[OOM] Dream.

[stuck_mynock]

When Atton closes his eyes, he hears laughter and sees nothing. He’s blindfolded after all, having to rely on his hearing. From the laughter, he can pick out the whistling of a whip coming down, and flaying the skin off his back.

There’s healing. Skilled as the healer is, she removes the wounds completely while leaving the pain behind. The process begins again, skin flayed off in long and ragged lines.

Once is alright. Twice, three times, four times, five times. Atton can withstand torture, can shrug off pain. But the pain is left after the healing, and the effect is cumulative - Stinging upon stinging until his back feels like it’s on fire. The pain lasts longer than it should. It’s days before he can lie down on his back without it smarting.

They never seem to stop laughing. They always seem to be having such fun, touching his wounds like curious children. One runs his fingers through Atton’s hair, makes some remark on how it’s awfully course - Atton doesn’t care enough to remember the exact words - before pulling it like a playground bully and tugging out a clump.

Atton doesn’t remember much of what he thought. As the clump of hair is stuffed into his mouth, spat out and stuffed in again, his jaw held shut and two fingers pinched around his nose until he reluctantly swallows, he tries to think as little as possible about how humiliating it is.

Instead, he just thinks about how it’s all so very immature. So awfully schoolboyish. It’s a thought that remains long after they throw him back down into the cell’s filth and leave him be, laughter fading down the hallway.







When Atton wakes up, his back hurts. He checks for wounds in the mirror, but there aren’t any. Scars, of course, but nothing that wasn’t there months ago. His hair is completely intact, too.

It’s a relief, of sorts. He likes his hair.