Under the cut is a snippet of something i will not post anywhere bc im a terrible human being who does terrible shit to des,
Descole was getting sick of the incessant clinking of the chains. Though he tried his best to relax his arms, letting them hang limply in their shackles without moving them to disturb the chains, they kept twitching however hard he tried to resist.
His head hung low. He had been in this muggy little dungeon for⊠how long? Two, three months? When he had first arrived here, he kicked and bit his assailants until they left him alone. They didnât feed him at all; itâs easier to deal with captives when theyâre too weak to resist. He remained steadfast, ignoring the pain in his stomach for longer than anyone should. He was relieved when they allowed him solitude, but he soon realized that this wasnât just a way to keep him from harming the goons he had been captured by; this was torture of its own. He didnât have any water in his body other than the barest amount they gave him when he was almost dead, and even though he would have had it without complaint, they still forced it down his throat and didnât let him breathe until he drained the bottle. The bottle itself was tiny, but the little nozzle was stuck so it took ages for the water to come out. The oafs who âfedâ him wouldnât stop making disgusting, lecherous comments while he was unable to speak. He wanted to rip out their throats.
Funny thing about captivity: a personâs mind can be torn apart while kept on the brink of death for an extended period of time. He tried not to open his eyes; the images dancing on the edges of his vision - the forms of his daughter and wife, laughing and smiling, only for their throats to be slit the next moment â were too much. Their smiles never left, their hollow eyes boring into his own, stuck in their twisted cheer. He would close his eyes, panting and gasping at the sharp pain of his stomach, only to hear their horrible, bloodcurdling screams for longer than it took for them to die in reality. He wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but his throat was dry and he didnât have enough water in him to make tears. His mind was foggy, constantly clouded by the stifling silence that his memories didnât allow. After a while of this, his body felt disconnected from him, like clothes of a sort. He had lost touch. He felt hollow.
Eventually, after they had noticed his weakness, they began tormenting him in close quarters without the excuse of giving him food or water. Those sleazy pieces of shit wouldnât stop mocking him and making disgusting comments about his body, ones heâd rather not hear. What he wouldnât give to just get a shirt on â they let him keep his pants, at least. He kept that shred of his pride. They kept him weak, barely able to speak and less able to form insults in his mind. He was finding it difficult keeping his thoughts straight, though he did wish he could keep those intrusive memories out of his head.
When those filthy-minded goons came in again, led by a large man with broad shoulders and a black ponytail, they came closer than the wall to torture him. There were three this time.
The leader knelt by him, putting out his hand to ruffle Descoleâs hair. Laughing as his captive grit his teeth, he took Descoleâs chin in his hand, turning his head to look at him with less effort than he would have used if Descole had been at full strength. Gazing at his hooded eyes, clouded from so long in solitude and starvation, he chuckled. âYouâre almost gone, huh?â
Descole narrowed his eyes, trying to turn his head away from the manâs hand. The man couldâve easily stopped him, kept him in his grip, but decided to let his head fall over his chest. âPoor guy,â the man cooed, his voice reminiscent of someone who just found an injured bird. âYouâre too pretty; we canât let you die yet.â The leader carded his fingers through Descoleâs hair, earning him a noncommittal growl. âDown, boy,â he commanded like a master to his dog.
Descoleâs eyes closed, preparing for another round of perverted comments â what was it with these people and sexual harrassment? Did they do this with everyone? But there was a suspicious moment of silence that fueled his dread. He opened his eyes a moment before the leader lifted his jaw and forced his thumb in his mouth, prying it open to put a glass to his lips. The broken canteen was gone, and he couldnât help but moan the slightest amount at the relief of the cold water rushing down his throat. He had spent so long with a tongue that felt like sandpaper. His pride begone â he couldâve cried right then and there.
