Prologue

I crouched next to an iron door, my ear pressed against the cold metal. Everything hurts.

Through the thick substance, I hear noises. Police? Have they come to free me? But...no, he told me to stay inside. Inside, like I was some sort of dangerous animal, when in reality he was the animal. The one who took me from everything good in this world. I force my rage down. Emotions never helped anyone. Especially not me.

Through the door I hear sounds of pain. He is yelling like there is no tomorrow. I almost smile, but I don't want to be like him. Through the yells I can barely make out the words 'Police!' and 'Kenta'.

Police. Police.

I smile as wide as I possibly can. I brush my shamrock hair out of my eyes and stand. The action takes a lot of effort. I haven't eaten in days.

STUPID BOY!

Wincing.

HOW DARE YOU EVEN TRY TO ESCAPE?! YOU LITTLE-

The sound of a whip.

The trickle of blood as his voice resonates louder and louder-

The iron door swings open. I jump back just in time to avoid the cold metal. Standing in the threshold of the room are four police officers, all wearing protective gear and with Glocks drawn.

The head police officer sees me. His eyes widen in horror. I'd never thought about how bad I must look after being tortured so much for 2 years.

A wrinkle between his eyebrows. I flinch. The tiny detail is almost always an indicator of a beating, usually accompanied by other symptoms such as twitching eyes and frothing mouth. It's a little funny to see an eyebrow crease on a concerned face, and I snicker a little. I regret it immediately, because the police officer frowns even more.

"How long you been down here, kid?" he asks, mouth a straight, hard line, edged black against a landscape of a wrinkled tan.

I blink up at him, feeling woozy. How long...how long? Three? "Th…three..." No, that didn't sound right. "Two." I croak, not trusting my shaky vocal cords to carry the sentence further.

"Two months?" the policeman asks me. He doesn't know he does it, I can tell, but he crouches a little bit so as to be closer to my eye level. I appreciate the unconscious gesture a little bit through the haze of pain.

"Two years," I mumble, my voice cracking in a million different places, watching the policeman's face go slack as his fists clench.

A shock of pain flutters down my back, ripping through my nerves as the policeman speaks into some sort of black box I can't remember the name of right now. The sensation ripping through my nerve endings seems to play me like a piano – a sharp cut here sparks a convulsion there, a crippling burst down my spine leads to a violent tremble over my still form. Little dots cluster at the edge of my vision.

Why am I still standing? HE doesn't control me anymore, I think, and yet I remain.

"Two years," the policeman murmurs, and he seems to still be reeling. His eyes flick up to meet mine, however, and he jerks upright as if finally remembering his job. "Let's get you to a hospital."

The pain stops all of a sudden. My mind clears. "Why?" I ask him, coughing a little to clear my throat. "I feel fine."

"I'm sure you do," he says, smiling slightly. "But you don't look fine."

"Well-" I say, and something happens.

My knees are hitting stone. My brain is overloaded. My back feels as though it is being ripped apart a thousand times at once, and I realize it now. The cessation of pain, the clearing of my mind – it was nothing but the dramatic pause of an orchestra, something artificial created to bring the intensity to a new level through the powerful instrument of contrast.

And this is why I've lost faith in any sort of higher power, if there is one. Such calculated, deliberate, intense cruelty that brings a boy crumbling to his very knees cannot be the work of something good. It's pain for the sake of pain, evil for the sake of pain, nerve endings, all for the sake of pain pain pain pain pain pain pain-

My vision twists 180 degrees. Before I black out, I wonder if he hurt me more than he meant to.

Somehow, I doubt it.