It was as if sharp beams were stabbing into his body constantly. It wasn't, of course. But he felt like he was as broken as it would've felt like anyways.
It was blinding and omnipresent, and seemed to rise and rise into a climax of almost unbearable proportions. It was omniscient - it knew where to breach him, where to slice into him, where to cut into him. Waves of it rolled and rolled over him, and he screamed and cried and whimpered and sobbed. It was play, and he was the core. The center of all reception.
He writhed, and he struggled against the bonds against him. He struggled against the suffocating laughter of the insane, as they cut him open. They did so very slowly, very purposefully and with much glee.
Something dark and immaterial seemed to ooze from the people around him. He wasn't too sure whether it was real or not - the haze of cuts made sure of that. It was stifling in the cramped room - the blood stains as pervading as the sadism in the room.
He wanted to die. He wanted it to stop. He wanted relief. He wanted a lot of things.
Oh, was this some sort of cruel dream? He couldn't tell.
Was this the end?
Probably not.
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Fun Fact : I didn't use the word 'pain' at all in this drabble.
Something for all of you to think about. ^~^
