Writing Challenge - Torture

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  1. Torture can be many things, and have many faces. Physical torture, that wounds your body and drags out pain that perhaps the mind had never before imagined. Emotional torture, that can eat someone from the inside out and leave behind only a shell of what they once had been. Either way, torture to some degree and in some form likely comes to everyone at some time in their lives.

    For this challenge, you're writing a character in either first or third person that is experiencing some form and degree of torture as the main driving point of your post. It could be anything from agony picking between a lover and family to being held hostage by enemy soldiers. No matter what setting you chose to use, torture in some capacity should drive it.

    With that, I will leave you to your creativity and imagination :)
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  2. Her breathing was ragged, she tired to look around herself rapidly but her head was held down with two, thick, leather belts. A singal light above her flickered occasionally, before going out completely causing the small girl to jump and begin crying out for her parents. The light stay'd off for many seconds before it sparked back to life. Despertly the child pulled at her wrists, begging to be freed from the chair that restained her. Her cries fell on deaf ears. The scientists that obesrved the small child. She wore a white dress that was tattered and unclean from the many times she'd messed herself since the experiment began two weeks ago. Tiny legs pressed together,feet unable too touch the blood and urine stained ground, tears rolling down her pale cheeks. Her body was beginnging too show signs of starvation, though the Iv kept her from dying, it wasnt enough for a child to remain healthy with. The child cried out again for her parents and family, as she heard a growl rip though the room and her tiny eyes widened.

    "NO PLEASE NO" She screamed out. The head scientist ingored the girls pleas, she was becoming a nuscince. They had gathered enough information as he lifted a glass case over a button that read 'terminate subject'. The girls screams got louder pleading for help. Many of the scientists looked away, unable too watch the gore filled scene that was about too unfold, while others watched with disgusting fascination. the button was pressed and a group of wild, starved dogs walked in growls ripping though the air and the childs screams and pleas became louder as she jerked and fought against the restaints. Then it happened, the dogs did there job. Blood curdling screams rang though out the veiwing area, and holding cell. Painfully the scientists took notes as they had been instucted. The angoy of not being allowed too help the child had burned in the minds of those who watched, many had asked to be removed from the experiment but had been denyed leave. This was torture not only for the children but those who watched and still clung despertly too sanity.

    (What on earth did i just write O.O)
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  3. Plink... plink... plink...

    God above, the noise was repetitive. He'd lost count of how many times he'd banged his head against the concrete wall, trying in vain to subdue his consciousness. After a while, his forehead had become immune to the smack against the hard surface, building up the strength to stay alive. Damned survival instinct.

    Plink... plink... plink...

    "How long have I been here?" he muttered, but the stagnant air answered him with silence. He wiggled his chin, attempting to work the stubbly itch from his face. He'd grown a scraggly beard from his days of imprisonment. It had to have been weeks since he'd last seen sunlight or any form of life.

    Plink... plink... plink...

    "You know, you could just wake up," a voice said, but he ignored the hallucination. It appeared to him as a hazy smoke, the figure of someone long lost to him. The voice itself didn't even sound familiar anymore. "You spend all your time in here. Just... leave. We miss you."

    Plink... plink... plink...

    "Quit fuckin' with me," he growled, voice hoarse from disuse. "I can't get out of here. I'm stuck." Leaning his matted head against the wall, he bumped it in time with the infernal noise that kept him awake. He was aware of how dirty he was, but there was little point in caring anymore. He was probably going to die without ever knowing where he was.

    Plink... plink... plink...

    "All you do is sit in here and wonder how you're not dead," the voice snapped, and he closed his eyes. "You torture yourself day in, day out, when it's your fault that you're stuck in here!" He could almost imagine her folding her arms, giving him that hard glare she always did. Cracking an eye open, he studied the fog, noting how green its eyes had become.

    Plink... plink... plink...

    "Ain't that easy," he remarked, continuing to hit his head on the wall. He heard a scoff.

    "Yes, it is. Open your eyes. Come back to us. We don't want to see you like this anymore." Something warm grazed his face, but when he opened his eyes, the figure was gone. Just wake up? If it had been that simple, he would have done it already.

    "Just wake up...." The voice was so distant now. Could the torture, the pain... could it really all end?

    Plink... plink... plink...


    (Well, I tried to make it sound torturous in that he's in a coma, stuck inside his mind, waiting for someone to come help. Even though it's his fault. Not sure if that came across, but it was fun regardless!)
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  4. Few things were so degrading as being unable to lift a heavy load. Charlie flinched at the heavy crack of the ring master’s whip that urged him on to lift the bleachers sitting before him. Made of some convoluted mixture of concrete and steel, the bleachers were heavy enough without a bunch of humans sitting on them. Tonight, they were especially full. Charlie’s chest heaved as he took another deep breath in preparation to lift the stands. There’d be another mark on his back if he didn’t pick up the pace soon. A drop of sweat trickled down his nose and hung on the piercing at his septum for a moment before falling to the ground when his grip at the metal bar separating the bleachers tightened.

