Broken

...Third Part: Krad...

My shoulder throbbed and my head ached – everything ached – as I felt myself come back out of the darkness again. I could hear a familiar voice... but I couldn't quite place it, and my eyes, sore and no doubt red-rimmed from crying, couldn't make out a clear image, even without the intrusive red spots flitting in front of them.

I felt some measure of security through all the pain, however. I felt the soft pressure of something wrapped around me, and I could identify the feel of a hand cradling my head against something... The touch felt... familiar...

"I'm going to take care of him."

Realization seeped into my mind. The familiarity was... Dark...

Dark.

I curled my fingers into the fabric they rested against, feeling a sliver of... relief...? ...before slipping back under.

. . .

Dark... he found me... after... that... He's... always...

There were others, the sick bastard. Others besides me. I could hear their screams coming from the other side of the wall; cringed away from them, and cringed away from their tortured, distorted faces as he threw them back into the small concrete room with me.

We thought about banding together, but we were too scared. We were too weak – even I, regrettably, had not the energy or health anymore to stand up for myself, let alone for others that were complete strangers to me. Before, these people would have been nothings. They still meant little, but when another feeble scrap of life was pulled from the room, everything that made me who I was buckled in fear, then relief that it wasn't me being dragged to the other side of the door, then an even more terrible fear that I could be next.

The suspension was made worse when the scrap wasn't returned to its place. That meant they never would. That meant death.

How long until I was that last scrap? How long before this killed me as well? I had outlasted all of my company so far. Somehow... death almost seemed a welcome comfort.

But every time that door made the subtlest movement, men and women alike – there were generally from three to five kept at a time – would huddle together, awaiting their untimely demise; clinging to the other forms for some feeble sort of comfort.

I dug my aching fingers into the closest thing available, burying my face against its surface in attempt to hide from the dream... the memory...

It was... warm...?

I pulled myself closer to it, desperate not to be pulled away from it.

One night, I opened my eyes only to find more darkness before me. A terrible stench reached my senses and I tried to recoil from it, but it was everywhere. Beyond the smell of rot and refuse, though, was another, fainter scent. Possibly, it wasn't even a scent, but some other sense.

Air.

Lots of air. Lots of space.

Was I dead? Or wasn't I? I couldn't really tell; couldn't comprehend it. I should be back in a tiny concrete room, surrounded by other abused forms like myself. ...but I wasn't...

I was wrapped in a blanket of some kind – one could hardly call it such, for it felt like burlap against my skin. It wasn't at all comfortable, but somehow it was better than nothing; better than concrete.

And then... someone was there...

The tall body of a man towered above me, and I found myself lost to my trauma again. "Please don't touch me..."

But it was Dark.

Of all the people I least expected to see... it was Dark...

So... I was... free...?

Always... even when I had nearly forgotten...

Dark...

"Dark..."