He is disgusting.
Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.
He is grotesque and hideous and downright disgusting.
Used, vile, ugly, revolting.
Nothing about him is nice. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Tears. The useless creatures run down his face like a crash of angry rhinos, like a raging waterfall. He does not wish for them to appear, to fall so easily, to show the world just how weak and helpless he truly is. The salty drops are not there to save him, no, they are there to humiliate him. They are there to drown him in his anger like a whirling vortex. They are there because he can't do anything else. They are there to slowly suffocate him. They are there to burn him.
Pain. The pain reminds him of flowers for some reason. Roses, he thinks. Roses are his pain and blood. If that's true, he must have several bouquets of roses because everything hurts. His body feels as if it's ready to explode, ready to just fall apart, ready to be ripped in half.
He didn't ask for this. Really, he didn't. Sure, he caused trouble every now and then, but it wasn't his fault! It runs in his blood to cause it, to achieve it. Mischief is his life, it had been since his birth. It coursed through his body like plasma itself; calling him, whispering to him, courting him. He could no longer deny its lovely voice, a voice only he can hear.
He will get away someday. He imagines the day he escapes this hell and the thought nearly brings a smile to him. He would be free. Free as a bird, free as the ocean, free as the wind. If he was free then no one could hurt him ever again. Yes, he likes that thought. Then he'll be strong enough to kill, kill, kill anyone who ever laid their hands on him, to kill everyone who hurt him. And then it will be him laughing at them, at their pain, at their suffering, at their madness.
He lets out a sudden cry at the pain that blossoms in his rear and he suddenly finds himself back in reality. He feels his cheeks are soaked with his torturous tears and his mouth is full of a coppery-tasting liquid. His abuser– his rapist and torturer– does not give him any mercy and the nine-year-old is furious at himself for not being able to hold in his screams.
In the back of his mind he wonders if he has a family and if they're searching for him. Surely they must be… right? Or is it true what the other captive children say to him, that no one loves him? That he's a freak and a monster? He starts to believe them, and for good reasons, too. Though he is thin and small, he's stronger than the other children. Much stronger. Yet that doesn't stop them from giving him daily beatings after his daily rapes and tortures. Why is he the only one chained up? Oh, right. He was stronger than the other children. But he is weak! He was weak, weak, weak, weak, weak, weak!
He really wishes he didn't have amnesia. He desperately wants to remember what the outside looked like, what the wind feels like on his pale skin. He wants to read a book because he loves to read. He wants to see the snow and ice. He loves the cold. He is the cold. Why? Because the cold never affects him. No matter how cold it gets, he never gets cold.
Maybe he is a monster.
Maybe he does deserve this.
.
.
.
Yes… Yes, he does deserve this, doesn't he. They certainly think he deserves it, so why shouldn't he? The rapist is finished with him for the day and he finds himself once again alone in his cell. The other children are in a cell across from him and they all laugh at him, at his weakness.
"Having fun, you little whore?"
"Your mom must be so proud of you; you followed her line of work!"
"Slut!"
"Tramp!"
"Freak!"
He manages to curl himself into a ball and holds his hands over his ears in a desperate attempt to block out their voices. But it never works. Never, never, never.
"Weakling!"
"Hey Loki, why don't you tell us one of your famous lies!"
"Yeah, tell us, tell us!"
"Monster!"
Before he could start to make a reply, the man is back for him. The child's mind twists the image of the man into something dark. No longer does the assaulter have a face; instead it is a dark, dark mist. A dark mist and a grin. The grin was inhumanly big, literally stretching from ear to ear. The teeth were big and sharp and drool occasionally dripped from the alwaysalwaysalways grinning mouth. And sometimes, sometimes, eyes would appear. They would be tiny slits, though, that were just a dull white. Eyes that mocked him, eyes that judged him. He's dragged out of the cell and he feels his heart start to race. He knows where he's being taken and it frightens him. "No," he whispers quietly. "No, no, no…" But this only makes the inhuman grin bigger, splitting the dark mist in half. The dim dark of the room begins to turn white, white, white, and he begins to shake his head. "No," he says again, ignoring the pain of his raw throat. He hated this place, just as much as he hated the rapes, maybe even more. He tried to struggle but he was weak and his body couldn't move. He feels a fresh batch of tears start to form in his eyes and he tries to blink them away. He would not be humiliated anymore by those wet creatures. They round a corner and he grabs the edge of the wall. "No, I don't–" The wall is ripped free from his grasp easily and he hears a dark chuckle come from the man above him.
