The caretaker knew hurting the whumper wouldn’t fix anything, not the months of torture the whumpee had gone through, and not the permanent scars the whumper had left. Revenge had driven them to this- to hurting the whumper the same way their friend had been hurt, and nobody stopped them.

Forced to watch for the ask game? 👀 Thank you!

Sure!! (For this prompt list)

Forced to watch

"Can your friends in FOS hear you?" the man sneers as Leon stifles an agonized gasp, skinny hand twisting the knife he's jammed into the meat of Leon's thigh until fresh blood oozes forth, soaking into the torn fabric of his jeans. He reaches out to fist a hand in Leon's hair, leaving the blade in place. "Do they hear how pathetic you sound?"

Leon concentrates on keeping himself as quiet as he can, Hunnigan's keyboard typing frantically in his ear.

"I'm getting in contact with Chris, Leon. I can't legally send out a team, but he can if he knows the situation. We're going to find you, you hear me?" she says, a steady stream of soothing reassurances that Leon tries to anchor himself on as the man slaps him violently across the face and slams the knife deeper without warning. Leon can't stop a strangled sound, hating the falter in Hunnigan's voice when the noise carries through the mic attached to his comm. "Focus on your breathing, Leon, that's it."

"Well, tell them this," the skinny man continues, gleeful. "If they want their precious agent back, safe and sound, they'd better give me my demands. You know what they are, don't you, Hunnigan?" He leans back, reaching for another of his tools from the tray he's set out in an attempt at intimidation. Leon raises his head just long enough to see some sort of power tool, a long cord attached to the end of it. He presses it against Leon's upper arm with a grin.

"Hunnigan," Leon croaks, "turn off your comm. Don't--don't listen t' --"

He's cut off by a spike of agony in his bicep, pained moan impossible to hold back. The power tool makes a loud ka-chunk sound, a bead of blood forming around the steel nail Leon can see embedded in his skin when the man pulls it back again.

"I'm not going anywhere," Hunnigan says stubbornly, at the same time as the man sets his nail gun on a spot a few inches above Leon's uninjured knee.

"I had this baby amped up," he says conversationally. "Usually they don't go through skin as a safety thing, but I made a few adjustments."

Leon's entire body shudders when he presses down again, a whimper sneaking out from behind the lump in his throat as another nail shoots deep into his leg. The man isn't done, though--he pierces two more spots in quick succession, Leon's cries harder and harder to hold back with every click. He pants as the man pats his head, chest heaving. His trembling fingers ache where they've already been broken one-by-one, nails removed with surgical precision. Sweat stings his eyes.

"Hunnigan," he pleads.

"I'm not going to let you go through this alone," she insists, though Leon can hear the shake in her voice. "I'm here for you, remember?"

"I hope she's enjoying this," the man goads, jamming a fourth nail into Leon's thigh for good measure. Leon chokes.

"Sh--she's not listening," he tries, voice slightly more dazed than he'd hoped. "She turned it off."

"Ha!"

The man jams the nail gun into Leon's hip without hesitation, a ragged scream tearing out from between his lips. He shudders against the ropes holding him in place, unable to even protest when the man lifts his chin with a hand.

"Hang in there," Hunnigan says miserably. "It'll be okay, Leon, we're going to get you out."

"Tell her what I want them to give me," the man orders in a low voice. His eyes gleam. The muzzle of the nail gun comes to rest under Leon's collarbone, a dangerous weight. "Or the next one goes into your lung."

16-year-old Sylvia Likens was the daughter of two carnival workers, but when her parents' separated and her mother was jailed for shoplifting, somebody needed to care for her. Ultimately, Sylvia and her sister, Jenny, were sent to live with Gertrude Baniszwewski and her family, paying them $20 to take care of the two girls.

When the payments were late, Baniszwewski would turn on the girls, particularly Sylvia. She would hit the girls with paddles, and whip them. Being fragile and asthmatic herself, Baniszwewski recruited her children and neighbourhood children to subject Sylvia to horrendous abuse over the period of three months.

