Evan sat in the cold, dark room by himself 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for the past month and a half. He had given up on being rescued a long time ago, and with each persistent hallucination he was reminded of how much no one cared for him.
Anyone looking at Evan for the first time would wonder how the hell he is still alive and recently, he's been asking himself the same question. His wrists and ankles were in shackles, the skin around it bloody and raw. His kidnappers only gave him enough food and water to keep him alive, making every bone in his body prominent. A piece of bread every other day and if he was lucky, a cup of water. His ribs were swollen, some fractured and broken while others badly bruised. He had a multitude of cuts and scars decorating his face and chest. But the physical wounds were nothing compared to his mental state.
He heard the door open and involuntarily began to shake and feel nauseous. Before he had gotten here Evan considered himself a pretty tough, unbreakable person. He was content with his life...happy even. But day by day, his confidence was stripped away until he was left thinking he was a coward and that no one would ever consider him worth saving. It was drilled into his head that his friends hated him until he actually began to believe it.
His body tensed as the footsteps came closer. He made sure to keep his eyes on the ground, because if he ever looked Gordon in the eye his punishment was even longer and more torturous - a lesson he learned the hard way. He was lower. He was worthless. He was expendable.
"Stand up," the voice barked at him.
Evan wearily placed his hands on the ground, helping to push himself up. He grabbed onto the wall for support and with grueling effort was able to stand on his own two feet.
Once his shackles were removed he was thrusted into the infamous chair, wrists and ankles bound to it with metal plates. Wires ran from the chair to the electric box that sat in the corner of the room. He could withstand the punches and the bruises, but voltage was a whole new level of pain he had come to despise.
Evan watched numbly as Gordon circled around him and after his third time, stopped in front of him. Evan focused his eyes on the boots - the only thing he was permitted to look at.
"How are you doing today, Evan?"
His eyes stayed glued to the floor. He swallowed, remaining silent.
"It's rude not to answer me," he tutted, adding "although that is a theme among you, isn't it?"
When Evan still said nothing Gordon grew immensely irritated. He walked around the chair and without warning grabbed a fistful of Evan's overgrown, filthy brown hair, tugging back as hard as he could. The kid let out a small cry, which soon morphed into screaming pleas to stop. He could feel the individual strands of his hair being ripped out of his head one by one.
When his hair was finally let go, he let out a shaky sob and slumped his head over. He could feel warm blood trickling down his forehead.
"It was an easy question. Let's try it again. How are you doing today Evan?"
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push down the nauseous feeling growing in his stomach before shakily replying "I'm doing fine."
Gordon smiled down at him before becoming somber. "It's nearing two months now, let's face it: your friends aren't coming to save you. Only you can put a stop to all of this. Just tell me where the base is located."
Evan stared at the now blurry boots with watery eyes before slowly shaking his head back and forth, repeating the same line he uses every single day. "I can't do that."
"Why not? Don't you want to get back at them for leaving you to die, Evan? Doesn't that seem nice?" Gordon's voice rose up and down, forcing Evan's ears to follow every word of his script.