    The whip cracked again, this time dangerously close to his feet. Charlie grunted, the sound low and primal, when he finally lifted the bleachers. His toes dug into the soft ground, hardly good for keeping his balance. Patrons in his act laughed and squealed as their seats slowly rose from the ground. Some clung to one another, unbalancing the weight. Charlie didn’t have a say in telling them to sit still. His veins popped out to form prominent and ugly patterns in all four arms with the stress of exertion and sweat stained the ugly shirt he wore during performances to hide his back. The brand at his hip and the scars of the whip stayed out of sight.

    It took a long moment for Charlie to work up the energy to lift the bleachers over his head, as he usually did. When he managed, the crowd’s screaming increased to an unbearable volume. Equally uncomfortable was the pain in his back- where the disks of his spine shifted out of place. The boogeyman cried out in agony. He couldn’t do it anymore. Charlie tried his damnest to set the bleachers down easy, so as not to jostle the patrons, but in his haste to relieve the unbearable pain in his back, he all but threw them to the ground. The ring master shouted at him and cracked the whip against his back, eliciting another anguished groan from the fallen demon while the humans who weren’t injured in the fall fled from the big tent.

    Charlie stumbled, hardly able to stand on shaky legs. When the whip dug into his back and the man cut him down with harsh insults and threats, he fell again face first into the dirt. He’d never felt so ashamed.

    ((A little thing I wrote a while back ago for a friend. It fit the prompt well enough; the circus is a torturous place for performers with no choice in the matter- even demonic strongmen.))
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  5. "You don't have the balls." It was obvious the discomfort that Henrik was already in. He was vertically stretched in midair, bound by chains extending down from the ceiling and sprouting from the solid concrete floor. The room was made completely of the same gray rock, almost one seamless piece. The chains had retracted into their sockets, painfully pulling his upper torso apart from the lower. He was bare from head to toe, leaving room for any sort of fine bladework. His head too was chained, though it was linked to a simple ring embedded in the ceiling, holding his collared neck up. It would be so unfortunate if the prisoner started biting. It didn't stop him from spitting, however. A nice pool had begun forming on the floor beneath him, the sum of Henrik's efforts to hock a loogie at Kane. Perusing through the rack of probes available to him, the young man selected a fine three-foot, ebony baton, checking the balance and hardness. He promptly turned on his heel and slammed it between Henrik's legs, eliciting a cracking, yet undeniably agonized scream. Beneath that, only Henrik could hear the terrifying sound of cracking eggs. His hands and legs strained in their constraints, struggling to cover the wounded vital spot.

    "You're one to talk," Kane remarked, speaking in that annoyingly snide voice. He stepped back as a small pool of blood started to form beneath Henrik, merging with the previous pool of saliva to form a frothy pink fluid. "Oh my. Must have hit too hard. Maybe I should check for a softer stick..."

    Fighting the shuddering agony, Henrik managed to deliver another verbal assault. "Shut up, you little puke!" That earned him a solid kick to the ribs, Kane skipping out of spitting range. Something made a snapping sound as Henrik tried to struggle against his bonds again, and he screamed.

    "How sad. I'd hoped to save the ribs for last." The demon rushed forward and cupped Henrik's chin, forcing his mouth shut. Flashing a smile that would make a dentist envious, Kane spoke in an oddly soothing voice. "It can all end. Just say it." Henrik's glare spoke for him. Kane grunted disappointedly, and backhanded his charge. Suddenly besides a wide bucket, the demon reached in and produced two damp sponges, transferring both to one hand. Another flash, and he had two pads connected to something hidden in the shadows of the room by two rubber-coated wires. Kane set to work attaching the sponges and panels to each of Henrik's biceps, strapping each pad on with an almost enthusiastic grace. When both were firmly attached, he leapt backwards, landing in one of the shadows, which promptly vanished, revealing the demon and Henrik's next torment. The water sliding down his chest felt suddenly cooler, and then again as hot as the sun. His flesh burned and sizzled, his screams echoing even louder than before. The pop of his skin bubbling was comparable to firecrackers. And then the fire was gone, though convulsions still wracked his body. Kane stepped away from the lever, and asked again. "Say the words."

    It took a minute for the cloud to lift off of Henrik's mind. Any form of speech seemed beyond him, as if he had never learned to talk. The words couldn't come out right. And yet... Bone-breaking laughs began to roll off of him. His mouth was forced open by the raucous guffaws, laughs that even Kane was shocked to hear. Prisoners break. But this one? So soon? The laughs died down, and Henrik found his words again. "You dumb... Shit. You think..." He paused to get through a coughing fit. A small splatter of blood hit the floor. "You think a guy like me... A guy in my position... Wouldn't have had worse? From Masters of the Rack, no less." His grin was somewhere between pained grimace and maniacal smile. "You know nothing. Nothing. You'll never break me. You're an amateur! A failure!" Another coughing fit afflicted him, and whatever more he had intended to say fell short. Kane merely stood in place, staring at Henrik with a glare of daggers.

