Work Text:
He is screaming. He is begging, he is pleading.
Let him die.
Let him die. Spare him from the agony, the burning, the freezing, the pain that stabs through him a thousand times with every heartbeat, every thin, shuddering breath he takes.
It is dark, it is dim, it hurts. It all hurts. He can’t live.
It hurts to live.
Let him die.
Free him.
They are playing with his mind, digging through it and shaking it like an overexcited child with a present on Christmas, and he can’t think. He can’t breathe. His thoughts blur and his body aches and there is nothing he can do but beg, spout the litany that he knows will not convince them but he cannot remain silent.
It hurts.
Let him die.
Let him rest. This feels like torture. They won’t stop, they don’t listen, they’re keeping him here in this hell. They won’t let him die. They won’t grant him respite, give him the mercy of rest.
It’s torture.
The room goes fuzzy.
Somebody is holding his hand, chanting his name.
He grabs on, clutching desperately to anchor himself to the world.
It fades back in.
He can still feel the pain.