They keep playing 'raise your glass' on the radio at work, and it just makes me think of Punk in his indie days, when he was the patron saint of every freak and reject out there. Pink and Punk, i like your line of thought. It's a bit sad though for those of us who are wrong in all the wrong ways.

.

Punk needed to wake up. He was floating towards consciousness, and he was dimly aware that his whole body ached, that there was an odd throbbing in the back of his head. Something was wrong here, it wasn't just the familiar twinges he felt after a tough match. It was something... ominous.
He cracked one eye open and panicked, expecting to see something, at least the dull glow of the street lights from outside

But nothing.

He was also aware that he was wearing nothing but his ring gear; the room was unnaturally chilly and Punk felt it to his core. At least he still had his tshirt on.
He was lying on the floor, too. And it was hard, felt like stone tiles or something. Whatever it was, it was sucking the heat out of him far too quickly. Had to stand up.

Standing up was harder than he had expected; his legs felt like cotton wool and he stumbled about for a few moments like a newborn foal. But then his fingertips brushed what felt like a wall, and he grabbed for it, supporting himself against its reassuring solidity. Once he was sure he wouldn't fall over again, he began to slowly feel his way around the room. Three steps across, and his hands found the other wall. He reached up to check for a ceiling, and his knuckles hit more solid concrete. There was a wall no more than three steps behind him, and something that felt like a door in front of him. There was certainly a seam in the wall where the door could be. But no handle.

Punk was in a state of outright panic by now, the box he realised he was trapped in was becoming stifling. He beat his hands against (what he thought, hoped, prayed was) the door and began to scream for help, slamming his fists again and again until they ached and throbbed like the rest of him.

When he finally fell back and sank to the floor, wild panic had been replaced with sober exhaustion and he simply lay down to rest, telling himself he needed to be ready for whoever would come to open that door. Because someone had to come, sometime.

.

The first time the door opens, it's only a crack, and only to slide a small dish of food inside. The thin sliver of light is enough, though. It gives him hope. It happens on a regular basis, though Punk can't tell how many meals a day he is being given, or even if it's a regular thing. He's always hungry though, and unless he's losing his mind the portions are getting steadily slower.

To break the monotony, his captor (he knows it's a man by now) comes in a relieves him of an item of his clothing. Not that he was wearing much to begin with. First to go it the tshirt, torn roughly off his thinning frame with a gleeful chuckle. The light outside is too great a contrast to the pitch blackness of his cell, and so he never sees the man when he comes. Only feels him.

At first he despises him. But then he realises... the man is warm. And in his present situation, it's the only comfort he can cling to.