was no escape – they would not let him leave. All he could do was sit there and endure the torment.

It had been going on for hours. Within four and a half minutes of being there, C.J had been cornered and thrown down into a chair. Four men surrounded him and watched whilst the torturer went about his business. At first it was psychological. The torturer known simply as “The Chef” lured him into a false sense of security. The Chef was nice to him, he was friendly towards C.J. He made sure his thirst was quenched and that his stomach was not rumbling; he insisted that he be made comfortable and that he was not too hot or too cold. But after a while the atmosphere changed.

The Chef was subtle, like a warm and gentle summer breeze or like a calm ripple upon a country canal; like a falling leaf in autumn or the last touches of frost upon a cold day. C.J gradually went from being content to the being slightly uneasy to being gripped with pain and finally to excruciating agony. It was a pain like no other. He felt as if his inside were being stretched. C.J begged The Chef to stop, but he refused. He was a psychopath.

The pile of used utensils mounted as The Chef discarded the ones he had used on C.J meanwhile C.J’s resolve was failing… he no longer begged for mercy, but merely for death.

“Please, I’ll explode! I can’t do it.. I can’t do it anymore… Please, I’m begging you… just…. Just kill me!”

The Chef withdrew from him and looked down at the mess he had created. The four men that had been holding C.J down nodded to The Chef. It was time. The Chef stood up and walked out of the room, leaving C.J surrounded by the plates of leftover food he had been unable to stomach.

There were bits of hamburger everywhere; chips and sausages too. There were vats of solidified pasta and globules of stew; scatterings of rice and masses of molten cheese. Indian, Thai, Chinese: C.J had been made to eat the lot. It was torture by tapas. What started as a light lunch had disintegrated into digestive terror. His body would never be able to process it all; there were too many spices and sauces; the amount he had gorged on far overshadowed his own body weight.

C.J sank forward on his chair, the sheer density of his stomach made his belly button breach over the top of his jeans and broke his fly. The buttons on his shirt were threatening to pop with each slow, heavy breath he mustered. A mixture of food and saliva dripped from his chin and sprinkled all down his chest. He was at the end; he could take no more. C.J’s eyes were just about to close when he heard footsteps returning. He looked wearily up and saw the pair of shiny black shoes whose owner had promised so much pleasure. As his eyes travelled further up The Chef’s figure, the last instrument of torture slowly came into view. The Chef had certainly saved the best until last. C.J started to weep. There would be no returning from this. He started to ponder his last words as The Chef came to halt just inches from him and bellowed in his evil Marseille accent, “Le Dessert!”

~ by S.G. Mark on January 20, 2012.

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