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Nov. 24th, 2007
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Nov. 24th, 2007 09:51 pm“Where have you hidden the artifact?”
A little under two months - By the time Atton had lost track of time, he’d learnt to start measuring the days by every five visits to his cell. Five a day, every day, hours of torture with his arms chained up, every device at their disposal, followed by rest. Rest chained to a bed stinking with the filth of the previous prisoners, sticking to the skin and smelling foul. In the first week, he’d vomited frequently, been unable to eat the bland, tasteless food left for him.
The guards took a huge and perverse delight in shoving his face down into the mess whenever he showed any sign of hunger or thirst - A lesson to be grateful for what he had. He began to long for the weekly icy showers - He’d grown used to the cold, and it was pleasant to have the filth washed off him, even if the cold did start to bite after half an hour or so.
It was a routine, of sorts, broken only by the semi-frequent bouts of not-quite-public humiliation, as the guards dragged him out into the unpleasant chill and snow of the outside world and chained him to a post, letting the soldiers and workers jeer and throw whatever they had on them. Atton picked up from conversations that it was a way of keeping them in line, letting them channel their anger at something.
“Where have you hidden the artifact?”
Atton didn’t answer. He wasn’t even sure how easily speech would come to him - Hours without water made his throat scratchy and dry.
{“Nothing you say is worth listening to anyway, Atton.”)
A needle slid past his skin, delivering what Atton knew to be the same unpleasant cocktail of every stimulant his torturers could get their hands. His torturer had explained this to him, with a slightly delighted tone, on his first day.
{“As part of your training, you will learn to be resistant to poisons and truth serums, Jaq. As the poisons start to take effect, you will be expected to continue your training as normal. Do you understand, Jaq? Do you understand?”)
The hypersensitivity made the pain of the whip lashes sting harder, longer. The truth serum that followed with a second sharp needle jab made paranoia set in, delusions. Atton thought they were delusions.
Atton didn’t let himself scream, except for those occasional moments when he was taken by surprise. He kept himself as silent, and quiet as he could, breathing heavily but refusing his torturers the satisfaction of frequent screams.
Sometimes he talked, however. When the serum and the pain made him less aware of his surroundings, he’d quietly protest that he needed to tell his friends. He had brothers, a boyfriend, close friends who all wanted to know what was happening to him.
He rarely got a response other than jeers.
(“You don’t have friends. You don’t have allies. Nobody could ever love a murderer, Atton.”)
He felt betrayed. In those moments of delusion, the guards seemed benevolent and friendly, punishing him for his own good. Atton couldn’t think of why they wouldn’t agree to tell his friends.
”Where have you hidden the artifact?”
He laughed -
(Laughed too loudly.)
- along with them anyway.
”Where have you hidden the artifact?”
When the torture (the whip lashes, the cutting, the burning, the torture field, the painful poison that his resistance wouldn’t let kill him, and everything else they could think of) stopped and the torturers left, he continued laughing, anyway.
A little under two months - By the time Atton had lost track of time, he’d learnt to start measuring the days by every five visits to his cell. Five a day, every day, hours of torture with his arms chained up, every device at their disposal, followed by rest. Rest chained to a bed stinking with the filth of the previous prisoners, sticking to the skin and smelling foul. In the first week, he’d vomited frequently, been unable to eat the bland, tasteless food left for him.
The guards took a huge and perverse delight in shoving his face down into the mess whenever he showed any sign of hunger or thirst - A lesson to be grateful for what he had. He began to long for the weekly icy showers - He’d grown used to the cold, and it was pleasant to have the filth washed off him, even if the cold did start to bite after half an hour or so.
It was a routine, of sorts, broken only by the semi-frequent bouts of not-quite-public humiliation, as the guards dragged him out into the unpleasant chill and snow of the outside world and chained him to a post, letting the soldiers and workers jeer and throw whatever they had on them. Atton picked up from conversations that it was a way of keeping them in line, letting them channel their anger at something.
“Where have you hidden the artifact?”
Atton didn’t answer. He wasn’t even sure how easily speech would come to him - Hours without water made his throat scratchy and dry.
{“Nothing you say is worth listening to anyway, Atton.”)
A needle slid past his skin, delivering what Atton knew to be the same unpleasant cocktail of every stimulant his torturers could get their hands. His torturer had explained this to him, with a slightly delighted tone, on his first day.
{“As part of your training, you will learn to be resistant to poisons and truth serums, Jaq. As the poisons start to take effect, you will be expected to continue your training as normal. Do you understand, Jaq? Do you understand?”)
The hypersensitivity made the pain of the whip lashes sting harder, longer. The truth serum that followed with a second sharp needle jab made paranoia set in, delusions. Atton thought they were delusions.
Atton didn’t let himself scream, except for those occasional moments when he was taken by surprise. He kept himself as silent, and quiet as he could, breathing heavily but refusing his torturers the satisfaction of frequent screams.
Sometimes he talked, however. When the serum and the pain made him less aware of his surroundings, he’d quietly protest that he needed to tell his friends. He had brothers, a boyfriend, close friends who all wanted to know what was happening to him.
He rarely got a response other than jeers.
(“You don’t have friends. You don’t have allies. Nobody could ever love a murderer, Atton.”)
He felt betrayed. In those moments of delusion, the guards seemed benevolent and friendly, punishing him for his own good. Atton couldn’t think of why they wouldn’t agree to tell his friends.
”Where have you hidden the artifact?”
He laughed -
(Laughed too loudly.)
- along with them anyway.
”Where have you hidden the artifact?”
When the torture (the whip lashes, the cutting, the burning, the torture field, the painful poison that his resistance wouldn’t let kill him, and everything else they could think of) stopped and the torturers left, he continued laughing, anyway.