Seven days later...

The pain woke Timothy up. Not any kind of pain. It traveled like a current from the wrists of his hands to his shoulders and then spun around in his head like a washing machine barrel.

He tried to open his eyes, but that caused pain as well.

How can opening eyes cause pain?

But he needed them opened because the barrel in his head was spinning and spinning, faster and faster, in the darkness, going crazier and crazier.

If he could only rub his eyes open.

His hands did not move to listen. But the pain did. And the current hit him bad enough that he yelped and cramped, fought for the air to breathe.

He tried to look up, but could not.

He moved his shoulders, and something clinked.

Tried to walk, but his feet only found unsupportive air. Even the air was against him.

Is this a fucken' dream? Am I again dreaming shit? Sornia! Sornia! Are you here?? Anyone???

The silence and more pain came back as an answer.

He tried to feel things with the tip of his fingers. Cold and hard, hoarse to the touch. The hard iron chain.

If his wrist was not hurting so much, he could have grabbed it, and hold it, and maybe even pull himself up.

Pull himself up to where?

He was in a situation like this before. Chained and hanging. He remembered. Just could not remember that it hurt that bad. The RagTag army. The second year of enlistment. Or was it the third one? The mission to Reizzing Green when he got captured trying to save... what was his name. The pain again made him gasp for air and clench his teeth.

Better not to think.

Wherever he was... consisted only of darkness. A dark void. And pain. Always present pain.

The creaking noise of a metal, a door opening, and a ray of lights.

A lot of light shining on him, so much even a half-open eye had to be squinted.

"You calling your mamma?" The voice. Of a stranger. Deep, harsh, taunting.

Timothy could not answer even if he wanted to.

“Huh? You're calling your mamma? Well, your mamma ain't here,” more taunting came from a man. Timothy could see him now. Stubby and dirty with a scar over his eyes.

He used a chance to look around. A waste of time and pain. Nothing there worth seeing. Just an empty space with no windows, rugged walls that needed to be repainted centuries ago, the chain that held him up, and this maggot of a man.

"What you got quiet now for?" the man said and stepped inside, closing the door behind. The dark returned only for a second till the man did not turn the switch on.

Timothy did not need that light to see what the man was carrying in his right hand.

A foot-long stick with an electrical current sparking white current on its top every time the man played the switch with his ugly thumb. A taser. An instrument of pain. Like he needed more.

"Your mamma can't help you," coming close to him, one gagging step at a time. "But I can, pretty boy. I can help you."

The stick smashed into his ribs, the electricity going through his body, elevating the pain to the levels that could turn a sane man crazy.

But Timothy was not all right in the head for a long time already.

I've been here before, he thought.

Maybe this is a dream. Can't die in a dream. So, fuck the pain.

"And they said you are a tough guy. Killed seven men they say. I, frankly don't see it. I bet a few days with me and you will be just fine. Obedient like a little puppy."

"Woof, woof," Timothy barked obediently.

Another shock, more pain, Timothy twitching with no self control.

"Maybe then we can even have some fun together."

A strange thing about pain. sometimes it wakes you up.

"Why wait that long?" Timothy got through his teeth.

The man chuckled and then started to move around Timothy, making the taser dance in his hands.

"You know, when I heard how Father Lurcas said he wanted to keep you around, I said what a bunch of crap. I thought just as well to kill you and be done with it. But, I guess, priests have a surprise of their own for you."

The priests??

What priest did I ever piss off so bad?

He could not recall.

"But, now, as I see you dangling in there all helpless, I can see how you can still... be useful."

“Water,” Timothy muttered.

“What? You want me to give you something?"

The man suddenly turned Timothy around, made him spin in the air, and grabbed his butt, squeezing it hard.

He was a taller man than Timothy, standing there and looking Timothy straight in the eyes.

“I like that,” Timoty growled out.

'Yeah, you want more?” he said and squeezed his but cheek even harder. “I've got plenty more where that came from, pretty boy.”

The man's left hand let go of Timothy's behind and went frantically for his pants, trying to unbutton them fast.

Timothy thought about slamming him with his forehead. But, when you think about it, how sure you are that you can land a heavy blow, all chained up and under a mountain of pain?

