The bolt screams and protests as it slides from its steel housing. The door swings open. He’s here again, bringing me my usual meal of stale bread and raw potato, Jesus has another day gone by already? Its so difficult to tell, when its light or dark, the skylight has boards hammered across it to shut out all sunlight, but at a certain time each day the sun reaches just the right position to peek through the gaps in the wood and blind me until shadow once again prevails.

       I don’t know how long I’ve been here; judging by the regularity of my meals (if that’s what you can call them) I estimate about six days, but he beats me, and the constant darkness makes me drowsy, so I don’t even know when I’ve been awake, asleep or unconscious. The ball in my mouth stifles my breathing, I have already broken two of my teeth trying to get it off with my hands bound and I can still taste and feel the dry, clotted blood at the back of my nose and my throat. The front of my shirt is constantly damp with sweat and saliva from my pitiful, gurgling attempts to cry for help, but the most terrifying thing of all is that I’m not even sure I want help now. I try hard not to admit that I’m slowly accepting my fate, but a part of me wishes that if he were going to kill me, he would just get it over with. That part of me has been growing since I woke up here, swallowing me whole until I don’t feel as though I am myself any more. That night I was so happy (at least whatever used to be me was), celebrating the end of my exams with friends; so happy to be free. I remember walking home; remember his car pulling up alongside me as I struggled merrily to keep my walking in a relatively straight line. The offer of a lift; a polite refusal, and then….

       He approaches me in that slow, nonchalant, business-like swagger of his. Surveying me, never taking his eyes off me as he strolls casually across the room to my right to place the tray down on the metal table. The operating table. Its almost as if he’s left it there to mock me, to torment me into madness with what may become of me at the sharp end of whatever tools he may have hidden away somewhere. He never draws attention to it, but leaves it there for me to see, just out of the corner of my eye, and it haunts my every waking moment.

       He smiles, and moves his hands up to my head to remove the gag. I sob and choke and spit blood, sometimes I even vomit. However, I never scream. I know better than that. When I scream it angers him, he says the sound drives him crazy and he batters me until I either shut up or black out. He smiles again, enjoying his little game, and pushes a crust of stale bread into my dry, blood-tasting mouth. I almost retch at the feel of something so dry on my already parched tongue, but I chew, swallow, and even attempt to smile. It pleases him when I smile for him; he rarely hits me when I gratify his sick fantasies with the illusion of enjoyment. God help me. Here I am at the mercy of this strolling, smiling, soft spoken human being with its dark, twisted and mutilated mind, and I’m actually smiling as he pushes chunks of raw potato between my crimson teeth. I can’t go on like this. I have to do something something SOMETHING. The word echoes down into my brain and awakens that most primeval of instincts, that cries out "Survive!!" so loudly that the word actually bursts in my throat and I seize the tiny opportunity I am presented with and bite down hard onto his hand. He screams in agony and fury and tries to pull his hand away, but I just bite harder, the sensation of blood in my mouth that isn’t mine drives me almost to animal mentality and I screech and growl and clench harder with my with my jaw almost choking on the blood that now pours down my chin and adds a fresh stain to my once-grey shirt. Suddenly amongst my primitive blood-driven anger a flash erupts in front of my eyes and my head jerks violently to one side. Of course; He never comes here without them. The brass knuckles she bought for him. They were into some pretty heavy stuff of course, and he was overjoyed when he opened the box and beheld the pretty little arch of diamond-studded circles. The circles which he is now using to slowly destroy my pretty little face. He tears the sleeve from my t-shirt and uses it to bandage his bleeding hand before hitting me again. He tells me I’m bad and kicks me in the stomach, and I vomit blood and the undigested crap he just fed me. It’s getting dark as he puts the gag back in my mouth, mostly one-handed because the wound I gave him hurts too much to move. Despite my semi-conscious state I am pleased that I have hurt him. If it wasn’t for this damn ball in my mouth I think I may have even managed another smile. And then, as one might be treated to a brief yet beautiful glimpse of the ocean before you get your money’s worth and the telescope snaps shut, I notice a tear in the corner of his eye as the world goes black.

       Trent reaches for me, trying desperately to pull me out. I sob uncontrollably and call to him, call him to save me, but the more we reach and stretch and strain, the further apart we seem to drift. In our one final synchronised effort, we grab for each other, but our fingertips merely brush as I am sucked back down into the darkness, back into my pit as I desperately scream his name through a torrent of tears.

       I jolt awake so violently that my elbows crack against the stone wall and my legs buckle as the pain sears up through my shoulders and into my brain. I am furious at myself for having called Trent’s name out loud and bitten once again into the gag-ball causing my already tattered mouth to bleed again. My body sags helplessly, and that’s when I hear the sound of something tearing. Almost out of sheer habit I brace myself for the pain but none comes. Stupidly I once again allow my body to droop, out of sheer disbelief that I was not being hurt. Again I hear the tearing sound, but that is when I realise that it is not the sound of tearing flesh that I can hear, but of rope. After much severe punishment on the stone wall administered by the iron rings that hold my ropes in place a piece of masonry had broken off, leaving a small, but jagged edge of twisted metal exposed. A jagged edge that, after several minutes of careful work, finally works its way through the rope and sends me tumbling forwards to the concrete floor. In hysterical disbelief I fight my way through the ropes holding my legs and tear the gag-ball from my mouth with a wail of relief. I leap to my feet and begin hacking at the door and skylight with all the strength that my beaten, wasted body can muster, all to no avail. In my manic attempts to escape I somehow even manage to tear a brick from the edge of the skylight at the expense of two of my fingernails. It is then, crying in defeat and pain that I hear him coming. I seize the brick and take up position behind the door ready to take revenge the minute I see the back of his dark, perfectly combed hair. The bolt slides, the door swings, the tray drops. He runs to the pile of torn rope, and doesn’t even see the brick coming.

       It makes a delicious wet noise as it collides with his skull and he falls, hitting the ground hard and staying there, moaning softly. I kick him over onto his back, but I toss the brick aside; I have no use for it now. I know he’ll have it, he always brings it with him. Sure enough I find it in his pocket and relish the soft, smooth luxurious sensation as I slide the brass knuckles slowly onto my own fingers. He cries out from the first few blows, but it is not long before he is silent. I however am not ready to stop. I want to destroy him, to destroy that smile, those perfect teeth, that god damn face of his turning to pulp under his own brass knuckles, those brass knuckles that I bought for him, because we were into some pretty heavy stuff. Too heavy after a while, I had to get out, had to leave him. He did not take it well. Said I was his and that was all there was to it. Followed me home that night; took me from my life, my family, my friends.

       It’s my turn to smile. I lift my aching, blood-soaked arm from what used to be that pretty face and let the brass knuckles slide from my hand. I didn’t look properly but I swear they’re dented and misshapen. They’re not alone in that respect. Pulp is all that’s left. I don’t even care. I scrape up what I can find of that god-awful meal and tip it over him, laughing hysterically and dancing like a crazed wood-nymph. My laughter echoes around the room and up the passage as I jingle the car keys I took from his pocket. I climb into the car, still covered in blood and grinning like a maniac as I shift it into gear.

"Goodbye Trent".