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Four more days had passed agonizingly slow. The thought of survival had passed and was long gone. He didn't even think he would survive the year. Robin's appearance was terrorizing and unrecognizable. Well, to most people. His smile was long gone, replaced not with a scowl or clenched teeth, but of a lax jaw and split lips parted slightly, trying to breathe. His nose was broken, resulting in two black eyes, one almost swollen shut. Dried blood clung to his skin, from his nose, the corner of his mouth and his eyebrow, where Slade had inflicted a deep wound.

His hair was catawampus. A real tragedy, what was once thick rich onyx locks, now was what looked like a child getting hold of shears. The worst part was the burnt skin that covered his scalp from the acid rinse.

His torso was covered in deep gashes, inflicted by a nine tail whip. This could have been one of Slade's worse methods. While Robin was knocked out by the drugs that he had been shooting him up with every night, Slade undid the restrains and sat him in a chair, facing a table. Strapped in, of course. His hands were chained to surface, only free to move about a foot in any direction. The table was solid steel and much too heavy to be moved. Robin roused to find rope and broken nails in front of him. Slade had ordered him to braid his own whip, which would be used on him. The most dreaded part was when Slade said, "don't try to sabotage it to hurt less, if any one of those nails comes lose, I'll drive it into your back." Unknown to poor Robin, Slade and tampered with it before the flogging, and made a nail fall out. Robin's back was stuck to the table from the dried blood. The recent flogging had reopened the wounds from the last one, and there wasn’t much feeling back there anymore.

Bruises had formed on his shoulders and neck, from Slade grappling and thrashing. The cuts on his arms were healing, and without infection thanks to the alcohol. His shorts were soiled. There was no other way to say it. After being water cured, the liquid still in his stomach made the rest of the trip. He had asked Slade to use the restroom, but the old man had just laughed. So, weakened and unable to hold any longer, Robin found himself embarrassed and disgusted.

His legs were practically black from bruises. His right one was broken and was beginning to heal incorrectly. The inside and back of his legs were raw. Slade had taken a rope ran it back and forth, building up friction, resulting in a flaming rope burn. Robin was thankful the table was cold. Last, second degree burns lavished the pads of his feet and his broken toes.

Robin didn't know why exactly, but Slade hadn't touched his eyes. They were dull and lifeless, from listening to the voices of the past, and hearing his own screams and bones breaking. He concluded that it was because of the mask. Slade wanted Robin dead, not Dick Grayson. Those sad deep cobalt orbs were of a child's, hidden away from crime, wanting to be forgotten. That theory or Slade just wanted to make sure he saw his suffering.

He preferred the latter.

Just when the thought it was over for the day, the table gave a sudden jerk. He was pulled just an inch downwards. This perplexed him, until he heard the familiar sound of the faucet creek.




Right smack dab in the middle of his forehead. Robin's eyes widened as he realized that Slade was using one of the cruelest forms of torture there was. Robin wasn't going to let him have satisfaction. He closed his eyes and turned the dripping into beats inside his head. He listened to blasting loud music when he was irritated, so he thought of a song that matched and played it internally over and over. A growl came from Slade's direction and Robin knew he was up one on him, but his victory was short lived.

He heard the door open again, the door of things past he called it. His eyes shot wide open when he heard the voice coming from the door.

"Hey Dick! Come on out and play!" The sounds of laughing children echo from behind him.

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