Blood.
The room was made of blood. It covered the walls, the floor; it had even reached the ceiling somehow, forcefully ejected from Ghirahim's veins by the intense beating of his heart. The pain he embodied was physical, now – it showed in every cut, every gash down his chest and over his arms, across his face, even on his back. Of course, it was nothing compared to the burning agony of his core; he had continued to try to use magic to defend himself through the torture of the last three days, but the dampening bracers clamped around his wrists, ankles and neck ensured that the magic simply bounced back, ripping through his soul with twice the amount of force. He had to make a physical effort to stop himself from trying to retaliate, but his strength was failing, and he was literally tearing himself apart.
"I see il tuo dolore!" The cry came unbidden from the brute before him, Baronelli, wielding a large butcher knife. "I see your pain! Why do you restare in silenzio!" (Why do you remain silent!) He took another swing with the blade, creating a deep gash in Ghirahim's side and yet another layer of blood on his clothes and the floor. "My pazienza si logora!" (My patience wears thin!) He continued to work at Ghirahim, giving him no time to answer.
How does he… expect me to speak? Ghirahim's chest heaved, and he had enough strength to roll his eyes. I cannot even move with this constant assault!
"I know you can speak!" The phrase had been repeated so many times that it burned into Ghirahim's brain: So che si può parlare. I know you can speak. I just won't let you. "Parlare!" With one final slash, Baronelli stepped back, giving the demon a small amount of reprieve.
Taking a few deep breaths through the pain, Ghirahim glared at the man, baring his teeth menacingly. He prided himself in the ability to stay silent through torture; thus far, he had not made a single sound, even as his chest lit on fire from the self-inflicted wounds. He knew, however, that his focus would not last. Something would slip through, and it would all break down; the only thing he could do was make sure that the something was impressive. He had to piss off Baronelli to the point of submission.
Fortunately for him, these Italians, as they were called, had a seemingly endless arsenal of swear words at their disposal. Ghirahim had quickly picked up on their absolute worst words, and intended to use them to his advantage.
"Your time è scaduto!" (Your time is up!) Baronelli readied another knife, this one serrated. "Do I have una risposta?" (Do I have an answer?) When his demand was met with silence and a heated stare, the big man stabbed Ghirahim's arm, letting the blade sink in all the way to the hilt. He put his face close to the demon's and growled, "I will have grande piacere in tirando lentamente." (I will have great pleasure in pulling this out slowly.) He began fulfilling his promise, drawing his hand back mere inches, relishing the feel of the serration against bone and muscle. Blood spurted from the wound with each movement, black-red stuff that stuck to Baronelli's person like a warning: Danger, danger. Ghirahim bit his lip, smearing his white lipstick with blood. No, he would not scream. He would not cry, or beg for it to stop. He would…
The knife suddenly moved back by a full inch, and he lost control.
"Vaffanculo!" (Fuck you!) he shrieked, blood flying from his mouth and landing on Baronelli's shocked face. "È disgustoso cane!" (You disgusting dog!) He grinned inwardly at that one, but kept his face furious. "Spero che il tuo dio ti abbandona! Vi dirò niente, stronzo!" (I hope your god forsakes you! I will tell you nothing, asshole!) He ended his outburst by spitting at his tormentor's feet, managing to hit one of his gore-covered boots.
Baronelli stood stock-still, unable to move out of shock. His mouth opened and closed a few times, making him look like a dying fish, his left hand still gripping the blade embedded in Ghirahim's arm. After a long moment, he seemed to return to his senses. "So you can speak, eh?" he said quietly, as if to himself. His face hardened into a threatening grin once more. "Or almeno alle mie parole." (Or at least return my words.) His hold on the knife tightened. "This will not take long, then." Ghirahim squeezed his eyes shut, and braced himself for the pain. This would take a while.