This abuse included putting cigarettes out on her skin, burning her with scalding water, beating her, rubbing salt in her wounds, forcing her to eat things which would cause her to vomit and on at least two occasions, she was sexually assaulted with a Coca-Cola bottle. On another occasion, a neighbourhood boy, Coy Hubbard, used her to practice his judo, which as a result, caused her to become incontinent. Baniszwewski responded to this by forcing her to eat her own faeces as well as her one-year-old sons.

Jenny, Sylvia’s sister attempted to get help and contacted their older sister, Diana, who came to the house yet did nothing to help. Shortly before her death, Baniszewski took a hot needle and carved “I’m a prostitute and proud of it!” on Sylvia’s stomach. A neighbourhood boy, Richard Hobbs, helped. He also helped 10-year-old Shirley Baniszewski burn the number “3” into her chest with an iron poker. The night before Sylvia died, she attempted to escape the house of horrors. She was caught by Baniszewski who threw her down the stairs into the cellar which had become her home.

The next day, on October 26, 1965, Sylvia’s body gave up after the countless beatings, burnings, sexual assaults, and lack of food and water. She died of a brain haemorrhage, shock, and malnutrition. She had suffered unimaginable torment. Her body was covered in wounds, bruises, and burns. In her final moments, she had almost completely severed her lips with her teeth from the beatings.

Gertrude received a life sentence while the younger assailants received petty sentences and were all released and went on to lead normal lives, something Sylvia could never do. Disgustingly enough, Gertrude was released for good behaviour after just a measly fourteen years in prison.

favouritism

Torture. Pure Torture. It's absolutely painful to see and I can't imagine how they're feeling. It's torture and it's cruel and it warrants a scalding seat in hell for many israeli soldiers and government officials.

An investment firm led by former Conservative Prime Minister Stephen Harper that is devoted to launching security companies in Israel has a new “success” story: helping that country’s military conduct secret mass surveillance of Palestinians in Gaza.

According to The New York Times, hundreds of Palestinians have been targeted by an “expansive and experimental” spying effort to “collect and catalogue” the faces of Palestinians. At times, civilians have been “wrongly flagged” as Hamas militants and then interrogated and tortured. [...]

Three out of five members of the Israeli company’s board of directors are Harper’s partners at Awz Ventures, meaning the former Canadian Prime Minister’s firm effectively controls Corsight.

Using Corsight’s spy tech, the Israeli military picked out Palestinian poet Mosab Abu Toha at a checkpoint in central Gaza in mid-November, as he was attempting to flee with his family to Egypt. He was separated, detained, and beaten. [...]

A former commander of this unit, retired Israeli Brigadier General Ehud Schneorson, is another of Harper’s advisory partners at Awz Ventures. According to a report in Israeli outlet +972 Magazine, Unit 8200 has also overseen an AI-based targeting system that has marked tens of thousands of Gazans for assassination. [...]

Continue Reading.

Tagging: @newsfromstolenland, @vague-humanoid, @fairuzfan

Note from the poster @el-shab-hussein: The murder of tens of thousands of Palestinians, and possibly my own extended family members, wouldn't have been possible without the investment of Stephen Harper. It wouldn't have been possible without the settler colony known as "Canada" and its bloodthirsty genocidaires.

Whumper forcing Whumpee to swallow something, whether it be a sedative, poison, maybe even the key to their own chains.

Whumper’s hand covering their mouth so they can’t spit it back out. Whumpee’s half lidded eyes pleading with Whumper as they maintain eye contact. Throat taut and Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as they struggle.

Clamping their eyes shut as they finally give in and whatever it is makes its way down to their stomach.

The broadcasts follow prison officials into detention centers to document the mistreatment of prisoners, which seems to be something that the officials — and apparently the viewers — find satisfying rather than revolting. The airing of these snuff films is a demonstration of societal sadism.  As Yumna Patel has recently reported, several rights groups have sounded the alarm over the widespread and systemic abuse that Palestinian prisoners face at the hands of the Israeli authorities. These groups’ calls have been unintentionally buttressed by Israeli soldiers’ unapologetic videos of themselves torturing or demeaning Palestinian detainees, which they boastfully post on social media. Now, it seems that the phenomenon has expanded to mainstream Israeli television. The two aforementioned reports on Channel 14 (threads with subtitles can be found here and here) contained footage of actual interrogation sessions during which torture was used. The Channel 13 report did not, but it exposed some of the worst prison conditions to be broadcast to the public. These conditions include forcing prisoners to live in inhumane conditions and subjecting them to torture and harassment.

