Title: In the Dark
Rating: PG-15 or maybe more.
Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood or anything to do with it! sob!
Summary: This was the sort of situation most people had nightmares about at least once in their lives. But honestly, how many people wind up being in it?
Right, a friend basically ordered me to post this, so I did, despite my doubts of it's quality. Lol. I hope you all enjoy it!
In the Dark
This was the sort of situation most people had nightmares about at least once in their lives. But honestly, how many people wind up being in it?
Ianto was sure he knew the statistic, but right at that moment he could barely focus on staying calm as he stared into the darkness. He knew that if he spread his arms a few centimetres they'd reach a hard barrier. If he lifted his head to look down at his feet, his forehead would touch it. His toes were skimming it.
The smell of the earth was overpowering, like it had been when they'd gone to Brecon Beacons.
'Oh! Very smart Ianto! Really, make things worse by remembering that!' screamed his brain inside his skull. Ianto really hated his brain sometimes. Why couldn't he be like Owen and just switch it off?
Sarcasm was a blessing sometimes, because that very thought helped him calm a little. Not that he really had anything to be calm about. But panicking would cost him air, and he didn't have the best supply at the moment.
Ianto took in a deep breath and held it to centre himself. But within seconds it escaped as a terrified sob. He couldn't help it. He was terrified. Whoever had done this to him had been a downright genius, in the cruellest sense possible. Not only was this a terrifying way to die, but –if Ianto was honest with himself, and it's always good to be honest with yourself when you're about to die, Sarcasm, Sarcasm!- it was also the dirtiest.
Ianto could sense all the dirt pressing down on the wooden lid, hear all the bugs crawling in it –and god help him if one got in- and just imagine all the air being used up by his greedy, greedy lungs.
His hands were clawing at the box's sides now, and he let out a cry, wordlessly begging to be let out.
"Please! Please! Please, let me out! Let me out!"
Was there anybody there to hear him? Had they buried him and left? Or were they listening right now, enjoying his terrified cries?
Ianto's face crumpled in terror, in desperation and tears. His shoulder blades dug into the bottom of the coffin, his whole body ached from rough treatment he didn't want to remember, and to top it all off, he really had to go to the toilet. If that just wasn't his bloody luck!
Hysterical hiccups escaped from his lips as he registered just how you never considered things like needing a toilet if you've been buried alive. Then again, you never expected –nor wanted to be!- buried alive. But he would be damned if he was just going to let himself go. If the others managed to find him in time, then he'd never hear the end of it from Owen, Mr. I don't need a toilet any more-Harper!
Would the others find him? Something in Ianto doubted it. They probably hadn't missed him yet, and then when they did, they had no way of finding him. He didn't have his phone on him. His suit had been taken from him.
He'd been grabbed, taken somewhere, beaten, violated, and now he'd been left to die. It struck him, through his growing hysteria, that it was ironic that it hadn't been aliens, but plain old humans that had done this to him.
Ianto felt the tears stinging his cheeks and he wanted to curl up on his side, try to comfort himself. But he couldn't, the coffin wouldn't allow it!
His hand struck the wood and he shouted "FUCK!" before dissolving into another series of sobs.
"Jack! Jack… please! Please get me out of here!" he called, knowing Jack would never hear him.
He was alone.
He was alone in a tight coffin, six feet deep, in the dark.
He was alone as he slowly died.
In the dark.
The above mentioned friend said Ianto-fans would kill me if I didn't write more, or keep him alive, so… Would anyone care for a sequel? Lol.