𝗜𝗻𝗮𝗱𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆, 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀

𝟐𝟑 | 𝐈̅𝐕̅ 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐬

LORENZO'S POV

Trigger Warning | Proceed with caution: Torture, Sexual Abuse and Gore.

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Death By A Thousand Cuts. An arduously prolonged process of torture that was a daily regimen for my fucked up father's experiments. Each participant would commence the by creating hundreds of measly little cuts.

Instead of a mere thousand of cuts, us disciples were required to inflict thousands upon thousands of cuts. Twenty children, given twenty bodies in a dimly lit chamber to spend the early hours of the morning— slicing humans until they were irrecoverably disfigured and dismembered.

At the beginning, my seven year old mind could not comprehend the sheer volume of blood that was produced from a corpse. The metallic smell lingering in the air; frightening me until I began to scream.

Screams turned into croaks, and days turned into months— years had passed; and the sight failed to nauseate me. In fact, it took practically thirty minutes for the cuts to be made.

The days in which my blistering anger towards my own existence was apparent, my mind began to twist into its own haven. The haven included the prisoner repositioning itself into my arms, my legs. Each slice, the tingling sensation, the burn— felt like my own.

If I ever were to cut my own body, the punishment was vain. I'd be forced to watch number twenty, the youngest child conditioned in that fuckhole— waterboarded in a bath of alcohol.

It would prune her face until she was in and out of consciousness. The first time the guards brought, a five year old little girl, struggling; screaming out of fear after sighting the uncanny clear liquid— panic ensued inside of me.

This was a simpler time, before we assimilated to punishments, relished them in fact. Those punishments began to be the only near taste of death we were allowed to experience.

A taste of death, felt like heaven for us. Waterboarding was a unanimous favorite, as it allowed us to feel the oxygen flailing out of our system, our breaths slowing down. The sensation of freedom teetering towards the edge. One last push, and death.

How sweet the edge of death, felt. Four hours before sunrise, our excuse of a bed was totaled over into a communal pool of ice cold water. Three million euros, funded into the temperature system, that remains at a maximum level of frigidness to the extent where the room is frothing with cold.

All twenty test subjects, anticipate the plunge, although painfully cold, it was far suitable than being burned by a fifty cigarettes at a time. Watching rich, obese men laughing at the emptiness from my face.

My fists clenched until white, resting at my sides; as I splayed over their golden table. Each fucker, had a look of excitement in their greed struck eyes. Eager to have a priceless ashtray, one that no sizable amount of money or currency can purchase.

There was no replica of me. Nothing that quite mimics the lack of emotion that I possess. The absence of emotion is what defines me, and that is an aspect that no inanimate object can emulate.

Perhaps, that is the mindset of theirs that I could truly grasp. I couldn't comprehend as a child, why couldn't they like someone their own age. Why did it have to be me? For fuck's sake, I was a mere kid.

It makes me fuckin' sick to my stomach when I recount their touches. How utterly disgusting I felt after they'd touch me. How their microscopic dicks would arise at the sound of my scared whimpers.

It psychologically affected me. I avoid handshakes as they make me want to cut off someone's hand. Touch, makes me murderous. Number twenty grew up to be afraid of touch. I recognized that it made her face pale in fear.