He sat there in a cold, dank room, shivering as his heart shuttered. The pain within his chest convulsed, shaking a deep throated cough out of his lungs. The guard just stood there waiting, waiting and watching. The dirty rag of a blanket sat in a puddle of blood and vomit on the floor, the white barely showing through the age-old stains of misuse.
Slowly, the man turned in his seat, facing a mirror in the back of the room. His face, or what once was his face, looked back, distorted and ruined. His skin was raw, the scraps of clothing barely hiding the scarring that covered him in his entirety; body, soul, and mind.
Damaged...
Haunted...
Broken...
That's what I saw, what I saw through that screen in my head. He was Agony. He was Pain. He was Suffering. All at the hands of his own discourse.
"How do I know, you ask."
"Well, he is me after all."
