A/N: Here's the next one. I'm writing at a pretty rapid pace so I should be posting steadily. Again, I'm not going to be putting warnings at the beginning of every chapter because the warning in the first should just be implied throughout the story.

Thanks, enjoy!

Eventually they take him back to his room, never having unblindfolded him, and leave him with the promise of more tomorrow. He's not quite sure but it doesn't feel like there's anything broken, just severely bruised and more than one spot cut open. His hands are once again tied behind him and he's not flexible enough to get his legs up to take the blindfold off so he's stuck in the world of darkness and pain until whenever his captors decide to let him see again.

He falls into an exhausted sleep that isn't so much sleep as it is unconsciousness.

The next day is much the same, except when he passes out they shoot him full of electricity to keep him awake. He continues giving half-truths, as much as he can get away with. Sometimes they'll give him a trick question that they'll know the answer to just to see if he's telling the truth and then punish him when he lies.

That night, or whatever part of the day it is, when they're done, they feed him a small piece of bread, what seems like chicken, and a pill that at first he spits out but it's quickly forced down his gullet and he's gagged so he doesn't throw it back up.

They fall into a pattern of torture and questioning, sometimes just torture, and sometimes just questioning from what he guesses is dawn until dusk. There are four different men who torture him but it's always the same two ladies who ask questions. Every third night he'll get bread and meat and once a week he'll get a pill.

They never take the blindfold off though.

Everything hurts.

He doesn't know how long he's been there. Maybe he does. He's been given 26 pills, meaning 26 weeks. How many months is that? Holy fuck, six and a half months. Everyone's probably forgotten about him.

He's forgotten who he is. Who is he?

You have no name, boy.

He is boy. He has no name. He has no friends. He has no father. He has nobody.

He is alone. He is useless. He is broken. He is ugly.

That's who he is.

"We've gotten nothing from him in weeks, no matter how much we torture him. He hasn't said a word. He barely even makes sounds. I think it's just time we kill him and pick up the next one. He's done."

"Let's grab Amy and she'll decide what to do. Just leave him there."

The men retreat from the room, leaving his broken, bloody body on the floor. It's quiet and he's untied for the first time since he got there. Slowly, oh so slowly, he drags himself up and pushes himself onto legs that have been broken over and over and somehow, he doesn't know how, they still work enough to pull his body towards the door.

His sense of hearing had become incredibly heightened after he realized he was probably never going to use his eyes again. Not just from the blindfold but from the torture they've been put through. The same for his throat and his left hand. After the last two weeks, he'd only been able to whisper, nothing louder could make it through his damaged vocal cords.

Carefully, he follows the winding hallways he's been through so many times he's got a map of them in his head. He knows there's very little chance of him making it, but, oh well, he's going to die anyways. Why not?

His fingers close around the knob of the door he'd been looking for and he slowly twists it open, a small bubble of relief catching in his chest when it doesn't hitch on a lock and actually opens all the way. He stumbles through the door leading to the underground garage he'd been in three times for some of the more creative tortures involving moving vehicles and demonstrations of his torturer's imagination. It was enough, though, for him to create a basic map of the place.

It's a small space with a ramp that opened with a clicker on the inside of each car to allow them access. There are three cars that used the garage and right now he climbs into the biggest SUV, shuts himself in, and fumbles under the wheel until he's found the panel he needs to open to hotwire the car. Gently, he reaches up and undoes several wrappings of the gauze covering his eyes, but keeps a layer over them because of the eye's sensitivity, until he can see through his one good eye the little wires he needs to use to start the car.

It takes a good minute but he finally gets it, singeing his already ruined fingers. The car rumbles to life beneath him and he wraps his eyes up once again until he can see nearly nothing in the dimly lit garage and he puts the car into gear. Ignoring the pain in his body he drives the vehicle up the ramp and pushes the button, and has to close his eyes as daylight pours through the windshield.

He wraps another couple layers of the gauze around his eyes until it's dimmer but also a little fuzzier and gets going, pressing the button to lower the garage in an attempt to hopefully thwart whoever comes after him once they realized he's gone.

It probably won't be long now so he drives down the rough dirt path through thick trees for a solid twenty minutes until he arrives at asphalt. He has no doubts that his absence is now known and follows his gut telling him to go right and guns the engine. The tank is completely full and even though the road is small it's relatively easy to drive down so he drove at top speed.

The longer he spends in the car the less able-bodied he feels. The adrenaline that had been washing through him which had fueled his escape is beginning to wear off and the only thing that really kept him from passing out from pain and exhaustion is the thought that if he did he'd be caught and killed on sight. Every glance in the rear-view mirror has those little sparks of adrenaline shooting through his system, keeping him awake and going.

The drive at top speed takes him through endless miles of trees. The sun, which had been hanging, fat and low on the horizon, now cast its last rays of daylight and sank beneath the trees. He just keeps telling himself, keep driving. Just keep going. Keep going.

There's no strength left in his limbs. He hurts, everything hurts. He thinks that maybe, out of his damaged eye, he can see something. Lights? He doesn't know. He's slowing down?

His head lulls and all of a sudden, he's careening off the side of the road. He doesn't see where he lands.

A/N: So, hurray for escape but boo, poor Stiles. Hurt Stiles is my favorite to write because I'm a sadistic bitch, but it makes for a good story. The next chapter should be coming out tomorrow.

~hearts~