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Tortured Soul

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There’s a gag over his mouth and a cloth over his eyes. He can’t move his hands or his feet but when he tries he can feel the painful bite of ropes against his tender skin. The clothes he was wearing when he’d been taken are no longer on his body and the concrete beneath his body is frigid. It’s cold wherever he is, the air enough to make him shiver.

As soon as he’d woken up, groggy and disoriented, he’d struggled, screamed, and writhed on the floor, trying to loosen his bonds, cry out for help, anything that would give him a little more control but after who knows how long his screams became sobs, his struggles became twitches, and his cries became whimpers. He doesn’t know how long he lay there, listening for something, anything, but there was nothing to listen to. There were echoes on close walls from his cries which indicated a small, empty room but other than that he had no idea where he was.

Time passes so slowly, there’s no clock ticking to indicate the passage of time, but he knows it did pass because his bladder soon becomes heavy and he tries wriggling and yelling once again to get someone’s attention. There’s still nothing and after probably another couple of hours he sobs as he just let’s go. The warm piss is a small relief on his chilled skin for all of ten minutes before it starts cooling uncomfortably in the puddle around his lower body and the scent becomes nauseating.

He’s crying again for what seems like the twelfth time. He’s hungry and cold and still lying in the drying puddle of cold piss. He wants to sleep but he’s scared that if he does he’ll wake up to something worse. His body aches from being left on the ground immobilized for so long but when he tried rolling over he just spread the piss even further and simply ended up rolling onto more cold ground, so eventually he just rolled back onto his side and stayed on the slightly warmer concrete.

There were phases of temperament he went through as he thought about his predicament. There was fear, then panic, then anger, then calculating, then determined, then exhausted, and back into fear. Each phase ran smoothly into the other, over and over, running around his head until he felt exhausted with it. He’d always come back to fear though. Every time he’d get a new idea to try and free himself he’d eventually become exhausted and disheartened at his failure. Every time he’d get angry over his predicament and how easily he’d been captured he’d eventually break down into tears at the hopelessness of it all. Every time he’d work himself up into a panic attack he’d end up winded and struggling to breathe through his nose until he either fell unconscious or the attack ended and he’d be exhausted.

His sense of time was completely off. A minute felt like an hour, an hour like a week, and a day like a year. He didn’t know how long he was there, laid out on the floor. He’d pissed himself twice and had ended up wriggling probably only a foot away from that spot before he shit himself. The smell was horrific and his ass felt filthy and he felt utterly humiliated and helpless and afraid.

When was this going to end?

~

“Is this the kid?”

“Yeah, picked him up twelve days ago. We’ve been giving him water intravenously while he slept but other than that there’s been no sustenance intake.”

“Good. Grab him and take him to room 3.”

“Yes ma’am.”

His heart thunders in his chest as the voices wake him from his latest panic attack induced sleep. He wants to kick and scream and demand answers and plead for his freedom or at least some food but he can’t. There’s no energy in his system, he’s nothing but skin and bones, his side where he continues to lay had gone numb a long time ago but he knew that where there’d been fat and some semblance of muscle was now only a gaunt skeleton.

The man grabs him under the arms and pulls him up as if he were a small child and drags him out of the room. He breathes through his nose quickly, trying to keep the panic at bay and focus on exactly what he’s hearing and what he’s feeling, what direction he’s headed in. They continue down a long hallway to the right of the room he was kept in and make a sharp left. He’s dragged for another few feet before they stop and one of the hands holding him up lets him go and he whimpers in pain as one side of his body drops, leaving his entire weight to be caught by the iron grip on his right arm.

There’s a jingle of keys and the sound of a door being unlocked and opened and suddenly he’s being literally thrown across the room. He hits the far wall with a sickening thud, pain jolting through his body as he crumples to the ground. Boots stomp across the room as he whimpers. There’s the sound of paper rustling and the boots come closer. He flinches back against the wall when the man comes to a stop in front of him.

There’s no warning other than the shifting of clothes and then he’s being hauled up once more, this time by his throat.

“I’m going to cut your ropes. Behave or I’ll cut off your fingers.”

He’s breathing hard, trying to keep the panic from overwhelming him. His body is shaking so hard that it feels like he’ll shake right out of his skin as the man cuts through the ropes that have been bound around his body since day one. The relief lasts for all of a second before his stiff limbs are suddenly yanked out of their folded forms and he screams as his muscles and bones protest. His wrists are quickly bound to cuffs linked to chains attached to the wall and he’s hung spread eagle on the wall, his ankles also fixed to the wall.

Tears are once again soaking the dirty cloth tied around his eyes and drool is seeping through the one in his mouth, his nose is running and his entire body is throbbing. The man doesn’t say anything more until the door opens again and there’s another pair of shoes walking into the room before the door is slammed shut.

“Age: 16, height: 5’8”, weight: previously 142, now approximately between 125 and 130. Residence: 129 Woodbine Lane, Beacon Hills, California, 95351. Father: Noah Stilinski. Mother: Claudia Stilinski, deceased. One living relative, grandfather: Elias Stilinski, has dementia. No other relatives.”

