There's really no reason for me to have written this. I just needed to get some things out. Interpret it how you will.

"You are so going to regret crossing me."

Somewhere dangerously close to Negan's face, a power drill began whirring. High-pitched, squeaky.

"Do you know why I'm doing this?"

The drill brushed against Negan's ear, so close that he felt its coolness against his skin. Negan's hands were bound to a table, his torso stripped bare of any clothing or protection. He was exposed.

I wanna die I WANNA DIE

The drill whirred. Like a buzzing bee noise.

I wanna DIE

There was a lot of blood - it dripped down Negan's face like a leaky faucet. Some of his captors had punched him - more than once. His nose was broken. His left eye was swollen almost shut.

"I'm going to drill your hands in. Then I'm going to pull out each eye, one by one. Then your tongue. I may leave you like that, make you eat with the pigs."

The drill came down

I wanna -

Negan screamed, though not for the first time. His voice was scratch and raw and gross. He'd never screamed this loud. Never in a million years. The pointed tip of the drill entered just below the knuckle of his right hand, sliding and demolishing sinew and bone. Chains rattled as Negan's body became wracked with screams and convulsions. He tried to jerk his hand away but the drill was caught, digging through flesh and sending bits and pieces of gore splattering around the room. It was a hot, dull ache that caused his teeth to chatter.

The drill came out. Slowly. It slipped past its newly formed hole with ease, tugging at bit at the mottled skin and ruptured bone. The tears were hot and sticky against Negan's face, which he'd scrunched up in pain.

"Need a break?"

"Fuck you."

"Okay. Okay. The Devil doesn't give breaks. Belial, Apollyon, Wicked One. When you get to Hell, you won't want to leave. I certainly believe Hell doesn't deserve you. I don't want them to have you. Now, on to the next hand. Try not to scream so loudly this time."

I wanna die. I need to die.

Let me die. Let me see her again.

"Let me see her again, please. Let me die."

"You don't get to die, Negan. I told you, Hell doesn't deserve someone like you. You're mine."

The drill came down again, far more forceful this time. Almost as if his captor had become enraged at the thought of losing Negan. Instead of a gentle push he brought the drill down like a hammer, teeth clenched, eyes wild with excitement. Arousal. His thighs were clenched to hide the bulge growing between his legs.

Negan screamed louder, despite his captors instruction to keep. Silent. Don't. Yell. Don't. Die.

Dieidieidieidie

A piece of flesh splashed and stuck to Negan's beard. He needed to trim it. He needed to shave and shower. He smelled like shit. He'd been wallowing in his own shit - his captor hadn't given him a bucket. He'd just shit himself, piss himself, and lay on it. Like some sort of goddamn animal.

"We're adding more scars to your collection. How many do you have, now? I feel special. I feel chosen. I gave you all of these. I made you."

"You didn't make shit."

His captor pulled the drill away. Negan's right hand was a mess of simmering flesh, and blood, pumping through the hole like a fountain. He would pass out, eventually. Then he'd be awoken and the process would rinse, repeat.

His captor held out the power drill. It was a rusty red color and it smelled like salt.

"Suck on it."

Negan obeyed.

"Greedy, greedy."

Always so greedy. So…ungrateful. Greedy for power, women, everything.

"Put that drill through my forehead," Negan opened his mouth and his own blood spilled out onto his chest. "Goddamit. Put that drill through my fucking forehead."

"In your dreams. You die when I tell you to die. That's how this works. That's your job."

Negan bowed his head and wept.

The drill powered up again.

Screaming.