Mada’s
Cursed 1:
Lost Souls
By: Stacy L.
CATEGORY: Angst, Drama, Vingette
TABLE FIC PROMPT: 011. Red (stargatefic100) and 004. Blood (50_darkfics)
WARNINGS: Dark, Disturbing Imagery, Violence, Captivity
COMPLETED:
AUTHOR’S NOTES: There is a reference to the Hindu god Mada contained within the story. Mada was the demonic monster god of drunkenness/intoxication, liquor and hunting. He was believed to be a monster powerful enough to swallow the universe and the heavens. (Referenced from Dictionary of Ancient Deities by Patricia Turner & Charles Russel Coulter).
This story was written as a response to table fic prompts from two LiveJournal challenge communities: stargatefic100 and 50_darkfics.
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Blood, it was everywhere: on the walls, on the floor, on the ice cold chains that secured his wrists fast. The blood of so many permanently stained his cell walls…his blood and theirs, the blood of others who came before him, others who had suffered here, others who had died here. The room felt cold like ice, death was so alive down here in the dungeons of Mada. The screams of a thousand victims filled the suffocating silence. The sounds of pain being inflicted also rent the air and sometimes they never stopped. As he closed his eyes he could feel, could sense the stifling presence of the others, of those who came before him, fought, struggled and died before him. Those who had suffered a fate similar to his.
As he shifted he felt ill as the damp stickiness he lay upon made its presence known. Normally he could ignore it, had somehow managed to get used to the sensation of sticky blood clinging to his skin, HIS blood, which he no doubt lay in a pool of. His wrists were fastened tightly to the floor, so tightly that he could barely rise to his knees without causing excessive strain on his already aching muscles, this served as a punishment, his punishment for resisting and fighting against those who hurt him. They had laughed as they had locked his wrists in place, into manacles that no doubt were older than him. He cursed them, unable to do much else due to the weakness their latest session of torture had inflicted upon him. His consequence was to remain trapped, chained in place, unable to even sit comfortably where he had been secured.
Darkness was his constant companion, for he could see little in the cell that became his so very long ago. The darkness choked him, had long since become a part of him, a part of his life, a part of his very soul, for he had been abandoned. He had been left behind by those he had called friends, those he had loved, those who believed that he no longer drew breath. There was no escape for him, no rescue mission soon to come, for he was trapped, forsaken, a prisoner on a world no one would dare return to.
Clenching his eyes shut he tried to block out the despair threatening to encroach, threatening to consume him and strip away more of his very soul. He was alone, forgotten, never to be searched for, never to be found, forever to be mourned for a passing that had never come to be.
He shifted again, biting into his lower lip as his mind was drawn abruptly to the cold wet stickiness he lay upon. He felt ill as he envisioned the puddle of blood that no doubt stretched beneath him, a vivid crimson color that was as sinister as it was beautiful. He attempted to turn onto his back crying out as the move only added pressure and strain on already taut muscles and growling in frustration as the pull on his arms filled him with biting agony that forced him again to return to lying on his stomach. As he resumed the prone position he had been forced to remain in since he had been secured in place he found himself biting deeper into his lip. As his body began to throb and spasm in protest he found that he wanted to scream, even opened his mouth to, but instead squeezed his hands into fists pushing his forehead hard against his arms, clenching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as the pain and stiffness of having to maintain the same position for so long threatened to consume him.
As the pain began to ebb the voices began to encroach again. The screams of countless others rent the air and the sounds of punishments, of tortures being inflicted upon the helpless, the chained, the trapped and the damned grew in intensity. He swallowed hard knowing that his time was coming. He would soon be visited and his screams would once again blend and mix, merging with those hundreds of others that resided on the other side of his cell door. His time would come and more of his lifeblood would spill splattering against the walls, mixing with the myriad of others who had been unfortunate enough to have shared his cell in a past long forgotten.
As the air around him again grew thick he released a weak cough finding himself beginning to wheeze and knowing that his time would soon end. Soon he’d become part of the history of this place, his blood would mingle with those who had come before and as he ceased to draw breath his soul would journey to join the thousands of others who had lost their lives here. Soon he would become no more than the stifling air, the endless screams, the haunting presence that surrounded him each and every day. Soon, soon he’d truly be among the damned, among the lost, among those who were truly forgotten and as he yanked uselessly against his manacles, those that bolted his hands fast to the floor, he felt dampness upon his face, a dampness that had nothing to do with sweat or blood, a dampness that came from within as he finally allowed the tears to come…
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