A woman’s voice reads through his history as if she’s reading a boring paper on amortization scheduling.

“Here’s what we need. Best friend: Scott McCall. Close friends: Isaac Lahey, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, and Derek Hale. Long time crush on Lydia Martin who is dating his long time bully Jackson Whittemore. These are some important names. Powerful names.”

Her footsteps come closer.

“Now, boy, I’m going to ask you a lot of questions and you’re going to answer all of them honestly and quickly without fuss. Nod if you understand.”

He frowns behind his blindfold. What could this woman possibly want?

There’s a sharp jab to his left side that knocks the breath from his lungs and leaves him gasping.

“I expect you to follow every direction I give you. Every time you disobey there is a consequence. Nod if you understand.”

He breathes in little gasps through his nose but eventually does give a small nod of his head.

“Good. Now, I am going to ask you questions and you will answer them honestly and without fuss. Nod if you understand.” She repeats.

This time he nods as instructed.

“Excellent. Let’s start off small with yes or no questions. Does your father know about werewolves?”

His heart thuds in his chest. He’d guessed that these people had probably taken him because of his connection with the pack but it was another thing to have it confirmed. Another sharp, heavy hit to his side had him refocusing on the woman.

“Boy, I don’t like repeating myself. Answer the question with a nod for yes and a shake for no.”

He shakes his head no, his father does not know about werewolves.

“Does he know about any of the other supernatural beings?”

No.

“Does Melissa McCall know anything about supernatural beings?”

He hesitates. She does but would him letting them know that she does put her in danger?

He shakes his head no.

A violent hit to his other side makes him cry out and gasp for air.

“Any time you do not answer a question you will be hit on your left side. Every time you lie you’ll be hit on your right side. Nod if you understand.”

Nod.

“Is Derek Hale the Alpha?”

No.

“Is Scott McCall the Alpha?”

Yes.

“Do you know how Scott became the Alpha?”

Yes.

“If I take the gag off will you tell me exactly how Scott became the Alpha?”

Again, he hesitates. These questions, if he answers them, he’ll be betraying the pack.

The hard blow to his left side isn’t much of a shock but it does hurt and he cries out through the cloth in his mouth.

“Answer me, boy.”

No.

A solid punch in the stomach does shock him, has him curling in on himself as much as he can in his restraints as the air leaves his body and black spots dance across his vision.

“Any time you’re being difficult I will hit various parts of your body. Nod if you understand.”

Nod.

“Untie the boy’s gag.” She demands and the heavy footfalls stride towards him once more.

A sharp tug on the cloth at the back of his head has the nasty rag falling from his mouth and he gulps in large lungful’s of air and gives shuddering breaths.

“Now, boy, you will tell me exactly how Scott McCall became Alpha.”

He pants for a second before, “My name is Stiles, bitch.”

The blow that hits him across his face has him crying out loudly and sharply, blood welling from a split on the inside of his cheek.

“You have no name here. You are only a source of information. You are not a human being. You do not have rights. You are as much of a monster as the things you call friends. If you do not cooperate not only will you die but your father will die, your grandfather will die, and we will take Melissa McCall as our information source instead. Nod if you understand.” The words are hissed with seething anger right into his face and he clenches his jaw.

“Melissa would never talk. You have no leverage. Her son is the leader of a very powerful pack and would tear you apart before you could even look at her, especially since you already took me.”

As soon as the last word leaves his lips a blow snaps his head to the side, another split ripped into his other cheek.

“Answer the question.”

He shuts his mouth firmly, squeezing his eyes shut as he prepares for the next blow. It hits hard and heavy against his side and he wants to cry.

“Answer the question.”

Silence.

Another hit.

“Answer the question.”

Silence.

A harder hit.

“Answer the question.”

Sobs, but silence.

“You’ll take over the punishment since he doesn’t respond to mine.”

The man’s footfalls stop in front of him and the woman’s retreat.

“Answer the question.”

Silence.

A hit that is far harder than the ones he previously received smashes into his side and he cries out sharply, tears soaking his blindfold.

He lasts another two hits before he says shakily in a broken voice, “He had to kill the Alpha.”

“Who was the Alpha before him?”

“I don’t know, we never found out.”

The blow to his right side wasn’t too surprising.

“Don’t lie to us.”

He shakes and sobs, “Please, I don’t know. It was just some guy driven crazy from the power without a pack. We didn’t even see his human form until he was dead.”

The next blow really does surprise him.

“There’s more than that. There were spirals drawn in animal hides and at scenes of the attacks. Who was it? We know you know more than you’re telling us.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I only saw him after he’d died. Please, please, I don’t know, please.” He sobs.

“You will give us an answer.”

After that it was hit after hit, some on top of other bruises, some in new places until it felt like his body was going to break.

“This is only going to continue until you give us proper answers, boy.”

He chokes on a sob. “My name…is Stiles.”

The woman places her mouth next to his ear. “You have no name, boy.”