This room was different.
He didn't think it could have gotten any worse, but it had. It had gotten much, much worse. He couldn't lay down in this room. He could sort of curl up into a ball, but that was so painful after an hour or so, and almost wasn't worth the rest it gave him. There was nothing in the cell but a bucket, not unlike the one he had in the last cell. He had been in the cell for a day or so.
He thought so, at least. And this cell had a window. Well, slightly. It was a hole at the very top that was about the same size as his hand. But it was something. The small ray of sunlight that hit the bars of his cell was nice for how awful everything else was. They gave him a hunk of bread and a small cup of water. And that was all. The bread was stale and tasteless. It was just flour and water. Nothing like what Lovino was used to. And the water was swimming with small clumps of dirt and other things he didn't recognize. He hadn't taken a single gulp of the water since he'd been brought to the new cell.
He slid down the wall and looked around. He thought about Feliciano and Grandpa Roma. He still hadn't a clue as to where they were. He was sure that they weren't here at this point. He actually wasn't sure if they were dead or alive, but thinking that made tears well in his eyes, and he'd immediately pushed the thought out.
They were alive. They had to be. They were. Both of them. And maybe they had escaped and plotted his escape, too. And maybe the bastard was helping them, too.
He squirmed at the thought of Antonio. That bastard. He gritted his teeth as he imagined him searching through Barcelona for his next victim. He wasn't sure what made him angrier, either. The fact that there was a poor Jewish youth out there who was being lied to, or the fact that Antonio was out there sharing kisses with someone else.
But they were all fake. It was a fucking act. You're so fucking pathetic, Lovino. He muttered to himself, sometimes aloud, sometimes just in his mind.
He'd kill that bastard if he ever saw him again. Then nobody else can have him and he'll go to hell where he belongs. Lovino nearly smiled at the thought, but he was interupted by the door opening. He heard footsteps. He prayed they were going to someone elses cell. Anyones cell but his.
And of course, they stopped in front of his cell. There were three men. A short, plump one he'd never seen, and the two guards. He gaped at them while one took his sword out, clenching the handle.
Lovino knew what was going to happen at this point. He shut his eyes and waited for the sword to hit that spot on his temple where it hit before. A wave of darkness soon crashed over him.
.
He opened his eyes and searched the room. This one was much more spacious. Torches were lit and covering the walls in rows. He tried to sit up, but was met with resistance. He looked to the right at his hand and stared at the rope tied around it.
His eyes widened and the blood drained from his face. Small gasps escaped his throat. He kicked his legs, but ropes held down his ankles. With each jerk of his arm or leg, the rope rubbed painfully against his flesh. But he kept moving, kept squirming to get out of this situation. To free himself. He looked up at the ceiling. I didn't mean what I said about Antonio or any of that, God. I didn't mean anything I've said, or thought, I was just upset, don't let this happen to me. Please help me. Please protect me.
He pleaded with everything he had, hoping God could hear him from wherever he was in heaven. He was never religious, but he needed someone. He needed help.
Tears slid down his temple and onto the table he was being kept on. It felt like a table, at least. He turned his head away from the ceiling and to the left.
This was a mistake. There were about ten inquisitors sitting in chairs simply watching him. Before he could turn away himself, a rope was placed around his neck, forcing him to face the ceiling once again. The rope was tied tightly to keep his head in place. He could feel his adam's apple pressing against the rope uncomfortably, and he did his best to not swallow.
He heard a man mutter a few words, though he couldn't understand them. They weren't speaking Italian, obviously, but they weren't speaking Spanish either.
Lovino squirmed again, trying hard to break the ropes, though deep down he knew that it was impossible. He felt a hand next to his hip and a cloth taken from his body that he didn't even know was there. He was met with a cool breeze, and tried desperately to free his hands to cover his exposed body, but he gave up after remembering the ropes.
He wished he could have at least kept some of his pride. But they ripped that away when they ripped the cloth off of his body. And any amount of hope he had was going to be taken soon, too. He didn't want to believe it, but it was true. And no amount of believing otherwise would make this situation better. But he would try. He would try to cling to his hope as best as he could.
More murmuring to his left. A few shouts. None in Spanish. There was the sound of water splashing lightly somewhere behind him. He took in a deep breath, stomach clenching, eyes pushing out wet, round tears. He felt a few drops of water on his head, then saw a white cloth held above him. He felt cool fingers part his lips, and he could taste the sour taste of metal as his mouth was pried open. He tried to shut his mouth, but the tool in his mouth wouldn't budge. Something else covered his nose. There was a voice again, though this time it was Spanish.
"Do you have a confession?"
The words played over and over again in his mind. He could confess now and end all of this. He'd just have to tell them about Grandpa Roma, and the torturing would stop before it even began. He'd get his clothes back. And go back to the bakery. He choked back a sob.
Because none of that mattered if Grandpa Roma and Feliciano weren't going to be there.
The man seemed to sense Lovino's decision, and the wet cloth above his head was spread lightly across his face. Lovino couldn't see through the cloth like he thought he would be able to. It was pitch black now. He breathed shakily and wondered what the hell they were doing to him.