    "You're right, Henrik. Of course you are! I'm merely a novice. I have yet to learn the true art of pain. Nay, I have yet to grasp the barest concepts of it!" He turned away from Henrik, walking into another wall of shadow, and returned wheeling out a shining cart. "I have yet to earn that particular right, the honor to study under the masters." He began picking through the glittering objects on the table, holding some up beyond Henrik's sight to examine them. "But then, you're so fragile. So easy to break. You're too right, Henrik. I am only a novice. But compared to you humans? I'm one of the Great Masters themselves." He produced a scalpel, the blade nearly half a foot in length, the handle fitting precisely in his palm. He casually strolled over to Henrik, brandishing the glorified knife in the direction of his abdomen. "And I have much to learn."
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  6. Well hmm. I hope it's not breaking the rules of the challenge. But I'm going to use something from the backstory of one of my current RPs.

    Drake stood there, chained to the wall. He felt as if he could no longer scream out in pain. The merchant and his son, who had killed his mother only a few years back, were now ripping his diamond-hard scales from hi body one-by-one. His tears mixed with the blood where his scales once were, causing a stinging feeling due to the salt from his tears. He could no longer scream, his throat felt like he had swallowed shards of glass. His body felt weak. Drake stood limply, only being held up by the chains on the wall. He knew, yes he knew, that his scales would grow back. But he knew this meant that there was a possibility of them growing back. He wanted his freedom, but he couldn't see it in sight. He couldn't see that in a few years, he'd be freed by the daughter of the merchant, the sister of his mother's killer. Drake felt beaten and broken.

    Over the next week, his scales had been forged into a blade. The blade was nearly indestructible, and would light its victims aflame. Drake knew how his scales were used. He could feel it every time the blade was used to kill an enemy in battle. Not even bullets were enough to stop the power that his scales gave the blade. He felt more and more like a monster. To him, it felt as if he was the one doing the killing. He felt the blood on his hands, and he couldn't even wipe it away. His hands smelled of iron, but he could not clean it away. He cried until his body could produce no more tears. He needed his freedom, he desperately needed it. He made a decision the day the merchant's son hung up the sword. He decided that it would make one last kill. It's final kill, would be the beheading of the man who had not only killed Drake's mother, but had used his scales to form a monstrosity of a weapon. This thought brought a smile to Drake's face. It was the only thing he could focus on.

    That's when the beatings got more severe......

    Thanks to @Second Best for doing this Rp with me :3
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  7. Cigarette ash and burning flesh. A burning filter somewhere still overwhelming, even in his present condition. Not nauseating, but more an irritation which some smells have. Like burning hair or a burnt grilled cheese. Common smells to the average man, even those who wouldn't consider themselves so average. Here the irritating smells which seeped into my life were things like disinfectant, hydrochloric acid and burnt oil from old engines. Place was a junkyard far out in the South-East reaches of Utah. Nice and secluded. Out here long enough you forget the sound of the city, the sound of civilization. Can help reminds our local tenants just how far out of reach everything can be with a short drive.

    Black burlap sack pulsed with his panted breath. Bits of water flinging off, surely moistening that dried blood on the other side, giving him a wet haunting reminder of where he is. I was here to remind him why. I stood off to the side, cigarette hanging from my lips letting only the bud illuminate for the time. A bit of total darkness can be restful for both of us sometimes. Only the smell of burning tobacco reminded him I was still here, otherwise not a sound. I wondered if he was still breathing alright for a moment, didn't want him to die early on me. Contracts to keep, reputation, the works. Bit unusual to have a timed contract though. Give the guy a substantial amount of pain over a forty hour period. He is not to expire. I can manage. It may not be the most fashionable of trades, but it's work I enjoy.

    It'd been about five hours now since our last little session, looks like he's drifted off. Well. Time to see if he's still got a pulse. Reaching over I grabbed hold of a hanging switch and felt the familiar loud click as the dozens of bulbs lit up above. Great way to get a tan. Great way to interrupt a nap too. With one step over I planted my heel in his groin and yanked the bag off his head. Yup, still alive. Couldn't really scream anymore though, more like a series of yelps. Like some damned dog with a busted leg hopping along. I reached over an pulled a chair toward us and had a seat. His face had gone from that fine rich boy exterior to almost passable for a homeless man stricken and beaten. Few missing teeth, black and blue, split lips. I think I gave him a concussion yesterday. Out stone cold for about an hour before he came too. Pretty sure his optical lobe is fractured.

    "Well, you've got about five hours left on this planet before your concierge comes to collect you." I'm pretty sure he could still hear me, though from the looks of it I may have rattled a few bolts loose. He must have really pissed somebody off if they came to me. Not that I'm the best or anything, but my particularle... clientele pay fitting amounts for very particular results. Disfigurement is my specialty. Deprive them of certain senses, make them blind deaf mute and drop them off down in Southern Brazil or Africa. Usually dead in a week or turned into a drug mule or worse. No consequence to me. Just take the knife to them, shake em up real good. Like tossing a cat into a bag with three dozen box cutters and some tar then toss it down the stairs. Won't be a pretty sight, though I prefer people to animals. Sure, somebody like me calling it merciless to kill a dog for fun. Say what you will but I'd shoot the first bastard I'd see who'd go and torture a dog. But a man, a human being isn't the same. Torturing a man is an art, knowledge of anatomy. A dog can be subservient.

