Simple//Tradley:Jonnor

You're broken

Tristan knew nothing other than the pain he felt. His whole body hurt. His head was pounding from being smacked against the wall, his back sore from lying on the concrete floor, his bones snapped and cracked from the constant kicks and punches he had suffered, his skin black and blue from the knuckles of the man who was keeping Tristan as his personal punching bag. Tristan was crusty with dried blood, both from his stab wound and from the new cuts the man had inflicted on the blonde when he had been bored. Red stained Tristan's greasy blonde hair and his dirty fingertips, which he had been holding over his wound in a vain attempt to not bleed out on the floor of his kidnapper's basement. His clothes were dirty and hard with dried blood. They rubbed against his skin, causing red chafe marks which contrasted the usually pale colour. It wasn't as bad as the rope which suffocated his wrists and ankles, restricting him from escape - it rubbed so badly that the skin had ripped and bled - red, purple and inflamed with irritation. His skin was burning.

He had given up screaming hours ago; his voice was long gone. Now only gruff whispers could be heard. The dehydration didn't help. Tristan's mouth was dry with the dust and dirt from the floor, which his face had been pushed into by his kidnapper's foot, and he had a piercing migraine which felt like somebody was stabbing a massive, sharp, red hot needle into his brain. He had no energy - he hadn't been allowed to eat anything since Monday. It was Thursday now. Tristan had been skinny before he had been kidnapped. Now he looked like a bag of bones. The lack of nutrition also meant that his body didn't have the energy to heal what cuts weren't being irritated from the concrete floor, brick wall or the ropes, so they hadn't started to scab over and looked as fresh as when his skin had first been pierced by the blade. Actually, they looked infected.

Tristan's lungs felt like they were on fire from contracting some type of chest infection. It hurt to breathe. The exhaustion didn't help - each time he yawned, it felt like he had just eaten the world's hottest chili. He couldn't sleep to cure the exhaustion, though. Each time he curled up on the ground and shut his eyes, the only thing he could focus on was the pain. So he stayed awake until his brain couldn't take it anymore and shut itself down. Even then, sleep only saved him from the pain for twenty minutes. It wasn't much of an escape, as nightmares waited for him in the darkness of sleep, ready to torment his mind with images of Brad, James and Connor being tortured just as Tristan was being and upon reaching them in the dream, he was blamed for the pain they were all suffering through. He woke in tears. It stung his eyes to cry. As he hadn't had a drink in two days, he couldn't even cry anymore. He would rather his eyes sting than face the excruciating dehydration for another few hours. The nightmares didn't stop when he woke. The pain hit him and his thoughts were plagued by delusional images of the three boys he loved being violently ripped to shreds by the kidnapper, each one screaming and reaching out to Tristan, desperately clutching at him, but Tristan was too worn out to worm his body across the floor to reach them, he would be even if his hands and legs were untied. But the delusions weren't real. Neither was Brad's voice which screamed'Help me Tris! Please! He's going to kill me! Please, Tris! It hurts!'. Nothing was real but the pain. Maybe Tristan had died and gone to hell, because if there was such thing as hell, Tristan imagined it to be similar to this.

But then there was a bright white light shining onto Tristan, burning his blue eyes which had become accustomed to the dark. It was like the light of heaven, he could hear angels, singing his name. It was the angel Brad, Tristan could tell by his voice. "Tristan." He heard. It was like a heavy dose of morphine, temporarily lifting all the pain off of Tristan's exhausted skeleton. He pushed his torso off of the floor with his weak, wobbling arms to look up at heaven, squinting in the bright light of angels.
"Brad?" Tristan rasped, staring at the blackened silhouette of the short brunette, which was blocking the light from heaven that poured into the room like a waterfall, blue eyes filled with the hope of escape. Brad was an angel sent from heaven to save Tristan from the eternal torture of hell. It felt like euphoria. But Brad wasn't an angel of God. He was a fallen angel, a modern day Lucifer, who had been damned eternally to a life in hell. Brad's body was pushed into the room and landed with a sickening thud on the floor, causing the brunette to cry out in pain. There was a loud bang as the door to the basement slammed shut, the heavenly light chased out by the demons of darkness, which haunted the room like ghosts. Tristan was crushed under the weight of his pain again, But now he felt Brad's too.