"Try all you want, you'll never escape from me."
'You'll never escape from me.' His body shivers at the words. No… No, he will escape! He will, he will, he will, will, will! And when he does, he promises to come back for this man when he's older, when he's stronger, so he can kill, kill, kill him for all the pain and suffering he's caused! But the blood rushes from his face when he hears the all too familiar door opening up and his fear is back. "No, please!" He's strapped down onto a table in the middle of the room and several wires are connected to his head and neck. He pulls against the restraints with what little strength he has left but nothing good comes from it. It only makes his wrists and ankles raw and bloody. "No! Please, no! Not the room with the lightning! Please! No! No! No–!" A mouthpiece is shoved into his mouth and before he even has the chance to spit it out, the torture begins.
He screams when his body is filled with electricity, making him convulse and writhe and– why can't he just die? Death would be so much nicer than this. Death, he tells himself, would be a prayer answered. He wanted to escape this hell. And if escaping meant his death, he would gladly welcome it.
He doesn't know how long he stays in the room with the lightning but it feels like hours to him. By the time he's dragged back to his cell and his wrists are chained, his body is limp. His eyes are dull and filled with tears and he feels oh, so, so violated. His mind is like static and he can't seem to focus on anything. He hears nothing a high-pitch ring in his ears and his body is completely and utterly numb from the electricity. He tastes blood in his mouth, blood from his throat because he screamed so much that is raw throat had to give eventually. He can feel the children staring at him, their expressions probably filled with amusement and ridicule. Suddenly, the children are pouring into his cell. They surround him, his body half curled up into a ball.
He looks pathetic.
Truly and utterly pathetic.
They start to kick and hit him and he can't even protect himself from their attacks. He can hear that man's laughter over theirs and he clenches his teeth. He stares at the wall as the assault continues and, oh, how he wishes he was strong! Their attacks stop temporarily and he hears them calling him rude and horrid names and– why can't he just die?!
"Loki, Loki, getting raped and hurt
Harder, harder, face pushed in the dirt
White room, white room, always full of light
Watch out, watch out, where lightning strikes
Screaming, screaming, in a lot of pain
Crying, crying, tears fall like the rain
Loki, Loki, always, always thinking
Loki, Loki, what a little weakling
Freak show, freak show, tell us a lie
Monster, monster, go away and die"
Then laughter.
His world is filled with laughter, it's all he can hear now besides the sound of his own screams and sobs. One day, though, he tells himself, it'll be them screaming and he'll be the one laughing. Their bloody corpses fill his vision and blood, blood, blood will be everywhere. Their blood, not his. Their screams, not his. Their pain, not his.
"I will kill you all someday," he whispers, and it's just barely loud enough to catch the attention of the children. "I will kill you all and it'll be you screaming, not I." His voice is quiet and hoarse, but strong and full of promise. His eyes look up and he stares at each face in the crowd. His eyes, he knows, scares them. They're a bright green, unnaturally bright for a human, and the skin under his bright eyes are dark and discolored from lack of sleep. "I will tear each and every one of you apart, limb by limb. Your screams will be the only thing that I hear. Your screams and pleadings and begs. I will kill each of you slowly so you know the pain that I have suffered. And then it will be I who stands above you, laughing and mocking your pain." He can see it now, in their eyes. Fear. He must truly look evil because even the leader of the group– the fourteen-year-old– looks frightened. It only makes him give a bloody and maniacal grin. "I'll dance on your guts and your eyeballs shall pop beneath my crushing force. Your skulls will split and I'll tear out your tongues with pliers. Don't worry, your teeth will come next. I'll break every bone in your bodies until they are nothing but slime. But don't worry, I'll keep your ears in perfect condition so you can hear the mockery and the screams and the laughter of everyone who lays eyes on you. You'll hear them scream, 'Dear god, what is that thing?' Yes, I shall show you the true meaning of pain!"
