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Break Down	By : Mitts Category: Final Fantasy VII > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 830 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Break Down
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 7
- 8
- 9
Chapter 8

The first thing the prisoner saw upon regaining consciousness, was the still softly burning light in the ceiling. He closed his eyes against the starkness of it, his head throbbing, his cheekbone sore where the kick from the general had landed.

He went to tentatively try and lift his hand up to touch his face, to check for damage, but quickly became aware that at some point during his blackout, his manacled hands had been loosened and retied, this time behind his back. His bare legs had been shacked tightly at the ankles too.

If finding himself trussed up in such an uncomfortable way made sitting awkward, it made eating virtually impossible. The prisoner had to kneel in front of the bowl with his knees spread wide apart, and literally lower his upper half down towards the dish, lifting his tied arms awkwardly and painfully for balance, unavoidably getting his face covered in the stew. He soon learned to let it cool first.

Immediately after every meal, the prisoner would stagger to his feet and totter over to the tap, the small chain between his ankles barely long enough to walk with.

Turning his back to the tap so his hands could work it, he would then proceed to sluice his messy face and hair beneath the cold, cleansing water, blowing small bits and pieces of food from his nasal passage, rinsing off the residue that clung to his skin, or matted the front of his hair, until he felt its sticky presence washed off, shaking the clear droplets of water from his eyes as best he could once he was done.

Again, the passing of time was a mystery to him. He was only aware that days were going by, by the fading of the bruises and the healing of the cuts and scabs upon his body. He yearned to pull his hands free of their binding, and let his fingers scratch at the itches that were driving him insane on the front of his face and body. Instead, he had to content himself with rubbing up against the thin mattress, using the friction it provided to ease the itchiness.

His waking hours he spent led on his side, knees tucked up, chin tucked down, his eyes listlessly roving the room, hoping to focus in on something they hadn�t spotted before. He tried to spend as much time as he could sleeping, or simply with his eyes shut, to blank out the whiteness and the bareness.

He wondered why he had simply been left here, why no-one had interrogated him, tortured him. Some part of him cried out for that to happen, for some kind of contact to occur.

He began talking to himself, arguing with the walls, cussing at the tap when its prongs slipped beneath his greasy fingers, snarling up ineffectively at the eternal light in frustration, wanting so very badly to smash it to smithereens.

Laying back on the mattress, his locked arms aching, his body sore, the prisoner�s thoughts began to seek a way out of his monotony. And those thoughts increasingly turned to suicide.

His gaze roamed the small room, desperately searching for an answer. It kept coming back to the tap. And a plan formed in his fevered brain. He just had to wait for the next feeding time.

When it came, the prisoner was ready. Disregarding the burning pain he inflicted upon himself, he began to force his tied arms down past his bare ass cheeks, wincing as the metal manacles bit deeply into his wrists as he strained to get past the fleshy curve of his buttocks. He heaved a sigh of relief as his hands finally slid down over the cheeks, and laying on his back, he proceeded to draw up his knees and bring his hands up over his feet.

Sparing only a moment to look at his hurting wrists, the prisoner quickly stood up and made his way to where the food was, tipping it over with his foot and spilling the contents over the floor.

Picking up the now empty bowl, he made his way back to the tap, and proceeded to smash the hard plastic against the metal head of the tap. It only took a few forceful blows, and the bowl shattered into several pieces. With a yell of elation that couldn�t be suppressed, the prisoner picked up the largest shard and tested it against the side of his thumb for sharpness. He knew it wouldn�t be keen enough to do himself fatal harm with, but.....he had another use for it.

Hobbling back to the soiled pallet, the prisoner took the jagged piece of plastic, and began to attack the mattress using cutting, jabbing motions by the side of the edging binding.

After a while of this harsh treatment, the fabric began to fray, and while continuing to stab and thrust at the tearing cloth with the make shift knife in one hand, he stuck the fingers of his other hand in the ever widening hole he was making, and pulled for all he was worth.

The material finally gave a satisfying rending sound, and enough of the binding came away for his fingers to get a grip on.

Laying down the broken piece of bowl, its job done, the prisoner tugged and pulled at what he was after.... the means to his end. But the binding was firmly stitched on, and still denied him.

Lowering his head, the determined young man gripped the loose part of the binding between his strong back teeth, fisted his hands tightly in the bedding, and pulled.

Even though the yanking motion caused pain that shot through his molars, it was made worth it when the stitching on the mattress yielded and, by repeating the same action several times, he was able to completely remove the entire flexible, thin binding that wound around the whole of the mattress.

The prisoner was sweating and breathless by the time he had finished. But it wasn�t just because of the exertion he had just shown. It was also because he was trying to fight down the fear of what he now able to do. Of what he was about to do.

Holding the means to his freedom reverently in his fingers, he made his way back over for the last time to the tap and knelt before it, drawing deep breaths as he tied to calm his nerves, fingering the binding nervously.

As he prepared the knot, readying the loop that would end his life, thoughts and images of his friends and loved ones came unbidden into his mind. He couldn�t shut them out, try as he might.

Tears of self pity, anger and disappointment that it had to end this way pricked at his eyes, and he let the salty droplets fall freely over his cheeks, making no attempt to brush them away as he placed the make shift noose over his head, tucking the knot tightly under his chin before attaching the other end of the binding securely to the tap.

He could feel his inner self arguing within him, desperately asking his set mind for a reprieve, to stop and at least think about what he was doing. But taking a look around the plain white room, and the sheer and utter desolation it represented for him, his mind won. He let his legs go slack, and he flopped to the floor.

As soon as his body sagged, and his naked bottom hit the ground, the binding around his neck bit into his throat, and choked off his air supply. Instinctively, his hands flew up to the tight restriction that threatened his life, but the piece of cording was too tightly embedded for his frantic fingers to get under and loosen. Like it or not, he had made a decision, and now there was no turning back.

After a few moments his hands fell away, his head lolling to one side. His opened eyes rolled backwards until only the whites showed, now bloodshot, the eyeballs bulging. His mouth was wide open in a desperate attempt to draw breath, his tongue hanging out obscenely.

His senses fading, the prisoner became aware of a voice far, far away.

�You stupid little bastard......�

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