A.N.: Okay, so this is my LAST update before I go out of town this weekend! (I think...) I most likely won't have any time to write/upload tomorrow before I leave. I'll be coming back late Sunday, so it's unlikely you won't get an update until Monday, if then. Sorry about that ^^; But I do lead a very busy lifestyle (yet I always find time to write...).

Summary: Gokudera writes more of her book, but how much more of the horrors can Yamamoto take?

Warning: Horrors Two and Three out of Six are in this chapter. They're not excessively gruesome, per say, but I'm just putting this up here to say what you read... well, it's not pleasant at all.

That night, I do not sleep. I stare at the ceiling, kept awake by the echo of pain, and the constant tremors. It's cold – abnormally so, even for an air conditioned basement, bunker, or whatever this thing is called. I try to fight back the memories of the creature that burrowed beneath my skin, but my mind keeps returning to that event, and I keep reliving it.

But my mind is finally pulled away from that event when the door creaks open to admit my tormenter, and day two of six begins.

Before my imprisonment, I didn't fear fire. I was the Smoking Bomb, I was explosive, and everywhere I went, fire followed me. But now… What happened on day two is far worse than the scalding irons, the molten liquids that were once metals.

Imagine willfully sticking any part of your body into a bucket of hot coals. No matter how strong or tough or brave you think you are, you can't do it. Believe me, I've experienced it first-hand. Well, not willingly…

I can only wait as he throws more wood onto the fire to get more coals, the smoky stench I once loved causing my mind to blank with fear. (No wonder I quit smoking, and not just on account of my injuries). And then, without warning, the hot coals are scooped up, and dumped across my body. I can't even scream. It's as if all the water in my body suddenly evaporates – no tears, no saliva, nothing. The leather straps holding me down are so tight that I can't even squirm.

It's mercy when I pass out. But the real hell comes when I wake up.

I can barely open my eyes when I come to, but the first thing I feel is the cool relief of water, washing gently over my burned body. But I still smell smoke. I pull against the straps, ignoring the flashes of pain, and see him standing by the fire, heating a long dagger. Shit no, please, anything but that, I silently beg.

But my captor pays no head to my silent pleas, just as he would if I actually voiced them. However, I am not that weak.

The white-hot blade slices through my skin like its melted butter, burning away flesh and muscle and nerves. It's really quite beautiful, in a morbid sense, because the white-hot blade cauterizes the wound as it cuts, so I do not bleed at all. I just am burned away with each quick and deliberate slice.

At least now, I can scream and rant and curse. At least now, I give him the reaction that he wants, so after twenty or so cuts, he puts the blade down, and walks away until the next morning.

Yamamoto lowers the journal with a shaky breath. He didn't let me read it aloud, even though it's technically part of my therapy, so I'm forced to wait and see his reaction. I haven't had a chance to write more past the second horror, so the rest, if he has the stomach to read it, will have to wait.

There's a dull thump as he closes the journal and sets it on the window sill, and a long silence stretches between us. It seems like an eternity before he finally speaks. "Do you still have scars from that?"

I have always worn long-sleeve clothing since my release from the hospital to hide the scars, and even while I was in the hospital, I kept most of myself covered to try and hide them.

I turn my back to him, reach my arms over my head, and pull up the back of my cotton long-sleeve shirt. Massive scars crisscross my back – some from the white-hot knife, some from other tortures. I stiffen a little when he reaches out and gently traces some of the scars with his warm hand. "Not all of these are from that," he observes.

I let my shirt fall back down and turn to face him, his hand falling away. "No," I say. "Those came later, around the fourth day." I roll up my left pant leg and show him more of the knife scars. Sorrow creases his normally happy features, and, not for the first time, I wonder if telling him, even showing him the marks left, is a mistake.

But the sorrow vanishes before I have a chance to actually register it, and it is replaced by an unreadable mask. He glances at the clock. "I should go…"

I look down and nod. He cups my chin with one hand and lightly kisses me. "One more week," he whispers, and I suppress a shudder at his choice of words. This is Yamamoto, not my captor. I can trust him, can't I? Instead, I offer him a small smile, and watch him as he leaves my dreary room.

And then I begin to write.

I'm surprised, the morning of the third day, when he storms into my cell, talking on his handhold phone. "No!" He sounds angry. "Tell the boss he can wait one more week! One more week, she'll be broken, and she'll tell him everything!"

I'm too far away to hear anything but garbled words and static.

"Look, man, I don't give a rat's ass about that! This chick is my priority; your priority is to make sure none of her menfolk come after me!"

Menfolk? Since when was that term used, if ever? I try to hide my confusion, but before I can eavesdrop more, he snaps the phone shut with an angry, "Go fuck yourself!" and turns his attention to me.

"Good morning, my little pet," he croons, and I try to not wince. His meaty hand pats my head and runs through my greasy hair. I can't suppress my shudder, but he doesn't notice it. Instead, he heads over to a wired machine in the corner of the room and wheels it over to my table, and begins attaching wires to my head and arms. Fuck. Electrocution, I think to myself.

He attaches the last electrode and smiles – his teeth are far from perfect. "I have one week left with you, little pet. One more week, and then you go to the boss… One more week…"

I have no time to respond, because with a flick of a switch, who knows how many volts of electricity shoot through my body, and I scream, my back arching unnaturally against my restraints. He just laughs, and it dawns on me that my captor may be a little more than insane.

It gets worse when he brings out the cattle prod. Apparently, my screams aren't enough anymore – he wants to see me squirm. I don't disappoint. The cattle prod has more electricity that what he's got me hooked up to and the smell of burnt skin assails my nostrils, as the prod leaves black welts wherever it touches me. I don't scream, I don't sob, I don't wail. The sound that leaves me at the peak of my torment is anything but human.

And truly, for the first time since my capture, I want to die.

I close the journal and fight back a wave of emotions. It's not unexpected, but until I actually wrote the words down, I didn't know the fear that encompassed them.

I wanted to die.

I had given up. The pain was too much. I was strong, but I wasn't strong enough.

But I survived.

And I would continue to survive. I would grow strong again, and then I would grow stronger. Never again would I be beaten so easily, humiliated so perfectly.

Never. Again.