[...]

“Here, we see the cells in which the Nukhba terrorists are held,” the narrator says. The “Nukhba” refers to elite Hamas-led fighters who carried out the October 7 attack. In the cell, viewers notice metal bunkbeds without mattresses, and instead of a toilet, there is just a hole in the floor. The room is almost completely dark throughout the day, and prisoners have their hands and legs chained together.  We hear attack dogs barking constantly as prisoners are made to kneel while bound and blindfolded, their heads touching the floor.  “This is how it should be,” a guard says. “This is how a Nukhba prisoner should be…what happened on October 7 will never return.”  In another scene, a guard shouts at prisoners as dogs continue to bark incessantly. “Heads down! Heads on the floor!” he yells.  “There are many prisoners here that I personally saw at the [October 7] events,” a prison official says, taking pride in humiliating them. “The difference is that this time, he is afraid, shaking, with his head on the floor…no Allahu Akbar, nothing. You won’t hear a squeak from him.” “They have no mattresses,” says a warden shift commander. “They have nothing…we control them 100% — their food, their shackling, their sleep…[we] show them we are the masters of the house.” Even without knowing the background to that phrase, to hear him say it is chilling.  “Masters of the house” was the election slogan of Itamar Ben-Gvir, the Jewish Power leader and current Minister of National Security. Ben-Gvir declared war on Palestinian prisoners long before October 7, and this has included shutting down bakeries that supply bread to prisoners — described by Ben-Gvir as an “indulgence” — and drastically limiting prisoners’ water use. So now it’s become much worse. 

Astarions Agonies

Why WOULD you want to love someone after everything has been taken from you? Everything but your name. Everything but your name

Your sense of taste, the warmth of your skin, your own heartbeat. Your reflection in the mirror. Your home, your clothes, your friends, your family. Your history, memories, your life.

Stripped of all of this, left with only the ability to feel. Mentally. Physically. And then that, too, is broken. Because it cannot be taken, so it must be controlled.

Anyone you care for, murdered. And not just murdered, but you have to do it. You have to bring them to their death. Maybe you have to watch. So you protect yourself, you protect them- whoever they nay be, whoever they could have been. You cannot care. You cannot. The consequences are too high.

Your body, every touch you delight in is perverted by the same solemn end. How can you enjoy this, even as a distraction from the more violent touches you are forced to endure, when you are still being forced? You cannot choose the sweet, the kind, the gentle, for they meet the same fate as the cruel, the evil, the fools. Picking soft touches over harsh ones fades to picking at random, to grabbing whoever you can get. Because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It all ends the same way.

And then there is the pain. The Punishments. At first, tastes of who you are- who you can be, are traded out; exchanged for physical torment and 'correction' of your behavior. But the punishments so hea ily outweigh the benefits of a snide remark, a night out too late, a prank, a room visited after being informed it is off limits. A victim you refused to hand over.

This life- no, this Un-death allows for a greater torment than any living person could survive. Hunger, thirst, pain, psychological abuse, sexual abuse. Never, ever ending. There is not a second in the day for two hundred years that you are not watched, used, handled, beaten, starved. Even in your rest there is no relief, for you cannot sleep but only enter reverie- a skill wherein your mind re-lives what you have been through, over and over.

So why would you choose to try to love someone? Why try to trust? Why, when you know what happens when you do?

Perhaps you've been allowed to believe you made it out before, only to have been captured and dragged back. Perhaps you've been allowed to believe a friend or a lover has escaped before, only to be called into a room and advised to clean up their corpse.

The only difference now is the sun on your skin.

The distance between you and that place.

The days, and days, and days that begin to pass with no retribution for your insolence, for your escape.

And these people, these idiots keep... not trying to kill you. Even when they find out what you are. One of them keeps looking at you like they might really care. You can use that, can't you?

Why would you love, when you could use their love to get your revenge?

But... in the wee hours of the morning, in the arms of a living, breathing person who has bedded you more than once and still is not gone forever, you think... maybe, maybe He didn't take it All from you.

Maybe even if he did, you could get it back.

Maybe you could love.

Maybe you could... try living, again.