He heard footsteps to his right and left, and the cloth was tightened across his face, though he still took in shaky breaths. There was a quiet word. Just one. Latin, he thought. And the cloth was pulled tight against his face, and his breaths stopped. He tried to take in one more, just one, but the air wouldn't come. He heartbeat sped.
Lovino could feel water being poured down into his throat through the cloth. He tried to swallow it all, but he needed to breathe.
He tried to breathe through his nose, but that was worse than trying to breathe through his mouth. He was drowning. The water stung the back of his throat. He wanted to scream out, but he needed breath to scream, so instead, it was gurgling noises and the sound of the table creaking beneath the force of his quick, desperate movements to free himself.
This went on for a couple of minutes. Lovino tugging at his ropes, gasping for the air that didn't seem to exist, and the ten men to his left whispering to each other.
The cloth was removed, though not brought out of his sight. Again, they asked him the question.
"Do you have a confession?"
Lovino cried silently as he sucked in large gushes of air. He couldn't speak. Broken whimpers came from his lips until he caught his breath. He looked at the cloth, nearly breaking, but he couldn't. Not now. He had made it this far. He had to do this for Grandpa Roma and Feli.
God, please. Make them stop. Please help me. Don't make me suffer anymore. Please. I'll be kind, I'll be good. I will. Send someone to save me, please. That's all I want. Please let Antonio come and save me. Or Grandpa Roma. Or anyone. Save me. "Save me," he whispered to himself. He looked up at the cloth once more. "N-No. I have no c-confession."
A viscous cycle began. They would pull the cloth tightly across his face, he would suffer, they would lift it, and ask him the question. And every time, he'd say he had no confession. It lasted for what felt like hours. Finally, the cloth was put back in the bucket, and there were murmers from the men in the room.
All of the ropes were untied. His wrists, ankles, and neck were rubbed raw, blistered, and nearly bleeding. They almost felt as bad as his throat, which burned with more intensity than he had felt before. He let out a sigh of relief.
They began to lead him to the door. So he thought. They turned him left before he could leave the room. There was a yell, and two guards were hovering above him, pushing him to the wall, and again there were thick ropes around his wrists. He nearly burst into tears at the sight of the wall in front of him. He just wanted it to be over.
There was a shout behind him, then a loud crack. The sound was enough for Lovino.
"Please! Wait, I-" Lovino trembled. "I'll-" He stopped. He couldn't confess. He had to stay strong for them. If not for himself, for them. "I have no confession."
He bit down on his lip, and before he could think, a sharp pain spread across his back and moved its way down his legs, nearly causing his entire body to give out. He waited for the next one, but it didn't come until about a half minute later.
The cycle continued. The whip broke his skin each time, causing pain to consume his body, bringing loud sobs and screams that cracked his voice until there was no voice left.
He begged to pass out. To stop feeling the pain. To die.
But none of his pleads were enough, and he stayed awake until the very last stroke broke into his already torn skin.*
.
It went on like this for a month. Every other day, Lovino was tortured. But he never confessed. There were a few times where he almost did. He was so close. But he refused. He couldn't bring himself to do it.
They came into his cell in the morning one day, scowls and odd looks on their faces. Lovino didn't look at them anymore. He knew what was going to happen. They would knock him out, lift him, take him to the large room, undress him, and he would undergo all the pain all over again. But this time, they didn't knock him out. They grabbed his arms and dragged him upstairs a ways. They crossed long halls and a few familiar doorways until they stopped at one he remembered as being the door to the cell he stayed in when he first arrived.
He looked at the guards, but they didn't catch his gaze. They opened the door and pushed him inside, slamming the door back shut. Lovino looked around. There was the bed. And the bucket. And the desk with the paper on top.
His knees weakened when he looked at the bed. He hadn't laid on a bed in so long. He covered his mouth and curled up on the bed. It was like laying on a cloud. He didn't even mind that it hurt the cuts in his back. He just wanted to sleep.
.
Lovino had been in the cell for a week. They had given him an egg and a hunk of bread every day to eat. And his water was much cleaner in this room. Though he would have drank anything at this point. Anything to soothe his still burning throat.
He leaned against the wall and gently touched the blisters on his wrist. They felt terrible, but not as bad as they had a week ago. He shut his eyes and listened to the faint screams coming from somewhere below him.
"Lovino Vargas. Stand up."
Lovino glanced at the door. A guard was standing there, a weird look on his face. Lovino didn't attempt to glare. He stood as he was told to and didn't ask why. The guard nodded to someone behind him and left the room. The dull sound of boots hitting the stone floor echoed in Lovino's ears. It wasn't the guards boots. No, these were much sharper. Much more demanding.
They stopped at Lovino's doorway. And all he stared at were those boots. They were black, leather boots, going up to just below the knee. And there was a coat. A dark red one. And the . . . the . . .
"You fucking bastard," Lovino said in a low growl. "What the fuck are you doing here? GET OUT! GET THE HELL OUT!" Lovino was relentless, swinging punches left and right at the Spaniard, though none of it seemed to effect him. He merely grabbed Lovino's wrists and pushed him onto the bed, trying hard to be gentle before slamming the door shut.
