The Deconstruction of Feliciano -3
I'm scared. I'm scared… what's going to happen to me?
Soft whimpers emitted from a crouched figure. Arms bound and forced into a squat, Feliciano could feel his leg muscles screaming in pain from holding him up for so very long. He longed to collapse under the strain of days of imprisonment; dehydrated and starved –there was no fight left in the young Italian. Every time his legs slipped under him fierce, white-hot pain would rack through his being. Shuddering from intense pain and heart threatening to stop beating all together, he forced himself to stay up. Bones threatening to snap, and wearing their way to his heals from the pressure, helpless tears poured from Feliciano's eyes, wetting his blindfold, and every once in a while, something warm and wet would brush his cheek, accompanied by foul breath, and it chilled Feliciano to the core.
Blind colours rushing under his closed eyelids, Feliciano wobbled weakly, utter exhaustion driving him mad, he fell over sideways.
Fire. He was on fire. That was the only explanation for the burning pain that threatened to tear him apart. His very muscles were alight, slowly being consumed and twitching erratically from complete loss of motor control.
The blackness that consumed his terrified mind, filled it with nightmares of time could bring threatened to win over, proving itself to be the stronger, Feliciano couldn't meet his torturers demands.
Jabbing Feliciano with the electric baton again, the shadowed figure frowned, the young Italian convulsed on the ground as electrical pulses yet once again swamped his body.
Looking like he wouldn't be processing any type of emotion or sensation for a while, the man responsible for Feliciano's deconstruction, decided to change his game plan, and smirked.