9/11 Short Stories

"No…”

Darkness surrounds the one bound by heavy chains and a metal collar. His pale skin is covered in dirt, dust, and even dried blood. Where the chains squeeze tightly around his wrists and ankles, blood and heavy bruising can be seen on the skin under and around them. Shifting figures are in the midst of this black room, their silhouettes burning through the shadows. Masks hide their faces and cloaks hide their bodies.

“You have failed to comply, once more,” a raspy voice speaks, his voice bouncing off the walls as it echoes.

“I’m sorry…” the chained one says, his voice weak and his eyes cast down.

“Tsk tsk, mongrel,” the voice continues. “First disobey my simple orders, now you disobey my rules?”

The chained one looks up, revealing

He grasps the boy by his hair, pulling so that he cannot look away. Even so, the boy keeps his eyes fixed downward.

“Three offenses, two in a matter of minutes,” the masked figure sighs. “I don’t necessarily like doing this, y’know.”

The boy bites his tongue.

“It pains me to do this,” the figure continues, standing back up. As he says this, he unsheathes a long, hard, slightly curved stick. It is stained with faded crimson and covered in scratches. The boy starts shaking, fear clouding his eyes.

“I don’t like it, and yet look what you make me do…” the figure sighs. “I’ve no choice. You must know your place, boy, and know who you are. Whenever you try to be something you’re not, I have to put you back to that previous form. I don’t like it, no. I don’t-”

“Bullshit!” The boy suddenly snaps, practically hissing the words. The fires of fury reflect off his gaze of fear and darkness.

The figure speaks in a tone of anger, “what did you just say to me?”

“Don’t say you don’t like it, because I know you do!” The boy cries. “I know you love it...I see the look you have...But why? Why do you like

The boy continues to repeat the words under his breath. ‘Why?’ He repeatedly murmurs, crying the entire time.

“What are you?” Asks the figure.

The boy does not respond.

“Nothing,” says the figure. “Who are you?”

The boy cries harder.

“Nobody,” says the figure. “What is your name?”

The boy finally breaks. “What did I do to deserve this?! Why am I the one here?! P-Please, I just want to go home! I just want to go...let me go! Let me go! Leave me alone! Go away, please-”

Just as the boy says this, ‘CRACK!’ The stick comes down with much unrestrained force, pounding hard against the boy’s back. His skin immediately splits open upon contact, blood spewing from the new wound, which overlaps many old ones; some mere scars, and others still healing.

“Watch your tongue, you ungrateful brat,” the figure growls. “I give you a home and life, and this is how you dare speak to me?”

“You don’t give me a home, you give me hell!” The boy snarls. “You took me from my only home!”

The figure chuckles. “This is your only home. And you will not speak to your master like that.”

Without warning, the figure raises the stick again. “Worthless