Dawn filtered through a crack in the wall, but Fern barely noticed. His body was a map of agony: hands throbbing like open wounds exposed to salt air. The stumps where his fingers had been were crusted black, edges inflamed and weeping yellow pus. Infection hovered, but the soldiers didn't care; they had antibiotics if needed, just to prolong the fun. He hadn't eaten, stomach gnawing itself, but hunger was the least of his pains.
They returned with coffee mugs steaming, casual as if starting a shift at a desk job. Soldier A kicked the chair leg, jolting Fern awake. "Rise and shine, terrorist." The boy moaned, head hanging. His long hair, once a source of quiet pride, now matted with dried blood and sweat, veiled his face like a shroud.
Today, they targeted his legs. "Can't run if you can't walk," Soldier B quipped. They untied his ankles briefly, only to stretch his legs out straight, securing them to iron rings bolted to the floor. Fern's heart raced; he begged, voice cracking. "Please, no more." Ignored.
It began with bats (wooden clubs wrapped in barbed wire). Soldier A swung first, aiming for the inner thighs where nerves clustered like wires in a bomb. The impact was thunderous, skin splitting on contact. Barbs tore flesh in jagged lines, blood welling instantly. Fern arched, screaming as fire lanced up his spine. Again and again (left thigh, right, alternating). Each strike pulverized muscle, bruising deep to the bone. By the tenth blow, his thighs were hamburger meat, swollen purple and black, lacerations oozing thick blood mixed with fatty tissue.
They paused to admire their work. "Look at that: pulpified," Soldier B said, prodding a wound with the bat's end. Fern howled as barbs dug in, twisting. Blood streamed down his legs, soaking his pants. The pain was electric, shooting to his groin, making him vomit bile.
Next, the groin itself. Kicks (booted feet slamming into his genitals with full force). The first crushed his testicles against his pelvis, a wet crunch like stepping on ripe fruit. Fern's vision whited out, body convulsing in the chair. Urine leaked, tinged pink with blood. They laughed, taking turns. By the third kick, his scrotum split, skin tearing to reveal swollen, bleeding masses. Pain radiated everywhere: abdomen cramping, nausea overwhelming.
To escalate, they brought pliers again. Pinching skin on his inner thighs, they peeled strips away slowly. Flesh came off in ribbons, exposing raw muscle glistening red. Fern thrashed, ropes abrading his cauterized wrists, reopening wounds. Blood poured, but they cauterized sporadically with the torch, the sizzle mixing with his shrieks.
Hours in, his legs were useless (bones fractured, muscles shredded). They decided on amputation. No anesthesia; just a hacksaw from their kit. Starting with the left leg below the knee. Soldier A held it steady while B sawed. The blade bit into flesh, grating on bone with a vibration that traveled up Fern's spine. Blood fountained, spraying their faces. He screamed until hoarse, passing out briefly (revived with smelling salts).
The saw rasped through tibia and fibula, a wet, grinding sound. Muscle parted in stringy clumps; arteries spurted until clamped and burned. The leg came free with a suck, thudding to the floor in a pool of gore. They bandaged the stump roughly, torch-sealing the worst bleeders. Flesh charred, smoke rising. Fern's remaining eyes (still both then) rolled back.
Right leg next. Slower this time, savoring. The hacksaw jammed in bone, requiring yanks that tore more tissue. By the end, both legs gone, stumps blackened and dripping. His body shook with shock, skin clammy.
But they weren't done. For "fun," they carved his cheeks. A knife sliced from mouth corners upward, creating grinning slits like the Joker's. Skin flapped open, exposing teeth and gums. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and thick. He gurgled protests.
Then, the eye. Soldier B held his head back, thumb pressing the lid. "You don't need both to see your mistakes." The knife plunged into the socket, twisting. Fern's scream was inhuman. The orb popped free, optic nerve snapping like a cord. Blood and vitreous fluid poured down his cheek, the empty hole a pulsing void.
Whips followed (cat-o'-nine-tails on his back). Lashes ripped shirt and skin, welts rising bloody. Each strike drew fresh screams, flesh hanging in tatters.
By evening, Fern was broken: legless, one-eyed, face carved. Despair consumed him; he whispered death wishes. The soldiers high-fived, leaving him in darkness.
---
Join my Patreon to support me:
patreon.com/Alpha0000Ace