    "Here, I'll tell you what. I'm feeling generous right now. I'll let you choose. Left or right?" At first a confused expression crept across his face then his eyes narrowed and he began struggling again. "Now now now, don't need to do this. I'm giving you a chance here to not only choose but think of all the times someone has been so generous. After me friend, you're choices are going to become non-existent." He scowled through his bruises and swollen face from those green bloodshot eyes.

    "Blfght." He spat out a mumble of a word.

    "I'm guessing that was a left?" He kept his eyes locked on mine. I'm sure he was thinking about how much he wants to kill me, beat my corpse, hurt me in every way he can. Probably still thinks he can. I'd seen that look a hundred times before. Most tend to be broken entirely by this point but sometimes you get those unlikely few who really do surprise me. He's not entirely broken yet. That's not really part of this job anyways. Just the torture. Just the pain until he's picked up. I stood and approached my tool box, shuffling through the drawers until I drew one nail and a small mallet.

    "Now, I'm gonna need you to be real still, you hear? Ha! I'm just goofing with you there." I approached and set my tools down beside him and took some duct tape to his head and the chair back. "Did you know there is an air pressure difference in your head than the atmosphere outside it? Like when your sick or on an airplane, your ears keep popping. Your eardrums and sinus' adjusting to your situation. Well, inside your ear are all these little hairs, bones and fluids. Well when your ears ring after a loud noise, that's the sound of cells dying in there and once that ringing stops you'll never hear that frequency again. Well, what you're about to hear is the worst ringing I'm sure any living being can hear."

    I placed the nail into his ear canal with care and placed the mallet lightly on the end. "To hard and I could break flesh and give you a nasty infection." With that I gave the nail a tap and he let out a rather terrible cry. His eardrum was now torn out. I gave another tap with the nail turned just a hair up and I felt the familiar crunch through the nail as the end scraped along the bone. Pretty sure I didn't break the equilibrium. Well, only one way to find out. I sat my tools back down and took a seat, watching as he writhed back and forth, head strapped into place. Wasn't bleeding from the ear, that's good. Though from the looks of it he couldn't stand himself. I gave my watch a glance. Two hours. Hmmph. I hope the grocery store is open when this is over with, could go for some waffles.
    #7 SlamifiedBuddafied, Apr 1, 2015
    Last edited: Apr 1, 2015
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  8. I’m back there again, in that wretched household. Back in the basement, in my supposed safe haven. I’m crying again, though no tears grace my face as they no longer come out like when I was a boy.

    It hurts, everything hurts. I’m freezing, it’s safe but it’s just so cold down here, even with the rags that make up my useless bedding and my clothes. I’m starving, they give me so little food that my stomach is constantly begging and clawing at my insides for something, anything. My entire body hurts from the beatings it receives daily, and my heart is aching and broken from being constantly ridiculed and hated.

    There’s no love here, I want love. I want food, I want warmth, I just want something to make the pain go away. But no, I’m left in the dark in a place I can barely see and worried whether or not they will come down and beat me for pleasure again.

    The scene changes to me on the streets, still freezing, still starving, but with a purpose now. There’s love, just a little love, but I gladly take it and make sure it’s kept alive as I roam the streets, searching for food and warmth and medicine for that love. Sometimes I get beaten, if they catch me, but mostly I make my escape and return to my family, the only thing keeping me going.

    …Why do you torture me, my dear? You make me remember things so vividly just for a story and it hurts. It hurts. And I love you so much that I can’t help but let you hurt me mentally and emotionally, broken and shattered as I am. I never understood love, having been abused for so long that I barely understand it. But what I feel for my family, my friends, you, is love. I know that. So please, don’t make me hate. Don’t make me hateful like they were. Please…

