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After I am shot another time in the back, the men surround me once again. They kick and stomp me, including my head. I’m steadily losing consciousness, yet the beating is keeping me awake. It’s the impact to my brain that is causing my potential unconsciousness. The weariness steals my clarity and I’m ready to give in, give up, and drift off and die. I forget completely about Fay until the men stop beating me and walk away in the direction of another approaching vehicle. Once they are joined by more men, they just hang around laughing and joking for a bit.
I try to squirm away, and though it helps that I’m already on my stomach, I don’t have enough strength to drag my body along. I think of the voice that spoke to me and attempt to survey my surroundings, though I can’t lift my head, and my vision is blurred. The effort to elevate my head sends a violent wave of nausea up and down my body and I vomit. Yet, since I am unable to raise my head, the vomit just spills out of my mouth and forms a pool around my face against the pavement. The chunks are the hardest thing to regurgitate, as they come up into my mouth and I spit them weakly through my lips, and that only triggers more vomitting.
I don’t hear the voice but I hear the laughter of the men, louder now as if they are facing my direction. A few men surround me once again while others move the vehicles to face each other, with me in the middle. The headlights cut the little vision I have.
I’m kicked over to lie on my back. My ankles and wrists are then bound and tied to the front bumpers of either vehicle. It is the position of when someone is to be drawn and quartered. However, instead of my arms to one vehicle and legs to the other, or even one limb each to four horses, I’m tied more in a spread eagle with my right arm and right leg to one vehicle, and my left arm and left leg to the other.
At first I wonder why they have the vehicles facing me, it seems awkward to back up and do this, rather than to accelaerate forward if my limbs were tied to the rear bumpers. But I realize it’s because the men in the vehicles want to watch as they reverse and tear me to pieces.
I mutter “…help…help me…please help…” hoping the voice will return like some magical entity, but I hear nothing. I think my muttering is so low and incoherent, sputtered between my lips in a sparse spray of blood, spit, and vomit, that my pleading goes unheard even by the men nearest to me.
I feel every agony in my body, every pain explodes through me like multiple little bombs slowly demolishing all my cells. I can’t hold my head up, so it hangs limply like a newborn’s, yet it doesn’t touch the ground since the vehicles reversed to raise my body to be parallel to the pavement.
As the vehicles rev, a man approaches, holds up my head and puts a knife to my face. He speaks when he’s sure I see it. He says, “We’re gonna wanna see this.” Then he and another man proceed to cut off my clothing, stripping me down to my underwear. They laugh I presume at the blood on my underwear from my surgery. They say, “What are you having your period?” And they laugh like that’s the funniest joke anyone’s ever told. I don’t know why that bash at my manhood pisses me off more than the fact that I’m about to be ripped into four or five pieces, depending upon whether or not my torso decides to remain attached to one limb. However, the way I am tied may prevent that. I vote five. I vote that I will be torn into five bloody slabs of meat and bone, and I wonder how long I will live through it until I either lose consciousness and die of shock or bleed to death fully alert, still feeling every agony.
They torture me a bit, psychologically and physically, by reving the engines and tugging a little and laughing. Now and then they kick me in the balls and call me a pussy. I think, well I’m not crying. You’re the pussies that you can’t face me like men, you need your comrades and your weapons, I’m taking everything you got, and I’m not dead yet…
Finally they move the vehicles back just enough, and I feel my arms and legs pulled from the sockets of my shoulders and hips. This time I scream, it is so painful. They laugh and park the vehicles at that distance. I shout a gutteral and fierce hollar that comes more from anger than fear or pain and a strange sensation comes over me. I feel my shoulders and hips swell, at first it hurts, then it numbs, then it almost feels good, then it feels amazing. I feel a sense like a surge of endorphins flood through my body up from my head, down to my feet, and up again. Suddenly the pain is gone, and my mind is clear.
One man says, “Ah here it is. We should finish him.”
“Nah,” another man responds, “let’s keep on. We’ll kill him. Eventually.”
A third man comes to stand by my head and holds up an axe. “Let’s see what happens.”
And before my imagination has a chance to explore the possibilites, he chops off both of my hands and both of my feet, then asks if he should cut off my head, and whether or not I would remain alive afterwards.