Choked and Strained

The chains were heavy. He had been powerless against them. Thick iron links, as wide as a man's hand. Rusted but intact, they were bolted to the stone block. Carved by countless hands, each line ran with his sweat and blood. Still he strained, blocking thought, blocking emotion. The chains weighed heavily on mind and body. Especially on his mind. His memories were wrapped away. There were the chains, the block, the collar and the cuffs. Ankles and wrists, neck and back. Atlas would be proud. Rubbed raw, his skin stung from the sweat. He would have felt anger, if he could. That had been taken from him as swiftly as had his dignity. There was nothing but the chains.

He had been free once, one glorious time, before the hooks had bitten his flesh. His old scars had been reopened. The familiar pain came creeping back. The chains tightened again.

Soon the chains would take his breath and then his life. In this dark place, thinking was impossible. It had been formed like that. Only the pressure existed. Pure in its evil. It remained and it permeated everything. It blocked the light completely, leaving the man dim with darker shadows. Shadows that hung down from his limbs, gripping and grasping his form. They dangled from the chains. The shrieking was half-formed and without a source, but it may have been the chains. Or the shadows.

The chains hung, the pressure built and soon something would break. Whether it would be the block, the links, the bolts or the man. Only chaos knew.