    This is basically in the POV of one of my characters, who had a nightmare and is describing it to me. I'm weird like that, thinking my characters are alive. |D Hope you enjoy, or maybe not.​
    #8 chaosheart13, Apr 5, 2015
    Last edited: Apr 9, 2015
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  9. This has nothing to do with this challenge, but how would someone go about making a challenge thread?
  10. Kohana was laying unconsious in a cell. The floor was dirt, the walls all concrete save for the front, which was composed of iron bars. She eventually roused to the putrid smell of blood and excretments from other prisoners. Her head was throbbing and the dirt under her cheek was bloodied, causing clumps to form. She lifted her face, head reeling. She lifted and wiped the blood trickling from her mouth.
    What happened? the female werewolf asked herself.
    Then she remembered. She had been on a boat on her way to the nation where should would enlist in the milatary, when a ship had approached quickly. The small crew come to attention as the ship reached them and was identified as one owned by humans. Once close enough, they had boarded the ship Kohana was on. She had fought hard, but there were too many and her allies were dropping like flies and being dragged to the enemy ship. Kohana had been sword fighting with a human, when she scented another behind her. She turned back to look, but it was too late to act. A fist slammed onto the top of her head and there was a loud thud as she crumpled to the deck of the ship. Then the world went black. As she lay in darkness, she heard the warbling cheers of the assailants as if she had been underwater. Finally, she slipped into numbness.
    Now she was sitting in a cell and reality had sunk in. She had ended up in a fighting arena, a location feared by her kind and anyone with sanity. A shiver ran up her spine and she cursed quietly to herself. How had she let this happen? Kohana held a hand to her face, taking deep breaths. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! She knew she was in for some trouble from the horror stories she had heard about places like these.
    Kohana listened and heard a few sobs and even some whimpering and vomiting. The mood was as dark as her cell, since only torchlight in the passage in front of her cell offered any light. Across from her cell was another seperated from hers by a concrete walkway. She figured there were rows of these cells filled with various other beasts and people the humans dubbed as mythical or unnatural in any way.
    She looked over herself to find she had been allowed to keep her armor and clothing, probabaly so the person that purchased her didn't have to give her armor either. Her sword was gone though, which made her heart race. Her longsword, "Steel Kiss," had been a gift from her mother passed on from past generations. She'd have to get it back when she escaped, since she was determined to do so and would be believe she would do.
    Kohana eased herself into a sitting position with her back against the far wall. She looked to the entrance of her cell to find she was being stared at by a human in a padded black vest and a shiny helmet to match. She wasted no time in lifting her lips and baring her fangs with a snarl. She had a habit of acting more wolflike even in her human looking form, the one she was in now.
    "Save your snarls for the arena, mutt."a male nasally voice spoke from the helmet.
    Kohana's chest rumbled with a growl still until it cut short when she saw a familiar blade clutched in the gloved hand of the human. Her sword. The man's grin was hidden under his helmet visor as he noticed how she had been attracted to the blade. He held it up. "Looking for this?"he taunted.
    Kohana stood up quickly and marched to the cell bars, swiping out to try to grab her sword. The guard managed to pull it out of her reach. "Ah, ah, ah. You have to use it in the arena only."he reminded.
    She grumbled and swiped one last time. This time he caught both if her hands and shackled her wrists together, letting the precious sword clatter to the floor. Kohana drew her hands back, but it was too late. Her wrists were already shackled together.
    Her cell door opened and another guard appeared, grabbing her wrists and pulling her forwards. Kohana dug her heels in and growled again, trying to avoid being moved. The person dragging her was having trouble getting her to budge. Even his larger size couldn't make a werewolf move much, as they were stronger.
    He had to get another guard to come and the other pushed her back forwards. The one at her back was aided by the guard with her sword and the combined strength of the three made her have to start to walk forwards. Kohana thrashed and looked into the other cells, seeing a vampire with hollow looking eyes, a bloodied child weeping into the chest of a man with a festering gash across his face. As she passed, she saw a small, scarred up dragon curled up in a corner as well as a cell with a once prideful looking griffin with matted feathers and trembling muscles. Kohana was smacked upon the back of her head until she was thrashing with less force and her head seemed to be spinning.
    Dread filled her heart and fear knotted in her belly when she thought of what horrors awaited her in that God forsaken ring she was being led to. The guards came to a halt near an iron door. She heard the cheers of a crowd and imagined how sick it was for them to enjoy this bloodsport. All of a sudden the iron door in front of her began to raise vertically and the cheering grew louder. Kohana looked through the doorway and saw a large sand floored, circular space in front of her with stone walls towering around the edges. Stadium stands for seating were situated above the wall and she spotted clumps of humans in various garments shouting with excitement. There was no roof and open sky took its place.
    Kohana had been too busy observing the arena to notice the guards had unshackled her. She turned and grabbed for her sword, which was actually being offered to her. She grabbed it quickly in two hands and was ready to swing at the guards when they shot an electric blast at her from some kind of odd weapon that was fabled to be a 'gun.'
    She fell, sword still in hand. Her mouth tasted like burning and her muscles spasmed once. She got to her feet and raised her sword when a guard yelled, "Just go in there and fight another beast!"
    "You're the real beasts!"she yelled, swinging.
    A guard unsheathed his own sword and steel met steel with a loud clash. She hadn't expected the retaliation and soon enough the blade was barreling towards her face. She cried out as she was cut, her eye almost cut out. A red slash ran down one eye, missing the iris by sheer luck. She clutched her face and yelled in pain before she was shoved inro the arena, swors tossed after her.
    Kohana landed on her back and looked up at the sky, blood blinding her right eye. A bird flew above and the crowd roared down at her. This was her welcoming into hell.
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  11. (Are excerpts from our own works acceptable?)

    Consciousness slowly found him, the comforting warmth of sedation slipping away as rough, icy tendrils crept into his mind, flowing down his spine to spread through his extremities, one by one. His fingers twitched, then his toes, until each one of his limbs was filled with the prickly sharp cold of awareness.

