Dia
"So, you just like killing people," A deep voice says from behind me. One of the same voices from earlier when I woke up. I can see a screwdriver popping out of their hoodie sleeve. They must be holding it.
My torture has begun, the pain is about to begin.
"Well, I like having a high body count but not the same as your high body count. What was it 36 bodies in one go?" the voice says, getting closer.
36 bodies I had accidentally killed with a bomb, I was twelve at the time and there were people who wanted me dead in the meeting but unfortunately, they brought company with them.
"Do you know the different ways, a screwdriver can hurt someone," the person says just as I feel the tip of the screwdriver just above my skin if he applies any more pressure to the screwdriver, it'll pierce my skin.
"No," I lie. I know some ways of hurting people with screwdrivers. It is the worst yet best way to hurt someone without anyone thinking much of you buying a screwdriver. No one ever questions you when you buy a screwdriver unlike if you buy different types of knives. You never get side eyes or dirty views; they assume you are fixing or building something.
"Well, I can demonstrate a few ways," they come closer to me, they have a deeper voice, but I do not want to assume their gender.
They start pressing the screwdriver down in my right thigh. Blood slowly starts seeping out. My jaw presses together in agony and I try biting my tongue. I do not want anyone to know they have inflicted pain. If I show them pain, they will know they are winning.
They leave the screwdriver in before pressing down on the blood.
A scream of pain comes from my mouth, tears start strolling down my face, my cheek. My head shots up, to look at the roof of the place. My other leg picks up a little trying to get free. My hands bawling up in a fist. My right leg, the pain starts radiating to my knee and ankle.
"Don't start crying, the pain has just begun. This was demonstration number one," the person leans down to aggressively whisper in my ear, "I see tears," they move the back of their hand to press against the side of my face. Slowly they move the tears from the bottom of my cheek going up the path of my tears to the top of my cheek.
Slap!
The sound echoes in the room. They hit my head; my head turns to the left side from the impact.
"We are just getting started, save your tears for someone else," they dig their thumb into my pierced skin and the screwdriver.
An agonizing scream fills the room from my lips.
"Your screams are music to my ears," they remove their thumb from my thigh. They move back to the trolley with what I assume is other torture instruments, "I should probably be wearing gloves to not have any blood left on me but the feeling of your warm blood seeping out from your body," they move behind the trolley, "it is just, you know, more pleasurable."
They look down at the items in the top part of the trolley. The trolley is painted black and has four wheels at the bottom. Something tells me this is not their first-time torturing someone and I definitely won't be the last one.