The rope bit into his wrists, tearing into the flesh and causing blood to soak the polypropylene, he moved them subtly trying to find any give but to no avail, he was bound and incapacitated.
The black slate floor he kneeled on was cold and unrelenting, his knees stung from prolonged contact, but he didn’t dare wince or allow himself to show weakness. Fresh blood seeped from lacerations on his face, the taste of iron filled his mouth. It was dark, only a few ornate sconces on the walls to his right and left provided any illumination, making the shadows of the numerous forces arraigned against him dance malevolently before him.
Countless pupils - hundreds even - stood on opposite sides of an aisle that he sat defeated at the head of, like the procession of a macabre wedding. Their fists we clenched at their sides and they stared blankly ahead, like a gruesome homage to 1984. A sea of black and yellow. It was also deathly silent, the only sound in his ears was the sound of his beating heart as it drummed a syncopated pattern. He struggled to find his breath as the darkness enveloped him. And then there were footsteps that shattered the silence. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. It sounded like expensive dress shoes, they fell in much more organized patterns than his heart, as though their owner had rehearsed this scene many times.
“Mr. LaRusso,”
His pupils dilated as the oily words reached his ears, his body tensed as it prepared to take flight or defend itself, only there was no means of defense. The greasy, articulate voice continued.
“I told you how this all would end. And now we reach my grand crescendo. For years you bore like a tick into my mind, sucking away incessantly. To be defeated once by someone so bullheaded and insignificant as you leaves a mark on a man, but to have you consistently rear your annoying little head is inconsolable. Oh yes, there were years of counseling and therapy, of retreats to Tibet to visit the Dalai Lama. But none of it could erase the stink you left on my legacy.”
A swift blow to the head left him seeing stars. Terry’s lengthy legs allowed him to generate a great deal of torque, and Daniel was well acquainted with those strikes by now. He coughed, and the spittle was accompanied by blood. He kept his silence, knowing that any words would fall on deaf ears. Terry Silver was not in the habit of listening, especially to someone he disdained as much as him. He kept his eyes turned to the floor. Would this be the hour he was reunited with Mr. Miyagi. Part of his heart soared at the thought, but it was quickly overcome by despair. His family. His children. They would be left without him.
And just as those thoughts reached his cerebral cortex the objects of his greatest fears were brought out, struggling and screaming. Anthony and Samantha. They too were bound, and they looked worse for wear. Scratches and bruises adorned their adolescent skin. His mind filled with vitriol at the sight of them, and his already short fuse was ignited. He struggled vehemently with his bonds, shouting all the while, “Silver, you son of a bitch. Look at me!” Behind that unbridled rage was pain and desperation. Tears lined his eyelids threatening to escape at the slightest provocation.
And look at him Terry did. And his eyes glowed with mirth, in the way only his could. He grabbed Anthony by his shoulder length hair and smacked him with the back of his hand. Laughing as he fell limp to the floor. Sam sobbed watching her brother. One of the guards near her kneed her in the chest.
“What? Did you think I was above hurting children?” Terry asked, regaining silver-tongued composure. “Danny, Danny, Danny. When you send your little pawns at me, don’t be surprised if I sweep them off the board. Sometimes… to reach the king no piece must be spared.”
And he watched in total agony as his children were tormented by his goons, unable to help themselves. The blood that fell on the ebony floor stood in stark contrast to the vivid and precious spilt essence of life, the vitality drained from their eyes moment by moment. And just when he felt he must abandon himself to the darkness, and fade into oblivion he saw his wife brought out.
And then he woke up.
The pains in his chest ate at him as he struggled to regain his breath, and as brilliant daylight filled his freshly opened eyes. He gasped continuously as his senses awoke and realized he was drenched with sweat. These dreams were not uncommon at this point. Not since the end of the tournament and their loss to the villainous megalith Cobra Kai.The panic overwhelmed him, but he did everything in his power to not utter a peep and wake up his beloved wife, Amanda. She was breathing peacefully, radiant even in an unkempt state. She always smiled when she slept, unaware of the demons he faced that he hoped would never meet her.
She had become increasingly hostile toward his attitude over the months since Cobra Kai returned, increasingly prone to be suspicious of him and his desperation to undo them. He could understand. Look at what it had cost his family. His reputation in the community. Look at the literal scars it had left on his children. But he was desperate for her companionship through it, because he felt utterly alone a lot of the time. Others looked to him for answers, and not for the first time he had none. The panic attack that gripped him slowly lessened in force as he sat up in their bed, placing his hand on the small of her back. Hoping that with a touch alone he could channel the worries and hopes of his heart into the love of his life. Hoping he could somehow help her understand as the distance between them became a chasm.
“Mr. Miyagi. What do I do?”