    Phenex groaned when a dull ache started at the back of his head, throbbing in a steady cadence as it reached his temples. Opening his eyes, he looked around, unable to make out much of anything, at first; all he could see were dark, fuzzy shadows. Eventually he could see shapes, the blurred outline of a door coming into focus. As his grogginess finally started to fade, he attempted to put a hand to his aching head, only to realize he couldn’t.

    What the hell happened, anyway? And where was he?

    Am…am I paralyzed? No…this is something else, entirely. He reasoned. If I were paralyzed, I wouldn’t be able to move my fingers. So what the hell—

    He glanced at his arms, realizing that they were splayed out on either side of him, thick manacles encircling his wrists; peering down, he noticed his legs were much the same, his feet firmly planted on the floor with chains on his ankles, holding him flush against the wall, his body forced into the shape of an ‘X’.

    Idiot, He scolded himself, of course—you’re chained to a wall!

    The events prior to him losing consciousness gradually came back to him; his battle with Reeves, fire leaping off of him in monstrous waves as he sent one jet of flame after another at the Shade, ducking and weaving to evade the shadows the other controlled. He had just gotten him down on the ground, had been prepared to deliver the final blow, when…

    Phenex growled when the final piece of the puzzle fell into place, his arms shaking with barely contained rage as the image of a seductive, dark-haired woman came to the forefront of his mind.

    “Iris…” Her name came to his lips like a curse, his breath coming in fast, shallow bursts as he looked around the otherwise empty chamber he found himself in. It figured that the half-siren had resorted to using cheap tricks, launching a sneak attack on him when he’d been focusing all of his attention on Reeves. Being as powerful as he was, her earlier attempt to use her siren’s song against him had had no effect, whatsoever; judging from what had followed—and the position he found himself in, currently—it was safe to assume that she was a very sore loser, indeed. All it would have taken was a quick stroke of one of her wrist barbs, and whoever dared defy her would be rendered immobile.
    And he had dared.

    Now we know for sure, he concluded, vaguely taking notice of the countless shackles lining the dungeon’s walls. They were crusted with suspicious, reddish-brown stains that he could only assume had once belonged to Iris’ past victims, the firebird suppressing a shudder at the thought. There’s no doubt about it—she’s in league with Reeves.

    But how, he didn’t know. It was something the council had suspected long ago, but for whatever reason, they had never acted on it, and the next thing he knew, charges had been filed against Hercules instead, the demigod shipped off to the realm of Nowhere before he could even ask him what had happened.
    hanks to Athian, maybe I’ll finally get the chance to ask him,
    he thought. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of the informant; he had promised Athian amnesty, had promised to keep him safe from Reeves and whoever else might do him harm—and he had failed. And to top it off, now he was stuck here.

    Well, that was about to change.

    Gritting his teeth, Phenex began tugging against the manacles with renewed vigor, the sleeves of his leather jacket sliding down to reveal the straining tendons of his forearms. Unfortunately, this only caused the manacles to cut into his wrists further, blood trickling down from where the metal bit into his flesh. As soon as the wounds had healed, he tried again and again, even going so far as to turn himself into a blazing inferno—all to no avail.

    What the hell are these cuffs made of? He seethed, panting from the effort. Were they magically sealed against his fire, somehow?

    He didn’t have time to figure it out, for at that moment, the thick, industrial door on the opposite side of the chamber opened with a bang, the metal reverberating when it slammed against the cinderblock wall behind it. Pale, yellow light pooled across the concrete floor, stopping just short of where he was shackled.

    A shadowy figure stepped forward, his features obscured by the halo of light surrounding him. With the familiar swishing of his coat, the smart clack of dress shoes against the concrete with each, deliberate step taken, and the telltale, raspy chuckle—there simply was no mistaking who it was.

    “Well, well,” the Shade taunted, tapping his palm with the flat of the knife that he held in his other hand, “Look who’s finally woken up.”

    “Torture me all you want, you bastard,” Phenex snarled, ignoring the pain of the manacles cutting into his wrists when he began pulling on them in earnest. “I’ll die before I tell you anything!”
    Reeves’ mouth twisted into a malicious grin, his piercing blue eyes staring mockingly at Phenex from beneath the brim of his fedora.

    “Aww, but Phenex, buddy,” He simpered, idly twirling the knife in his gloved hands before slicing through the thin material of his captive’s t-shirt, exposing his midsection, “Where would the fun be in that? The first part of your idea has merit, though. Believe you me, pal, after everything you’ve put me through? I will be torturing you all I want. Dragging information out of you is just a bonus…”

    He pressed the tip of the knife lightly against his skin, Phenex involuntarily wincing at the sudden contact. Reeves flashed him a feral grin, his eyes glinting coldly, savouring his reaction. Phenex gritted his teeth, watching as he slowly drew the tip of the blade from one hipbone to the other, deep, crimson blood trickling from the shallow wound as he pulled the knife away with a satisfied smirk.

    Exhaling through his nose, Phenex’s gaze flicked from the blood-coated knife, to Reeves’ devious grin.

    Mustering up his strength, he barked out a laugh. “If that’s really the best you can do, you’re in for a long night!”

