Warhol's Prophecy

95

HE WAS BLIND.

For terrifying seconds, David Layton was convinced he had gone blind.

His heart hammered against his ribs and he tried to cry out, but then he realized that the darkness was caused not by blindness, but by the strip of material fastened so tightly around his eyes.

The same material that had been used to bind his wrists and ankles?

Indeed, even if he had wanted to scream, he couldn’t.

His mouth was sealed shut by several strips of masking tape wound right around the back of his head. It stuck to his hair and pulled at his scalp when he tried to move.

The pain from his injured leg was almost unbearable, and he realized that it must be broken. Somewhere around the thigh, he guessed.

Had the blindfold been removed, he would have noticed the gleaming point of bone protruding through his ripped jeans, its end bloody and leaking dark red marrow.

He had no idea where he was, or how long he’d been unconscious.

More to the point, he had no idea who had run him down, then bundled him into the car, and spent so long carefully blindfolding, binding and gagging him.

Pain and fear filled his mind in equal measures.

He tried to shout through the masking-tape gag. Tried to tell whoever had run him down that there had been some kind of mistake.

That he had money he could give them.

That he needed medical treatment for the shattering pain in his broken leg.

He was sitting on grass: that much he did know. He could feel its damp blades beneath his hands. Could smell wet earth in his nostrils.

Wherever he was, it was deadly quiet.

No passing cars. No dogs barking. No voices.

He guessed he was in the countryside somewhere. He didn’t know how long he’d been travelling in the car. Didn’t know how long his captor had been driving.

He didn’t even know what time it was.

From the silence, though, he guessed it was still night.

He heard movement close to him.

Tried to gauge where it was coming from. His left? His right?

Jesus, if only he could see. If only he could get free. Get his hands on the bastard who had done this.

Anger now began to enter his mind, but it disappeared rapidly.

The fear returned.

He heard more movement. Realized that his captor was standing only feet away.

The pain in his leg had not diminished and each movement brought fresh waves of agony.

For frenzied moments he struggled to free his hands, then gave up and slumped back exhausted.

His captor had moved closer now. Layton felt a hand against his thigh. Against the protruding bone that stuck out through his torn skin and ripped jeans.

It was that same hand that gripped the marrow-weeping bone and pulled.

Pain unlike anything he had ever experienced before enveloped his entire body.

Inside the gag he shrieked in unimaginable agony, felt consciousness slipping away from him, but a series of sharp slaps to his face kept him hanging on. Denied him the oblivion of a blackout.

Blows began to rain down all over his legs.

Blows that combined effortless expertise with tremendous power. Blows with the same heavy object that had first struck his head. Blows that shattered more bone.

The tibia splintered with a harsh crack.

The patella of the right knee took three whacks before it finally broke.

The left one went after just one thunderous strike.

This time he could not retain consciousness and he welcomed the darkness, but it would not come. More sharp blows to his face. Water splashed onto his cheeks and something freezing cold against his neck that he realized instantly was a blade.

Tears were coursing down his cheeks. Pain? Fear?

His entire lower body felt as if it was ablaze.

Then he felt another blow, this time to his shoulder.

The left clavicle broke easily.

So did the right.

The knife was pressed against his cheek again.

Drawn quickly across it to open the flesh to the bone.

When he felt hands pulling at his shirt, ripping it open, he prayed to a God he didn’t believe in to help him.

When those same hands tore open his trousers and tugged them down slightly, he began to sob uncontrollably.

When the tip of the blade was forced into the eye of his shrivelled penis he prayed for death.

It was a long time coming.