It was all Bakura's fault. He couldn't have done anything. Right? Definitely not. Except wasn't there some chance he might have come up with a better strategy? Done something to save himself and save Atem from worrying? Maybe...
The priest woke up to that disturbingly familiar throbbing all over his body. His shoulder pained him the most. He tentatively cracked one eye open to see if the thief was still there. Good, he was gone. He examined his shoulder; it was bandaged, but that did nothing for that awful feeling. He shuddered at the memory of what that thief had done to him. That horrid jabbing pain into his shoulder. That blood-stained knife.
Why did he have to be so helpless? If only he could fight back... But all he could do was hang from the wall and try to withstand the torrent of abuse thrown at him by that thief. He couldn't even move the hot coals off of himself when they were burning skin off his stomach. He could feel the unnerving yet deceptively comforting warmth of the coal as he had moments before it was thrust onto his stomach. Then it was the searing agony! That scorching hot coal pressed up tightly against his skin! And that sickly sweet acrid smell, the smell of burning flesh, his flesh! No, no! He had to stop himself. He tried to force the horrid memories out of his mind.
Already the priest was shaking and panting in fear. The thief could come back at any time and force him to feel those coals again! No! But he couldn't stop picturing that horrid blood-chilling grin of Bakura. That racking laughter. "Oh gods damn that maniac and free me!"
Mahaad flailed wildly, pushing against the bonds that restrained him. He yelped out in agony as the shackles dug deeper into his already aching skin. His breathing became more and more frantic as he struggled to escape. He shut his eyes tight as ever more vivid and nightmarish hallucinations flashed through his mind of the horrible things that the thief had done to him.
Terrible images plagued him: of a cruel whip cracking down; of the icy yet fiery burning of a coal; of the merciless kick of that heartless fiend; of his lungs straining for air while his neck was strangled.
He shook violently in his fit the next few minutes as the unforgiving shackles cut deeper and deeper. When the visions finally subsided the priest was gasping for breath, drenched in an icy cold sweat. His cheeks were damp from involuntary tears, and his blood trickled down the shackles; his skin had been scraped off where he was bound.
He was a mess. He knew it. Much worse off than before even. He was on the verge of breaking right there again but he managed to restrain himself. He blinked away the droplets forming in his eyes.
There was no way he would submit. He needed to stay strong. He needed to hold out. For his Pharaoh. For Atem. He'd pull through and get out of there. Somehow...
He shut his eyes again and began to pray. He first apologized for his outburst and asked for forgiveness, and then prayed that Atem was safe. He wished he had the power to stop the thief and prevent him from harming anyone again. But he was so helpless hanging there.
A feeling of completely hopelessness grew inside of the priest until it overcame him. Try as he might, he could not prevent the tears that flowed out of his eyes as he cursed his fate. They came so easy, yet all they did were worsen his despair. Why must he be doomed to suffer at the hands of that monster?
He chose it himself. He knew what would happen when he saved his Pharaoh and sacrificed himself. He knew. Still, why did this even have to happen! The priest hated that vile thief for all that he was forced through in order to save his Pharaoh.