There was P A I N. So endless, so infinite that it almost radiated from his skin. That while a limited time here had felt like decades there and he could hardly attain to the idea that this was anything but another method of torture — another attempt to find a weakness and draw from it. As if he could feel his skin burning still or an iron hot against his flesh burning and he’d SCREAM and he kept screaming. It wouldn’t stop; it never stopped. “ STOP — stop...” his words only echoing in the home he considered an illusion, some burned out remanence of the place where he’d fallen and been dragged to hell. His fingers brushed at the slabs beneath him, hands shaking so violently that it was any wonder he could even move them like the echo of his pain was branded to his skin. He’d tried and he kept trying but in the end what was there but to accept his FATE — to know that he D E S E R V E D his punishment.
His vision hadn’t adjusted yet. He could see the outline, he wanted to scream at them but his throat felt so sore and dry that he couldn’t get much out but a whispered plea. A hope that if his torturer heard him, that perhaps he’d go EASY. Perhaps he’d pause even for a second (a second that surely always brought a moment of relief).
@ofisolaticn
