You can't move. Your arms are trapped at your sides and you can feel your own breath hitting your face. It's impossible to slouch, let alone sit. And you've been like this for minutes, hours, days, weeks-- who knows? It's almost a relief when they interrogate you, even if they beat you or douse you in icy water and leave you shivering on the ground. At least you're free of this... room, if it can be called that.

Five times you've been taken out. The first time, you were slammed against a wall. The second time, it was a conversation that lasted a few minutes. The third time, it lasted for hours. The fourth time, you were left trembling from the cold. And the fifth... the fifth time...

Your head is still pounding-- the back of your skull hits the metal of the chair as you fall- and the metallic tang of blood is still in your mouth. A fist connecting with your cheek, a strangled cry escaping from your lips. It was an eternity and it was brief and it was everything in between. "I will bring you to the very edge of your limits," your enemy promises. Dried blood is crusted over your lips, your nose, and your left ear. A crackling pain as the palm of a hand is thrust into your nose. Bruises mottle your chest, your arms, and your legs. A boot striking your ribs, your breath fleeing at the impact. And the memory of a vow echoes in your mind: "I will break you."

And for the first time in years, you cry.

Are you not entertained?

Sorry. I've always wanted to use that line.

But seriously, are you not entertained? Feedback is always good.