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... all is vanity and striving after the wind. [MW2017] (non-writer).

page: 1

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posted on Oct, 10 2017 @ 11:56 PM
“Oh God, oh God, oh God…” it was like it was replaying on a loop in Jerry’s mind, all else in his mind a screaming blank of fear.

His wrists and elbows were both securely tied behind his back. There were bonds around his ankles and knees. His mouth was full of the knot, a gag made from a scarf. He was suspended upside down from his ankles, slowly spinning so that he could see the dark corner of the factory, then his captor, then back to the blank concrete wall.

He could also see the up-ended section of pipe, and the concrete pump tikking away with the faintest wisp of blue-white diesel smoke rising from its exhaust into the dark space above it.

Once the rotation slowed and stopped, it returned in the other direction. With each rotation, the momentum was depleting and would eventually stop with him facing the concrete of the wall. Funny the things you think when you are going to die.

You are going to die.

The tears had seemed to have stopped but he could still feel their dampness where they had rolled down to his hairline. His captor was mostly occupied in just doing his tasks and had stopped talking.

What was there to say?

He flexed and twisted, again, to see if he could somehow swing his body enough to avoid the pipe or to escape but it was plain that he was no escape artist.

Wisek had been his friend or, at least, his acquaintence, since school. They had grown up together but had diverged in life path only in the last few years. Wis had gotten involved with some sort of crime syndicate and had been told to “get rid of” his friend.

Jerry didn’t even know how he threatened Wis or his associates, just that now, there was a hit on him and that Wis was the one doing it.

It was crazy, pointless, what could Jerry have against whoever it was that pulled Wis’s strings?

A part of Jerry hoped that this was just some elaborate scare tactic, but the resolute horror and fear in Wis’s face told the truth of it. He HAD to go through with it.

The electric motor on the overhead crane whined to life and lifted Jerry high above the top of the upended concrete pipe. The motors whirred and pulsed as Jerry was positioned above the pipe, then whirred at a different pitch as he was lowered into it.

Jerry tried to yell and struggle but the sound was muffled and the closeness of the walls of the pipe only spurred the claustrophobia.

From within the pipe Jerry heard the rubber tube from the concrete pump bumping and lowering into the pipe with him. Then then the distant sound of the revving of the pump. The first sploosh sounds of the concrete as it fell from the end of the hose and hit the ground.

The concrete was touching his hair.

He could smell the earthy smell of the concrete.

He screamed futilely as the concrete pushed up over his temples.

Over his mouth.

Now pushing into his nostrils.

His pulse throbbed in his temples against the pressure.

The concrete was warm, no, hot on his face.

It pushed against his shoulders. He hoped it would lift him. Not enough, not enough.

The concrete had pushed under his eyelids and the caustic lime was burning.

His heart was racing, faster and faster against the pressure.

His ears were zizzing and singing while sparks played around his non-vision, vision.

He wanted so badly to breathe but his nose was plugged and his ears were full and the knot in his mouth was being forced down his throat.

“This is IT, this is IT, I am dying. There is no rescue, there is no fight”, Jerry wasn’t saying this, he couldn’t but it it was loud in his head.

The concrete had reached his knees but already he was too weak to move.

Jerry opened his mouth to inhale but the concrete/knot were lodged firmly in his throat. There was no breath. The concrete pressure around his lungs were unbreakable bands.

Then the pain.

The pain of no breathing.

The pain of crushing.

The pain of claustrophobia beyond madness.

Jerry just wanted to be dead. Why was it taking so long?

Blackness speckled against his mind. Like an inverted starfield. Filling slowly to engulf him.

“Heavenly father, dear Lord Jesus, into thy hands I commit my spirit… please, please. Forgive me for all these things” Jerry’s mind raced with images and feelings from across decades of life.

His ears buzed with an increasing tinnitus of hypoxia.

Yet, still life stubbornly persisted. It had no right to do so, I should go now!

Until, with a final creschendo of searing pain…

Something, like a scythe, of burning red-hot steel, cut… into his being… and

… at last,


posted on Oct, 11 2017 @ 06:54 AM
a reply to: chr0naut

Nice one! Really well written.

posted on Oct, 11 2017 @ 05:02 PM

originally posted by: FauxMulder
a reply to: chr0naut

Nice one! Really well written.

Thank you.


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