Pain courses up my leg, starting at my foot and not stopping until it hits my back. Every limb smashed into the rail a couple of times on the way down. Enough force to hurt, but not bad.

Thomas saunters down the stairs, eyes violating my shaking body as I try to remember how to breathe again.

"Nice form, but the landing wasn't very attractive. I'd only give that a six out of ten." He traces around my body with his foot, putting pressure on when I wince. "For such a rough tumble on those steep stairs, I would've expected much more than just a sprained ankle. Your body must be stronger than it looks." He punctuates the sentence with a harsh stomp on my ankle, going harder as I yelp. "What a good start to a fine afternoon, wouldn't you say?"

"Thomas—"

"That's sweet, kid. I always love hearing people moan my name." He takes my hair tightly into his hand. "But sorry, I prefer it coming from women."

He pulls up on my hair and drags me to the center of the room. I thump back down to the ground as he reaches for a chain in the ceiling.

As he maneuvers it down, he orders, "Take off your shirt, then give me your hands."

"What? No!"

Without a verbal response, he takes my wrists and chains them up. I futilely pull against them as he moves for a pulley system against the wall.

"You don't have the right to say 'no.' You lost that the day Adam chose you to be his. I really do get why he chose you, though."

I sense the bait, but can't resist. "Why is that?"

He tugs on the opposite side of the chain, yanking me all the way up to my toes. I cry out in pain as my foot comes in hard contact with the floor. As I shift my weight and readjust my position, Thomas chuckles and traces his fingers up my arm.

"Because it's fun watching you struggle."

"Well, I don't find it as entertaining as you do."

"Shame." He walks his way around me, surveying my strained muscles. "What are we going to do to you first, hm?"

As he places his fingers under my chin, I whisper, "First you could let me go."

"Cute the first couple times, kid, but it's a little old. But I want to make this interesting for both of us, so why don't I give you a decision? Would you rather I whip you or burn you with a hot piece of metal?"

"Neither! Get me down from here!"

The chain clinks slowly as I writhe against the taught links.

"You're not in any position to be making demands, boy. If you can't make up your mind, I'm happy to give you both."

I slow as his words wash over me. Futile. It's all futile. All I am to him is a toy. He's nothing but a fickle child enjoying the toy his family gave him. People like him are the same. After he gets bored with one toy, he moves onto the next one. The only real hope I have is that he gets bored before he gets too hard and breaks it. Me.

"Decision?"

I wrap my fingers around the chains as I hold myself straight. "The whip."

"Great choice," he chuckles. "I wasn't in the mood for the smell of burning flesh anyway."

My stomach churns at the imagery, but I keep it together.

His footsteps fade as he returns upstairs. They come back all too fast. He sets down a box near the stairs, the contents rattling expectantly. There has to be more than a whip in there.

First, he brings a pair of scissors to the bottom hem of my shirt, cutting the fabric up to my neck. From there, he goes down each sleeve, then peels it off of me.

My muscles tense under each inch of skin he traces. "My, how sensitive you are," he mumbles. "Even better." He switches to the cat o' nine tails whip, brushing me gently with the ends. "Give me a number. How many lashes do you think you deserve? Go too low, and I'll add more to the end total."

"I... What's the lowest you're willing to go?"

"What do you think is the lowest I'll go?"

Five, ten, he'd never go for. Fifteen seems closer, but I don't think it'll cut it. Twenty sounds like a rational number, but it could be too close. Maybe twenty-five? I still would like less, but if I guess too low, I could end up with even more.

"Twenty-five."

He considers it for a moment, bobbing his head back and forth. "Good enough for me. Count them to me. Lose count, and we start over."

"Okay..." The crack hits my ears first, the sharp pain following quickly behind it. Without time to react, my throat lets out a small squeak. As the air comes back to me, I whimper, "One..."

Just before we hit ten, my skin starts to break. Blood drips down my back. I can't help but tense, knowing these next strikes are going to be worse.

Thomas doesn't disappoint. At the sight of new blood, he increases the force behind the whip, eliciting full-on, open-mouthed screams.

I start to dissociate, barely staying lucid enough to keep track of numbers. By twenty, my screams have turned into sobs, my grip has tightened around the chains, and my legs support nearly none of my weight.

Crack. "Twenty-th-three." Crack. "Tw-twenty-four." Crack. "Twenty—twenty-five!"

"Good boy," he croons. The whip is replaced in the box before the chain lowers enough where I can kneel on my knees. "Well, that was fun for me. You?"

"No..."

"Even better." He glides his hand over my back as he circles me. "So... What do we do now?" As he re-enters my line of vision, he slowly licks my blood off his finger. "Want to hear something fun about bones? They all have such different power. The jaw bone is exceptionally strong, unlike finger bones. If a person lacks the impulse control, they can snap it right off like a baby carrot."

I try to curl my hands into fists, but he catches one first. He carefully takes one of my fingers and places it in between his teeth. My arm shakes, silently praying.

With a laugh, he lets go. "I won't bite them off, but I really want to break them. Feel the bones snap. Leave them mangled. One by one by one. Wouldn't that be fun?"

My heart jumps to my throat, delaying my urge to vomit.

"But, I mean, if you don't want to do that, I could think of a compromise. Maybe I would settle for breaking your wrist, but only if you begged and really convinced me how much you want me to. What do you think?"

One break versus ten? Obviously.

"Do it."

"Not yet. I want to hear you beg."

I gather all my pride and throw it away. It's quite easy. After everything that's happened to me, there's not much left. "Thomas, please, I want you to break my wrist. Do it now... Please... I want it!"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes! I want you to break it! It's all I want right now!"

He continues to circle me, acting up with a little fake sigh. "You know, I just don't believe you. Your heart's not into it and I don't think you really want this." He takes a hold of one of my fingers, gripping tight enough to hold me still. In a defeated voice, he says, "I guess I'll just have to break your fingers instead..."

I close my eyes to hide the incoming tears. Slowly my finger bends back, tension building up quickly despite his teasing.

"Thomas wait!" I beg. "I really really want you to break my wrist! I promise! I want to feel your strong hands around my hand and my arm. I want to feel my bones snap under your pressure, hear it. I want—I need you to punish me and put me in my place. Show me that you're in charge and how I'll never be able to really fight back against you. Please break me."

I hold my breath.

He lets go of my finger with reluctance and strides around to face me. "Now that's what I want to hear. I'm gonna have to have you over more often." He leans in, brushing the back of his hand against my arms. "Remind me: are you right or left handed?"

"Right," I grit.

He releases the right one from the chain and takes it in between his hands.

"Ready? One. Two."

He twists and jerks before three, not stopping until the telltale sound and give of the snap.

"Three. Now that's the good stuff."

I mumble every curse under my breath as my tears fall to the ground. Every injury from him starts to fade in at once. The break, lacerations, sprain, bite, and every scrape and bruise. I wrap my left hand back around the chain to hold myself still as I go back to my dissociative state.

Time passes. I don't know how much.

Suddenly I realize I'm no longer on my knees. I'm still held up by my left hand, high enough to keep me on my feet. I watch Thomas place an open-mouth gag around my head, but it feels like he's doing it to someone else, not me. Next is a leather blindfold tight around my eyes. Along with it goes most of my sense. The last thing he places on me before I'm left alone is a strong pair of headphones playing a loud jarring and droning sound.

More time passes. I believe so at least. My self-awareness fades in and out, leaving me with no clue how long he's left me here.

He has to come back for me... right?