The thud of the lights rung like a whip in his ears, his eyes suffering from the sudden white blast. Thankfully, the uneasy silence was broken at long last - the hours of emptiness had been wearing his patience thin. The beam of light was blinding, stinging his worn, dry eyes. The lights above him buzzed softly as he adjusted to the brightness. The hint of sensory stimulation kept him awake, it had been increasingly hard to keep his drooping eyes from welding shut. Only a few times in the past days had he allowed himself to sleep, only to be woken up by fear.
Staggering to his feet from a shaky wooden chair he’d been left on with all the energy he could muster, he squinted up at the lights above him. It took him a moment to notice that they were lights one would use on a stage – he’d seen them before when he went to see a musical. He scoffed, but it came out dry. “Am I some kind of performance?” He muttered to himself, but winced at his voice, the throbbing from his dry throat set in and he instantly regretted opening his mouth.
He tried to keep his balance and stand upright, straightening out his back. He felt weighed down and a fierce pain shot through his head, his vision blurring, his blood rushing through his brain. His balance faltered and he crashed back onto the wood of the makeshift stage. He pressed his fingers to his lips, shutting his eyes as hard as he could. The buzzing lights seemed to amplify in his ears and he could feel a thin, hot stream of vomit slither up his throat, the acid burning away at the already sore tissue. He swallowed continuously, trying to squeeze it back down with his dry throat muscles. It went back down, but some seemed to linger as a foul taste on his tongue.
He opened his eyes to feel the harsh cold sting at them once more, lifting his hand to rub his dry eyes, he stilled. He felt the weight around his wrists for the first time. His disorientation fading marginally, he glanced down as his wrists moved together, tied tightly with a thick rope rubbing away at his reddened skin. He winced, yet he didn't feel the pain, he was too overstimulated to recognize it.
He tried to concentrate on the pain, on all of it, realizing the situation. His feet were chained to the floor, the chain wasn't thick but he was too weak to escape it. He felt his knees bruised, scratched, torn to pieces - his legs weren't in much better condition. He glanced at his hands, the skin of his palms shredded, his whole body ached, every joint and bone throbbed from being dragged, beaten, battered, and whatever else these people had done to him. But somehow, he didn’t remember a thing about how he got in this state. He didn't dare think of the state of his face, he instead glanced around the room. The filth was evident, building around the edges. Even rats wouldn’t want to wallow in the thick dust and grime. He squinted at to his side, his vision blurred, and he followed a wire that was attached to him, he didn't feel where. His eye led him to a heart monitor. He’d raise an eyebrow at it if he had the strength. His eyes trailed down the wire to where it was imbedded into his skin, red and sore like much of his body. He tugged on it – big mistake. It was latched onto his skin with what he imagined was hooked buried in his chest. He let go as fast as he could, but not fast enough to prevent the pain that made him wheeze or the small leak of blood down his chest. Now that he was conscious of the beeping, it became louder. At least he finally had something constant to focus on. It made everything else seem so quiet, almost calm.
His eyes were drawn back in front of him after hearing a clatter. He squinted harshly to make out the image of himself, a mirror, he had no idea how the mirror had made the sound, he was more concerned with inspecting the damage to his face - hardly recognisable, his facial hair missing in chunks, his lips doubled in size and black and blue in patches. His eyes were surrounded by thin slices, hurting every time he blinked, every time he shifted his eyes, every time he squinted. He forced out a burning scoff, the mirror must have been placed there as so he could watch himself in pain, the only explanation. He thought it was at least, yet not many things seemed to have an explanation in this room. The stage lights, the stage that fitted snugly into the whole room – why have a stage without space for an audience? He could stare for hours, and he did, not feeling the time fly by as he tried to make sense of this, the buzzing from the lights, the even quieter beeping from the heart monitor, the only company he had, to his knowledge.
After accepting his wounds, after feeling every cut and bruise as he concentrated on them, he wondered why he was able to survive in such a state. He’d seen images of corpses with more beauty. He pulled himself up by the wall, willing himself to move after the hours had ticked on. He prayed to the empty space surrounding him, hoping he wouldn't throw up. 
