Frantic to Kill (The Dead Speak Book 7) by Emmy Ellis

Author:Emmy Ellis [Ellis, Emmy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-11-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Langham’s shoulders were burning. Even his armpits.

Everything fucking ached.

Hanging like this…he’d seen it in torture scenes on TV but had never quite got to grips with how much it hurt. Now, he knew exactly how much.

It was indescribable. Something he thought he wouldn’t be able to tolerate.

Funny how the mind and body work so you can cope.

At first, the pain had been too much to handle. With every gripe, every spear of agony, he thought about how it felt and wallowed in it. But, as with a toothache, if he forgot about it, something else taking his attention, his mind not focusing on that Godawful throb, the pain went away.

He tried that again now, pushing his mind to another level, centring on images from the past or memories he cherished. Anything so he didn’t feel.

It didn’t work all the time.

Talking to Oliver wasn’t an option either. Finding the words, or even the energy to speak them, brought on fresh bouts of anguish that ripped through him, jangling every nerve ending and magnifying the stress until he thought he’d pass out.

A mantra flowed through his head. Think of something else, think of something else…

As though the pain was a being that had the ability to hear, it raised its intensity a notch, forming itself into a monster that liked to torment and send a man insane. With each new level, he told himself he couldn’t take any more. Not another second of this bastard shit. And every time he managed to tolerate it.

He’d heard somewhere that the human body and mind were able to transcend pain. He could only describe it as going into a trance, his soul rising from his body to hover above him, his shell left there, hanging. The part of him that processed pain, his self, was free of distress.

Or am I actually dead?

The second he’d thought that, his self zipped back into his body. The rush of discomfort stripped him of the ability to breathe, like someone was choking him.

He wanted to hear Oliver’s voice, needed to in order to fully understand he wasn’t alone. Oh, he knew Oliver was there all right, but in this darkness it was easy to forget. It stretched on for what seemed like miles yet closed in on him at the same time.

Langham inhaled a breath at last. “I’m…” His voice, just a whisper, broke through the seam of his dry lips. “I’m okay. I’m alive.”

And he rose out of his body again, wondering if he’d passed out and this was what it felt like when you neared death. Did the self separate from the body, waiting in some kind of indeterminate state for the shell to give up? Did the self linger, just in case the body wanted it back?

He watched himself from a great height. His head bobbed, his chin dropping to his chest. There was no pain. Sleep, blessed sleep, had shooed it away for now.

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