Invader Zim, its concepts and personalities are copyrighted by Nickelodeon/Viacom. I, BioKraze, own nothing save the original plot of this fanfiction.
The pain was too much, but he dared not speak his mind about the discomfort, the horrible, hideous pain. He dared not speak unless spoken to, and even then he was not allowed to so much as speak an acknowledgement. The line was quite clearly drawn, and the sides were as clear as glass.
He was the slave. The demon was the master. There was no arguing. His spirit had been crushed years ago. Sometimes, in his deepest nightmares, he wondered if It had conspired with his twisted, hateful and hated master. He would have constant terrors of the unconscious, in which the two cavorted about madly, torturing him for the sake of torture itself.
He heard the hated voice once more, demanding - no, commanding - him to fetch a drink. Without will, without a sound - the demon hated sound of any sort when engrossed - the boy with the sickle lock and the shattered spirit moved to the refridgerator and carefully took a single can of soda from its chilled interior. He delivered to the demon the soda as an offering of less pain and misery. The demon never noticed his ember of hope, sending him to the floor with a single blow with its hand.
The broken, tired slave could never hope to revolt against a power as this horrific demon possessed. He heard the whispers of his peers, who seemed little more than minor spectacles of evil when compared to the hideous master he toiled endlessly under.
They often made loud claims that he was whipped. Beaten. Destroyed. They made no move to aid him, though, for they feared the wrath of the demon itself. Even the older ones, wiser to the ways of the world, turned a blind eye to the slave's suffering.
The demon's voice rang out again, having taken on a harsh, grating tone in what little remnant of the slave's rebellious mind continued to exist. The demon wanted its slave to make it something to eat as it devised new and novel ways to torture its only servant.
The slave moved like an automaton to the kitchen once more. As it toiled over its thankless tasks and lived its torturous life, it often wondered if the sweet embrace of Death herself would be far more preferable to the constant hate exhibited by the demon to its slave.
Yes, the broken Dib thought as he worked under his uncaring master, death would be far better than serving as Gaz's personal slave...