"I FUCKING HATE YOU!"
"Lovino, please-"
"FUCK YOU!"
"Lovino, listen-"
"NO! GO TO HELL!"
"Please, just-"
A broken cry escaped Lovino's throat. "I fucking hate you! You're a fucking piece of shit!" Tears streamed down his red face. Antonio's heart sank. If Lovino would just listen for one second.
"Lovino, I'd just like to talk to you for a moment. Please. I'll sit here." He sat at the desk. "And you can sit on the bed. You haven't talked to anyone in so long. I thought you'd like to." God, he wished he could just hold Lovino and tell him how sorry he was that any of this happened.
Lovino stood, mouth agape, not moving. "No," he choked out. "I don't want to talk."
Antonio knew it would be like this. He walked over to Lovino and rested a hand on the Italians shoulder. Lovino flinched and leaned away from the touch. Antonio's eyebrows furrowed. "I'm not going to hurt you, Lovino. Please, just sit down." Tears escaped Lovino's eyes as he looked at the bed before finally giving in and sitting down.
"I don't know you won't hurt me. All you've done is lie. You're a fucking liar. You'd probably have hit me if I didn't sit down." Antonio's lips parted as he looked at the blisters on Lovino's wrists and neck. He gulped and tried to look away.
"Lovino, I have questions to ask you." Antonio took out a piece of lead and took a few pieces of parchment paper from his pocket."First, Lovino, how are you?"
Lovino watched as Antonio scribbled something quickly on the piece of paper and held it out to him. He read: Lovino, they're listening. Be careful as to what you say, querido. I have so much to tell you. But I can't say it aloud. Lovino looked up at Antonio, then looked at the word 'querido'. He wanted to believe that word. But he couldn't. He gave the note back to the bastard and nodded in understanding. "How do you think I am, bastard? You put me in this shithole. I'm shit. And what is it like out there? Seducing another Jewish boy? Getting him to fall in love with you? Raising him up so that you can knock him back down?"
The words hurt. But Antonio couldn't blame Lovino. He had lied to him. And he deserved all the harsh words Lovino had for him. "Lovino, your grandfather is Jewish. Why won't you admit that? All of this would be over if you would just tell them." He wrote and passed the paper back to Lovino, who read it quickly.
This whole thing started off as part of my job. But the minute I saw you, I knew there was something special about you. Something beautiful. And I was right. I knew I wouldn't be able to turn you in or your family. And I didn't. I don't know who turned you in. Believe me or don't. But I'm telling the truth.
"My grandfather doesn't practice Judaism. I've already told you!" This time, Lovino leaned over and took the piece of lead from Antonio. He scribbled, his handwriting messy.
You've hurt me, bastard. How am I supposed to trust you?
Antonio read the words and looked up. "Take a moment to truly consider confessing, Lovino." The Spaniard stood and sat on the bed beside Lovino. "Bastard. I'm not going to confess to something that isn't true. Fuck you." Antonio's arm wrapped around Lovino's waist.
Lovino froze. He could feel Antonio's soft lips pressed to the shell of his ear. "Te amo, Lovi. Do you know why I came to see you?" He whispered, keeping his voice as low as possible. "Hold on, Lovino. I'm going to make a slapping noise. Make a noise like I hit you. Alright? Please cooperate." Antonio slapped his own arm, creating a nice noise, and Lovino let out a fake cry.
Antonio leaned in and whispered again. "I'm here to save you, Lovi. And Roma. And Feliciano. I have a faint idea of how, but I haven't worked out the details quite yet. So you will have to stay a while longer. And I am so sorry for that. I'm ashamed of what I've done to you. And your family. And even if you never forgive me, I want you to be free. I want you to see Italy again like you've always wanted. Even if I can't be a part of your life anymore. I want you to be happy. That is all I-" Antonio stopped when he felt Lovino crawl into his lap and wrap his arms around his neck.
Lovino's body shook with sobs. He buried his face into Antonio's shoulder, inhaling the bittersweet aroma clinging to the red coat. "I want to hate you so badly. I wanted to kill you so you could burn in hell. And I'm sorry for thinking those things. I'm so pathetic, too. This is probably all an act but I . . . I want to be held, okay, bastard? I want you to hold me for a second. And I can pretend everything is okay again. Just for a few minutes. And I'll continue with this fake dialogue where you pretend to ask me questions and smack me around. But I want you to pretend something for me. Pretend like you, uh, p-pretend like you love me. Okay?" He rested his head on Antonio's chest and shut his eyes. "And you're still an asshole."
Antonio smiled and ran his fingers through Lovino's hair. "I do love you, mi amor," he whispered before continuing the fake argument. They sat together like this until there was a knock on the door, signaling Antonio to leave.
To Be Continued . . .
*Let me tell you why this is blatantly historically inaccurate. The Church was specifically not allowed to draw blood or mutilate prisoners. But I wrote lashes in anyways because they did actually give out lashes at Auto-De-Fe's, because the line between state and church was basically non-existent. They definitely could have illegally given out lashes, too, though it would have been rare.
The first torture portrayed is something they actually did, though.