Some things people tend to gloss over, and in my line of work, it’s something that can lead to failure. And failure leads to death. People, officials, officers, politicians; they all tend to miss out small details that I need, and I hate it. One small miss description can lead to my downfall. And if it’s something bad, it can lead to my death. But I’m not someone that can be taken down easily. But a snowfall 6 foot deep can cause a bit of inconvenience. And then getting stuck means getting caught. Getting caught means interrogation. Interrogation means a hell of a lot of torture. And that’s where I am now, tied to a wall, feet not touching the ground. I’m starving in my own little cell, my own little chains…my own little world. Where there’s only me for company.

And then there are the footsteps. Pacing one way then the next outside the steel door that looks so flimsy a kick could break it. And it’s so close that you can almost smell it, but the chains hold you back and you can’t break them, no matter how hard you pull or thrash. And they just pace outside, teasing you. Letting you know that there is a world out that, one that you can get to, if you can just get past that door…

And the smell of rank sweat and blood that clogs your sense and claws at your brain until even the smell of the food they give you smells good and the stale air behind the door is welcome. Even though when the door opens the screams can get it and worm their way through your mind until you hear them constantly. Through the silence they ring and ring, over and over, driving you mad with the want to get rid of them, hear the sound of human voices. And when a voice does come, you wish it never had.

Because when the voice comes, so does the torturer. And so does the knives. He walks in with the screams, closing the door only when he thinks you’ve heard enough. And he plays on it, giving you fresh clean water, food and comfort. He offers something to distract you with, something to block the horrors from your mind. Whispered words of false promises, promises to make it all go away, make it disappear, if you just give him the right information…And then you scream out and pit and thrash. And he just smiles and chuckles. Then he tears. The knife comes down, cutting and twisting. Every time somewhere different, every time somewhere new and fresh, somewhere that can feel the pain just that little bit more. And then he whispers again, more promises, more apologises. He didn’t want to do that, oh no, he didn’t want to hurt you. But he’s being watched as much as you. He has to do his job or it’s him that ends up with the knives at his skin. Just tell him, tell him everything, and it’ll go. One last curse and you spit in his face, wishing him a life time of hell and demons. And he just smiles and leans closer. With a stab and a twist the knife is in your leg, gouging away, tearing the skin and muscle away. And then his hands in the new wound, searching and reaching and dragging and tearing. And they all come free in his hand; all the little nerves and tendons come free in his grasp and they meet the air for the first time. And the pain, oh the pain, screeching through your body, shattering what little sanity you have left, leaving you screaming your agony to the sky and the others like you in the cells past the iron door. And he just chuckles, your jail guard, your only friend. He didn’t want to do that, no he didn’t want to ruin you. But you made him do it, just answer the questions; give him the answers and it’ll all go away. And you’ll never hurt like this again. His lips brush along your ear and his hands caresses the hole and it burns so completely and utterly. Because you’ll never work again, and you’ll never walk without a cane, and it’s his fault. And even when they come to get you out of there, and they find you dripping blood and grime in your chains; half mad in your own little world. Even when you’re clean and patched up, crying on the truck because you just can’t quite believe this is real, that this isn’t something he’s doing to mess you up even more than 

you are. Even when you can walk and not scream in that maddening pain, when the screams only plague you at night, when the brushes and whispers fade to nightmares. Even when the surgery is a success and you can walk, even with a limp, and you can fight and work. You still think you’re there, that this is all a dream. And he’s still there waiting with whispered promises and the knives that god damn awful pain. He’s still there waiting for you to crack, just waiting till you’re safe again and you think everything’s all right; he’ll come back and chain you up, make you listen to the screams, make you mad in despair. And he’ll say sorry again, even as he tears at your legs and the tendons and nerves. Even as the pain erupts, oh yes, he’s sorry. He has to hurt you, because you didn’t give him the answers, and the pain is all your fault.