He slowly straightened his joints, aching and popping with the movement, they had been so long, unmoving, as though useless, yet he was determined to get moving. He refused to die sat around. The pulling ache stretched on and the blind spots filled his vision, and for an entire hour, he moved inch by inch into standing, his little energy failing, his willpower diminishing. He had been in the same position for so long his joints felt like they would snap like a stick. He was sure that the only thing keeping them from doing so was the few extra pounds he’d put on last Christmas.
The mirror made an odd creaking sound, and he felt the adrenaline rush through him. He stood up straighter than he ever had. Mirrors don't make sounds, not on their own. He staggered a step backwards. The throbbing in his head returned from the sudden movement, but he steadied his ground. 
A cool air forced a shiver along his bare upper body, which almost threw him straight back onto his knees, the air started to flow gently behind him, as though a door had been left ajar. He didn't dare turn. He heard quiet mutterings, indistinguishable, but worrying. He took shallow breaths, they stung like tiny needles.
“Hello?” He called out roughly, hoping for help but not expecting a thing.
“Past' zabej, padla jebanaja!” A voice spat – behind the wall, he thought. His mind was disorientated so he could only shriek under his breath. He turned his head slowly, making sure not to injure his neck, and saw an open door. He wanted so desperately to run. This was his chance to get out. His heart raced as fast as he wanted his legs to run, but he couldn’t move. There were too many uncertainties. He didn’t even know where he was or who could be waiting outside – that’s where the voice must have come from - not to mention the aching in his legs that threatened to pull him onto the floor with every step. Running didn’t seem an option. But what could be waiting for him while he waited inside? Nothing outside could be worse than the horrors he could imagine happening in this hostile room. 
He gripped the wires that were planted in his chest. He tugged slightly and winced. Cole never had a good pain tolerance. Could he really rip open his chest just to run for an opportunity that was sure to fail? He held his breath and closed his eyes. The beeping from the monitor quickly got faster but for Cole, it seemed to slow down. He winced his eyes tight and tore the wires out of his body, screaming and yelling and crying. His voice bounced off the walls and back into his ears as he fell onto his knees and breathed high pitched, shaky wails.   He thought he could taste blood but only spat clear onto the ground. His whole boy was shaking so violently he couldn’t do anything but curl up on the floor. A high, endless beep covered his weak breath. At least it was finally out.
There was a commotion outside and two large men came running in. Due to the suffering he was enduring, he’d completely forgotten about his quest for the exit. Too many terrible, convoluted thoughts were rushing through his head so fast that he couldn't focus on a single one of them. They made him dizzy. They got to him and picked him up off of the ground, yelling at each other. They seemed more concerned than angry. Maybe they were trying to help. Could they be the good guys? 
They sat him back onto the wooden chair, hooking him back up to the monitor, attaching him via a new, cleaner patch of skin. Cole wanted to push them away and ask them what was going on, but he couldn’t muster up the energy or the courage. He could only observe, not daring to move. One of the men, the bigger one, crouched down and stared into his eyes, smiling. His hair was shaved and he was wearing cargo pants and a black sweater. “You,” he jabbed Cole’s bleeding chest and he shouted in pain. “Are going to tell, yeah?” His accent was unmistakably Russian and his English didn’t seem too good. He was still smiling. Tell? What secrets did Cole have? The only thing he did was play video games and go to the theatre, what could they possibly want? 
“Money?” Cole stuttered out. Before he could even question if the man heard his quiet voice, a huge hand slapped his raw cheek, almost knocking him out of the chair. The man was no longer smiling. He grabbed Cole’s wrist and dragged it forwards, pointing at the birth mark on his palm repeatedly.
“Where?” He was shouting now, still shaking Cole’s arm and pointing incessantly. “Where are the rest of them?” More birth marks? Hands? He couldn’t make heads or tails of what the man was asking of him, his fear could only increase. He stared back into the man’s eyes, not being able to imagine a reply that would suffice. Expectedly, A large fist came his way. “Blyad’!” he screamed. Cole didn’t know what he said. He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know what to do. Cole was never a cry-baby, but right then the tears fell out like they never had before. He was sobbing uncontrollably. So much that he felt sick. “Just tell,” he sighed, “tell where your group is.”