The room grows quiet, deathly so, and the only sound that could be heard was water dripping into a small puddle in a rhythmic fashion. The littlest of the children– twin girls of eleven– are on the verge of crying, their bodies trembling and eyes wide in fear. Yes, that's what he wanted. One boy finally speaks, though his voice is shaky. "H-He's kidding…"
"Am I now?" he let out a humorless chuckle, pushing himself up so he could lean against the wall. "Come near me again and I'll show you how much I'm 'kidding'." The eldest of the group hesitates a few steps forward, his eyes hard but fists shaking. 'Yes, be afraid of me. That's right.' He reaches down to grab a fistful of the nine-year-olds hair but the second he does, his victim suddenly becomes the predator. The older boy has no time to retract his hand before it's grabbed in a bone-crushing grip and he lets out a hiss of pain. But it doesn't end there. Not three seconds later, there are several loud and sickening cracks.
And then the screaming begins.
The fourteen-year-old pulls away his broken arm, cradling close to his chest. He stares down in horror at his four broken fingers, all bent in unnatural angles. His arm in a similar state. The bone is protruding from the skin and this causes all the other children to start screaming as well. The man rushes in and ushers them out, shoving all back into their cell. The lone child chuckles darkly. He knows what he just did will only ensure further punishment, but it was worth it. Hearing those screams is like music to his ears. But it still did not satisfy. It never would. Not until he was free. The man looks at him, his face twisted in anger. That alwaysalwaysalways grinning mouth is now a deep scowl. He disappeared out of sight before reappearing several minutes later; his hands occupied with a needle and a leather throng. He enters the boy's cell and that grin was back.
"How about we silence that silver-tongue of yours…"
Loki gives a small smile, his eyes are dull and nearly lifeless. His bloodied and bruised body aches all over and any strength he had, left. He is vulnerable, unable to fight back. He is weak and disgusting and a freak and a monster and why couldn't he just die? The needle and throng is coming closer and Loki gives a weak chuckle which turns into a soft laugh that verges on the edge of hysteria. "I will kill you all someday," he says, tears rolling down his cheeks. "I will kill you all and I will laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh–"
'Having fun, you little whore?'
'Who could love a monster like you?'
'Freak!'
'Loki, Loki, what a little weakling!'
'Come on, silver-tongue, tell us one of your great lies!'
'Scream for us, Loki! Scream like the bitch you are!'
'Monster, monster, go away and die!'
'Try all you want, you'll never escape from me.'
'How about we silence that silver-tongue of yours…'
"I will kill you all and laugh–" the threaded needle is at his lips. His smile brightens for a second, his dull eyes letting one last tear fall down his dirty cheek. "–because I am not weak."
His name is Loki.
He has no memory of where he came from or what he did to deserve this cruel hell.
All he does know is that he is weak and disgusting and unloved. He wants to read. He wants to kill. He wants to die.
He knows to fear the lightning, to fear it more than anything.
But, most of all…
He knows that this pain will never leave him.
Never.
XxXxX
Okay, so, yeah, I just HAD to publish this. It was driving me nuts. I've been trying publish a torture story, and, well, poor Loki came on the receiving end... i LOVE YOU LOKI! But seriously, I've been thinking about writing another Thor/Avengers fic. Already got part of the first chapter written. It's basically about Loki getting his lips sewn (dear gods, I've gotten such a bad obsession over sewn mouths now...) and he, along with Thor, go to Midgard where they meet the Avengers.
Anyway, I'm thinking about continuing this instead of leaving it a one-shot. What do you guys think? And should this be a non-pairing story, or a Thorki story?
(P.S: To all my followers who read my One Piece stories: I'd update them but... But... Dear gods, I lost my laptop... It wasn't stolen, I just freaking LOST it. UGH. I feel so embarrassed to admit it, but, yeah... The moment I find it, I am updating three of my stories. This, I promise!)
So please, leave a review! It would my life, like, a billion times happier. :D
Your shy ice elemental,
~roo the mischievous psycho