AN: Well, avid readers, turns out you guys don't like Non-Angst Land all that much. That's a shame. Still, Angst Land is now back, and it's back with a vengeance. Thanks to my wonderful beta, daisylily, who has been helping me with what is and isn't physically possible, as well as being awesome in general. Most of the ideas for this chapter's violence came from my friend X, who can't be with us today because she doesn't have an account. Other ideas that were suggested by her but that I decided not to use included "anaesthetic-less vasectomy" and "being raped with a circular saw". The girl watches way too many horror films.

(This author's note is rated M, by the way.)

And... So is the fic. Look, if you're adverse to graphic violence and you're still reading this, then you must be trying damn hard to ignore the huge letter 'M's that keep appearing all over the place.

I don't own House, MD.

Chapter 9

It was so dark. So reassuringly dark. He could open his eyes without the burning pain of the bright lights. He couldn't see his torturer, the man that had made it his job to hurt him until he couldn't take it any more. Maybe Tritter was hiding in the shadows, obscured by the darkness, but until House saw him, he didn't have to worry about that.

The silence was equally comforting. The absence of Tritter's voice allowed his mind to wander, to imagine that he was somewhere else, that this wasn't really happening.

He had given up trying to tell reality from delusion. Pain was pain, whether it was imagined or not. He had given up on just about everything. He was entirely dependant on Tritter. Tritter had all of the power. He had all of the control. There was no way that House was going to get out of here. To begin with, he had been certain that someone, anyone, would notice that he wasn't where he was meant to be. But the truth was, everyone back home was expecting him to be in Hawaii for another two weeks. Maybe less. House had lost track of time.

The point was, it would be another two weeks before anyone realised that something wasn't right. Before anyone thought of looking for him. Two weeks of agony. Two weeks of this. He would rather just die, here, now, than let Tritter destroy him any more than he already had done. If only he could think past the pain, he would start to formulate some way to end the torture now, rather than suffer any more of this.

"I'm still here, you know."

House's heart began to pound in his chest at Tritter's voice. He couldn't face this, he didn't want to. He couldn't take it any more, he really couldn't.

"Please," he heard himself rasp. "No more. I can't do this..."
"What made you think that this was optional, Dr. House?"

He felt something slam into the small of his back. It wasn't the most painful thing that Tritter had done, but his body was already so tired and worn out that even the slightest touch caused him pain. He rolled with the punch, kick, whatever it was, over from his back onto his hand.

His right hand.

He couldn't even scream. His throat was raw, and the only sound that he managed to produce was a pathetic cross between a sob and a whimper. He wanted to curse, wanted to shout out every swear word of every language that he had ever learnt, but he couldn't even do that. He felt something hot and wet spilling down his face, but he didn't care. It wasn't like he had any dignity left anyway.

His t-shirt was gone. He figured that Tritter must have stripped it from him during one of his periods of unconsciousness. He could feel something sharp digging into his chest. A knife, probably. Tritter seemed to have a thing about knives.

House gritted his teeth as he felt Tritter make a small incision just under his collarbone. His inner sane person (who sounded an awful lot like Wilson) congratulated him on not making a sound. His whole body stiffened as he felt Tritter's fingers probing the cut, far from gently. What the hell was he up to? This was causing him pain, but on way too small a scale for Tritter to be satisfied. He was going to do something that would really, really hurt.

Another two quick stabs of pain as the knife cut in again. One part of him wanted to celebrate the lack of pain so far. But his inner Wilson knew what was still to come.

House's whole body shuddered as pain exploded in his chest. Through the shroud of pain, he vaguely realised that Tritter had peeled a strip of skin from the left side of his torso. Like extreme waxing, commented his inner Wilson.

Christ, he could feel Tritter's fingernails scrabbling around slightly to the right of the original wound. He was evidently planning on repeating the procedure. Many times, if House knew Tritter, which by now he did, all too well.

He was still crying, he knew. His brain was sending out endorphins, desperately trying to fight back against the wave of agony, but Mother Nature's Vicodin wasn't doing the job, and the tears kept on coming.

Thank God he still had his inner Wilson. Most psychiatrists would probably argue that the presence of a voice inside one's head wasn't the best way to preserve one's mental health, but it worked for him. The real Wilson would be even better, but for now, he would take what he could get.

He could hear his sobs growing louder. That person, that pathetic, sobbing person, it was him. God, Allah, Yahweh, please let the pain stop, please let it stop, please. Someone, anyone, have mercy. What had he done to deserve this?