Victor was naked when they locked him up.
Clothing was something for humans, his father said. Not for animals.
Victor could feel the rough dirt and cold, sharp stones against his legs and buttocks; the splintering wood against his aching back, and the cold chains on his weary arms. The wood and the rocks and the chains all bit into him when he moved.
For a while he stayed still. But the longer he was alone there in the dark and damp, the more the pain became a friend. It was something where there was nothing.
Victor began to struggle.