"Just a little more."
It's always just a little more. It's never enough. Always taking, taking, taking, until there is nothing left at all. Always, always more.
"Just a little more for me."
For them. Always for them. For their enjoyment, for their boredom, for their control. To feel like a god, to break his body, to break his mind. Always only for them, no one else.
"You can take a little more for me, can't you?"
It doesn't matter if he can, because he will. He will be taking it all, and enduring it, and blocking half of it out of his memory if he is lucky later down the line. It can never be too much, because he isn't here to be anything other than something living, if only barely. Breathing and surviving just enough so he can be tormented more. Lucid enough to react.
"Almost done, almost."
What is it that is almost done? What are they working towards? Another cut, another slice, another bruise, another broken bone. There is no goal. The goal is to ruin him, but not too much, lest he becomes too boring to hurt. There is no goal that will ever be reached. It will always be moved just out of reach, moving further and further away the closer they get. No end to this. Always almost.
"You can. I know you can."
He really, truly can't. But he will. His mind and body and soul will erode slowly over time, to dust, and blow away in the wind. He will take it, if it kills him. His frantic pleading never stops it from escalating. His screaming never eases it up for him. His sobbing only ever encourages. His silence, once reached, is punished.
"Oh dear. Have you left me again?"
No more thoughts, no more pain. Awake, but gone. Wheezing breaths, shivering flesh, but empty, far away eyes. His mind gave in finally. It saves him again, as it always does, sooner and sooner each time. He is afraid one day he won't come back. He will forever be just a shell; unresponsive, dull, grey. Starve to death if not fed by hand. He welcomes it each time, but wishes it wouldn't be his only escape.
"Come back to me, my sweet angel. I wasn't done with you."
They aren't done, they are never done, but he does not choose where his soul wanders. He never has a choice. Things happen to him, and he will simply have to endure. Their cooing won't mend his mind, but it might calm it once he is back. He does not hear it just yet. It's hidden behind a fog so thick he does not remember how to think.
"Sweet, darling soul. You did your best, didn't you? Held out for so long. You worry me sometimes."
What is there to worry about for them? The worst that could happen is that they will have to find someone else to torture. Why would that worry them? They never worry for him while he is torn apart and dying.
"I hope to see you again soon. We can play more later, once you return. Please don't wander too far."
And they leave. He won't notice for a long while. He will stay just as they left him for hours. His mind will have trouble believing he is still alive. But he will return, and so will they, and he will be taken from, asked more from, a bit more, a bit longer, forever and ever.
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