    “Oh, I’m counting on it…” He began adding vertical notches along the horizontal gash, Phenex biting his lip to stop himself from crying out, every stroke of the blade causing his abdominal muscles to spasm in protest.

    I’ll be damned if I let you get any satisfaction from me… He vowed silently, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. When I get out of this, Reeves, you’re mine; we’ll see just how tough you are when I’m torching you!

    Several excruciating minutes passed until Reeves, appearing satisfied, took a step back to admire his handiwork. Phenex fought against the sudden desire to sag in his bonds, his arms and legs trembling with exhaustion as he glowered at the Shade. Reeves simply chuckled, pulling a thin vial out of one of his pockets and holding it up to what little light was coming in through the rafters overhead. Phenex eyed the viscous, green liquid within the cylindrical tube warily, the back of his neck beginning to prickle.

    “You’re probably wondering what this is,” Reeves declared, uncorking the vial with one hand while pulling the glove off of the other with his teeth, “Well, there’s no need for me to tell you; you’ll see, soon enough…”

    Adding a dollop of the substance to the tips of his first two fingers, he pressed them against the gash on Phenex’s midsection none-too-gently, spreading it to every inch of the wound, and finishing with a sharp prod to the centre. The pain flowing through him was beyond anything he’d ever experienced before, the green concoction seeming to have some sort of chemical reaction to the over-abundance of heat his body provided, burning the wounds from the inside out—almost as though it was using his own fire against him.

    To make matters worse, it seemed to be hampering his body’s natural regenerative abilities, preventing the wounds from closing. His torment was far from over, however, for Reeves pulled out the knife once again, and started slicing all along his chest and sides with reckless abandon, leaving Phenex absolutely no time to steel himself against this new barrage while his midsection continued to throb with searing agony.

    Reeves was panting by the time he had finished covering him with lacerations, his eyes glittering feverishly as he stared up at his captive. The knife clattered to the floor, the Shade dropping it in favour of pouring more of the green liquid onto his fingertips, his lips stretching into a cruel, sadistic grin when Phenex gave an involuntary shudder.

    He couldn’t stop himself this time. A guttural scream tore from his throat as Reeves began smearing more of the substance into his wounds, the sharp, burning pain pulsating throughout his entire upper body until agony was all that existed for him. He hated himself for crying out, hated the unshed tears stinging the corners of his eyes; showing weakness in front of the enemy was tantamount to throwing his very pride away—and showing weakness in front of Reeves was the worst of all.

    More than anything though, he hated being so defenseless, so completely and utterly powerless against such a cowardly foe—one he knew he wouldn’t be in the clutches of right now, if not for the deception the Shade relied upon so heavily.

    Once he was done applying the green liquid to each one of Phenex’s cuts, Reeves pulled his leather glove back on, and smirking, made his way to the opposite side of the cell, picking up a metal tin Phenex hadn’t noticed, earlier, no bigger than a shoebox. He didn’t know what fresh hell Reeves had in store for him, but he couldn’t imagine it being worse than what he was already enduring.

    As Reeves presented the contents to him, however, shoving it no more than an inch beneath his nose, he realized just how very wrong he was. If the searing pain coursing through his torso didn’t turn him into a writhing, screaming mess, the iridescent, ethereal ice in Reeves’ hand would change that.

    “Now, are you sure you don’t have anything you wanna say to me,” Reeves peered up at him, twirling the chunk of ice in his gloved hand, “Something to do with that little human pet of yours, and what her connection to the artifacts is, perhaps?”

    Sweat trickled down Phenex’s temples, his body shaking from both the torture Reeves had inflicted on him, and the fatigue setting in from hanging against the cell wall. His wrists were sore from where the manacles cut in, his wounds continuing to throb as the green concoction frothed along the edges, prevented them from healing. He was certain he knew what it was, now, something he’d read about once in the Spectrum’s archives; one of the very few things toxic to his kind—to most every species of entity, in fact—able to take a physical form.

    Elder root. The word flashed through his mind just as he had seen it in the giant, leather-backed tome so many decades ago, written in bold, Theban script. He would have to leaf through the book again, once he got out of this mess.

    If I get out of this mess, He corrected.

    “There is only…one thing…I want to say to you, Reeves…” He panted, baring his teeth as he stared down at him. “Enjoy this while it lasts—because when this is all over, I will show you the true meaning of suffering!”

    Reeves laughed in response, shaking his head as he traced the edge of one of Phenex’s wounds with the ice, the magic within it making it far more potent than any ordinary cold substance known to the mortal realm. Ethereal ice, if used against a human, could freeze them from the inside out, killing them in an instant; but against Phenex, it only added to the slow torture he was being subjected to. Frost coated his flesh where the ice touched, the sharp bite of it burning him the way fire did to most everything else.

    “You know Phenex, you couldn’t be more cliché.” Reeves declared, Phenex straining against his bonds when he held the ice against the large gash in his chest, just below his tribal sun tattoo, “You may as well be one of those comic book heroes you hear about in this world. ‘I’ll die before I tell you anything!’…‘Enjoy it while it lasts…blah, blah, blah…’ Ha! Don’t make me laugh, firebird! With what I’ve got in store for you, what makes you think you’ll survive that long?”

