Fan Fiction ❯ Pain ❯ Pain ( Chapter 1 )

A/N: Sahen is a character from an RP. He's a former ring fighter in a Modern Fantasy world, complete with elves and streetlights with the fun little pinging noise for when and when not to cross the street. This is kinda... his perspective from when he was in the ring once, against someone new, and he got hurt bad. Now, he's crippled bad in one leg, can barely talk due to his throat, and can't fight anymore.

I rather love Sahen. Maybe someday I'll draw 'im. 'Till then, I'll make due with writing about him. He's like... A real prick. And he's also Horny, but thats really besides the point.

~.~.~

Sahen had never been one to believe in anything like fate, or the like, but he had always been a firm believer that everyone would get their come-uppins. Up until this point in his life he had not questioned his beliefs, had not questioned himself with aspects of religion, of God and of gods, finding that too often it made for the start of a migraine. If there was a Heaven, and he would not concede to such a belief, then he had been quite certain that he would go to its Firey counterpart, being rather too much of a prick to be welcomed past the Pearly Gates.

If for some forsaken reason he were to be reincarnated, he would probably end up as a dragonfly, short lived and violent, a hunter, before moving onto to something else short-lived and ever more violent, replaying his role in life. If such a thing existed, he must have spent quite a lot of time moving through the ranks to come to this point, violence being something that someone had once said permeated his very being.

But now, at this moment, Sahen couldn’t help but wonder, what, exactly he had done in this life to deserve this. Perhaps it was even carrying over from some prior lifetime, unable to reap its effects upon him previously, but acting upon them now, with plenty of interest accrued. Because, really, he didn’t see much done by him for him to deserve this.

As he lay on the ground, leg twisted beneath him, the knee facing the wrong way. As he lay on the ground, slowly bleeding, slowly drowning in his own blood. It hurt like hell, even if he didn’t believe in that particular after-life. But what really, really bit was that he didn’t pass out right then and there, didn’t suddenly swoon and fall, eyes blank because pain had over whelmed him. No, He stayed conscious. He stayed awake through it all, throat just too tight, too ripped, to scream, eyes clenched shut, though he almost wanted to open them and to look at just what was causing his agony.

But maybe he was lucky that he couldn’t make himself look, couldn’t make himself open his eyes to see the bloody mess he was, the crippled mess he had become. Maybe it was luck that he wasn’t screaming because then, he would probably lose his voice, and whoever loses their voice from whimpering? Because that’s what he was doing, whimpering like a puppy who had just been kicked. Except this puppy had been more than kicked, this puppy had been twisted and mutilated, this puppy had been maimed.

It was a normal fight at first, like any other, against a new guy and he hadn’t know what to expect and he had gotten cocky when they guy hadn’t done much. But then, he went to kick, and the guy, his arm shot out and he caught Sahen by the throat and he caught that leg as Sahen went to kick and rip, there went his throat and snap, there went his leg. His leg was gone, done for, he knew that much in his whimpering, because he had seen what had happened, had seen how his leg, like some sick, macabre breadstick, the kind you get that’s crunchy, and snap, twist, and its crumbs, with larger bits strewn about.

Really, what had he done to deserve this? Perhaps there was a certain irony and beauty, a certain poetry to it. He came to world amidst blood and pain and he left in blood and pain, even if he was only Twenty-Four. Of course, when he had come, there had been a certain amount of love to it, some bit of happiness in that there was a child coming into the world. Here, there was only agony and hatred and rage and the slowly creeping, freezing sensation of death. Here it was an ending, and there it had been a beginning. Just like he thought. Poetry.