The Session

He comes and goes. There is no pattern.

And here I hang, arms tied above my head like a slaughtered pig. Or a pig waiting to be slaughtered.

The door behind me bursts open, the only door in the room. I have thought of the existence of that door for days now, or has it been weeks?

Hands grab me and place me into a chair. The same chair, possibly once part of a nice dining room set, now used for man’s evil deeds. The types of sin we only do behind closed doors.

It begins.

The punches are expected, the session normally begin with them to wake me up. It isn’t to break me, they know that won’t work, instead it is to humiliate me and show they can. It is like a slap in the face.

A hand slaps me in the face. I try to grin but after days of this the swelling has made it hard. You never show fear to your captors, they feed off the emotion like sharks.

It goes on for hours and I begin to scream very early into the session.

“What is the answer?”

I do not know, I truly wish I did. My voice has long since gone hoarse from the continuous yelling in pain. My tormentors are kind in that they allow me a brief sip of water in between sessions.

I never see his face. It is a man, no woman could be this cruel… at least none I have met. It might be the same guy or a different individual each session, but it is still the same result. Pain.

We begin again.


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