So he bid instead. Determinantely. Thought about going for his lips, but the nose was just as bad and easier to get to. With all the force he could come up with. As if his life depended on it.

Certainly his ass did.

The man reflexively tried to pull back, to wiggle out, even pressing Timothy's throat with his left hand, pushing him away.

But Timothy's legs had already wrapped around the man's waist, and his jaw did not open, only moved a bit up his nose, trying to find a firmer hold on a bone or something as the man's blood sprayed into Timothy's mouth. So full of it, Timothy had to breathe through his nose.

Then the man did the stupidest thing he could have done.

He lifted his electro-shocker and hit Timothy in the rib.

The electric current went through Timothy, his whole body, his face and legs, and transferred to the man.

The brute did not seem to understand and know the pain, not as nearly as Timothy was taught to, and he twitched and danced in Timothy's embrace as if he was feeling it for the very first time.

When his body started to go limp, or when the electricity went out, he dropped the stick to the ground.

But Timothy could not drop him, could not let him go down. If he did, it would have been all for nothing. He had to use him as a support.

Hopefully, the chain holding Timothy up was not tied to the ceiling but placed over a hook like the butchers would do when carving an animal.

So, Timoty used the wanna-be-rapist as a support and pushed with his feet up, waving his arms so the chain waved up as well, hoping, begging for it to become loose.

Expecting the worst, the pain of chain jerking his body up again, Timothy was deliriously happy when his bare feet touched the floor, the chain coming rattling down almost on top of his head.

He counted his first lucky break, hoping it won't be the last.

Only then did Timothy remember to spit the part of the man's nose out of his mouth together with his blood, then spit it again, unsuccessfully trying to get all the blood out.

There was no time to feel the pain shooting through his hands as the blood suddenly had rushed back in. They felt numb, almost out of his own control.

He looked at them carefully. The chains were tied with a lock around his wrist, and there was no way to pull them out unless he severed his thumb, and maybe not even then.

The man started to come around and made some noise on the floor, just another stupid thing in the whole line of stupidities that had marked his life. But that one, that one was the last one.

Because Timothy's rage flared up so much that he could have walked to him and knocked him out with the foot kick in his face. He could have wrapped the chain around his neck and pulled till the man quieted down. But he didn't.

He wrapped the chain around his hands, holding it as firm as his fists would listen, then he moved his whole upper body backward, arms extended above his head. And then swiftly jerked his whole body forward, arms fast coming from around, the chain whizzing through the air so fast they made a horrific sound even more horrific.

It crashed against the man's head, made it explode like a melon.

Not happy, Timothy pulled the chain backward, it sliding on the floor, leaving the trace of blood behind.

He took a step back and again made the chain whizz high in the air and come crashing down over what was left of the man's head.

If he could, he would have brought him back to life just to kill him again. And again. But nobody can piece back broken skulls and spilled brains.

“Hey, Licker!” came suddenly the voice from outside. “We told you to keep it down!”

Timothy realized only then that as he was biting his nose off, the man was screaming his guts out.

Just as a confirmation, another voice came up.

“You got yourself a screamer in there, don't you?” That question ended with a loud obscene chuckling.

I guess two of them need this chain just as bad, Timothy thought to himself.

“You better keep it down!” said yet another voice

Three? Three is... always troublesome.

Would they just go away? He wished his luck would continue. But he knew better then to bet on it.

Multiple different scenarios ran through Timothy's head. None he saw as beneficial to him.

Three against me... not so good. My hands tied. And tired. Can't even move right.

If I play dead possum, I... I don't see how. They would be alerted with all the blood. Would taser me first before they even touch me. Fuckers!

A million other things run through his head. Nothing good.

He let it all go then. Took a deep breath and just let it be. It was not the time to think.

“I better go and check on him," suddenly said the first voice.

“You just want a piece of ass as well, don't you?” said a man with a chuckling disease. "Well, maybe I'll come with you. Just to make sure you do it right."

Another fucken' chuckle. You could kill a man for less reason than having to hear that.

"You, fellas, just remember, that priest said to keep him alive," said the third voice, and then the door swung open.