    The sharp, biting cold filled the entire right side of Phenex’s torso, working down through his ribcage and into his navel in a way that he could only imagine was the equivalent of dozens of ice cold razorblades sliding back and forth across his skin; just barely nicking the surface, over and over, slowly peeling away each layer until all that remained was a searing, burning pain deep within. Eventually, the pain was beyond unbearable, for Reeves had begun trailing the chunk of ice in a sort of horizontal zigzag pattern, repeatedly following the exact same trail until a thin layer of frost had built up on his chest.

    All Phenex could do was scream, his throat raw and burning, each one of his muscles taut and trembling. Between the elder root concoction coating his wounds, and the sharp coldness of the ice, the two agonies had melded together to form one, excruciating, debilitating torture. He squeezed his eyes shut, unsure of how much more he could take, before sweet, merciful unconsciousness would come to claim him—assuming it would come at all.

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  12. Darkness. Pure darkness filled Celestia’s field of view as she sweat of fear and anxiety, a faint smile upon her face. She was praying under breath for some kind of hope to save her from this truly horrific, terrible fate. It was subsequent to the trial, the girl being proven guilty due to her temper setting off. The crime in question – the murder of two young men, and undocumented poisoning of several medical supplies which later caused the death of a young woman. She wasn’t proud of what she has done, nor was she disappointed or mad herself. Even if she was, it wouldn’t show upon her face. Nobody could see her, not even the executioner in question, but her feet up to her ankles were covered in dry cement, so she could not move and thus she had no point in trying to struggle. All she could do now is do the unthinkable.

    Hope. Hope that maybe Makoto or Alter Ego would shut down her execution in some way, hope that maybe it would malfunction all together and she would live on to accomplish her dream. Although, she well knew this was most definitely the end, all the students were generally indifferent about her and murdering two innocent teenagers wasn’t going to make them praise her. She even at her trial called them all faggots, so that’s even LESS of a chance that they would help her. She started hallucinating as the conveyor she was on started to go up…It was time for the end.

    She could hear crowds cheering as she got closer, and pitch black figures started flashing all around where she was, and her grin widened. The figures had the body shapes like the students that she had killed and the students that died before her…Whispering phrases like ‘It’s Me’ and ‘Help us, Ludenberg…’ She tried to hold her grin as tears started trailing down her face. She started sobbing, as the cheers got closer. In which she could hear Monokuma’s sinister giggle, which made her cease her sorrowing. She quickly rose a hand from her praying and wiped off her tears, then placing her hand back on her chest and reflecting the smile she had before, the crowd visible, a bunch of blank, black figures that looked just like Monokuma.

    Celeste heard footsteps as ‘London Bridge is falling down’ starting playing on the piano at a slow pace. It was a teddy bear shaped figure holding a torch, walking towards the stage. The girl then noticed that below her was all…Grass and wood. Her eye twitched for but a single moment, trying not to show emotion in front of the crowd, in which her fellow students were certainly watching. If she was to die a killer, she would die a cold killer.

    Just as she expected, the figure set fire to the grass in which she was on. She struggled a little bit, but the cement wouldn’t budge. She then looked up, supposedly to the heavens as the fire rapidly spread to the stage, the crowd cheering louder and louder for the ‘climax’ to this brutal performance. She started sweating from the heat as the fire was right under her covering everything but the platform she was on, which even if the fire didn’t reach it her dress would certainly catch fire somehow. Stage lights above the stage fell, engulfed in flames and the cartoonish castle behind her collapsed to shards. This was her death, the fall of a glorious empire that will certainly rise again one day. Her eyes shook as her way to express her fear, her grin widening even more to a creepy extent whilst her sweat glands panicked from heat.

    A siren could be heard, Celeste looked down for but a moment, then gasping in joy..A fire truck; come to save her- or so as she thought. The sirens honked and whistled while the hose on the top set out some of the fire around her. Then she realized, her eyes narrowing as a ramp arose from the ground right in front of the stage. She then started crying- this was truly the end for her ‘empire’. To add insult to injury it was the exact thing that supposed to prevent fire. She looked onto the truck rushing towards her as she gave up her ‘image’, sobbing and whaling just as the fire truck flew of the ramp towards her. Her dress just caught fire, the burning sensation rushing up and all around her clothing as the flames danced on her body. She looked up from depression, a blank expression across her face, everything froze. The truck, the fire, leaving Celeste partially clothed, everything except her. The truck then started to launch towards her, inches away from her. She then looked down, the ‘London Bridge’ song speeding up at furious rates. She murmured her final words as the figures of the dead took hold of her “I'm sorry....” The truck collided with her, crushing the stage and everything on it, as well as her body...And spirit.

    (It's Dangan Ronpa characters, but uh.....Here's what I got. Eh? Immense physical and mental pain? By the way, those spirits 'Leon Oowata' are people she killed. Irony.)
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