You have lost track of time. Maybe it's been hours. Maybe it's been days. You don't know, and what's more, you're not sure you care. All you have to go by are the screams-- they come frequently enough. They're a very chilling form of clockwork.

If it's possible, you both dread and anticipate the time when they come to you. Dread for the obvious reasons: if the last visit wasn't an indicator, then the screams definitely are. Anticipation for the less obvious reasons: you sit and you wait, you sit and you wait, you listen to the screams, and all you can think is, I'm next, I'm next, I'm next. You just want it done. Let them hurt you. Let them kill you. Just let it end.

When he comes again, your enemy interrupts you mid-prayer. He sits across from you at a table, leaning back casually in his chair, both of you looking each other dead in the eye. No one can turn brown into a cold color like he can, and to your embarrassment and anger, you look away first.

"You know how this works." Concise, almost lazy. "I'm sure you've been hearing it through the walls."

Your fists clench, nails digging into your palms.

"The others begged for it to stop. They'd do anything, they said, if the pain would just stop. Now, most of them broke that promise. But a few... they were very helpful. Tell me about your operation in Tal Afar."

The blood turns to liquid nitrogen in your veins. They talked. They talked. They talked. But he doesn't know everything, he can't- he wouldn't be talking to you if he knew everything. For that, at least, you can be grateful, even if your heart is still slamming against your bruised ribs.

"I won't tell you anything," you breathe. "I won't."

He smiles crookedly. "They all said the same thing."

"I'm not talking to you."

"You will," he says, "by the time I'm done with you."

You're back in that room. You're shaking and sobbing, heaving chest touching the wall as you breathe in and out. You can feel the blood drying on your skin, feel where it still oozes in some places. The men- you don't know what they were saying, but they were amused. They hit you again and again just to hear you yelp like a dog, beat you raw until there was nothing left of your back but a bloody slab of flesh. Just feeling the air against your skin stings.

Tell me, he said. I can make this end. But you have to tell me.

You begged, you pleaded, and you felt the words rise to your lips: I'll talk now, I will, just make it stop.

Violence again, still not as graphic as I usually write, but I don't want my teacher thinking I'm secretly an ax murderer or something. Even though it isn't much of a secret (I'm kidding).