Broken

[ChainsawNinjaZX]

As he rocked back and forth, he counted. Numbers, minutes, days, weeks, years, the number of times he took a breath, the number of times he was beat when the bad men came, the number of times he was forced to vomit and then eat the putrid waste generated by his innards. Counting. Counting. Counting. Counting gave him comfort. Counting kept him occupied. It was all he could do to keep... counting. It was his life, his hobby, his purpose. Sometimes when he count the number of times he was struck he would be able to lose himself in his mind.

How long had it been? He didn't know, he wasn't counting then. What did he do before he began counting? Did he have a wife? Children? There was no way to tell. All of that was taken from him by the bad men. The bad men wanted something, something important. After some time, they stopped asking for whatever it was and just beat him.

It's always dark and cold in his cell, the air smells of must and metal. The bad men hardly ever clean out his cell; the bad men leave his cell layered in a coat of filth and grime left from waste and vomit. It had been awhile since the bad men had come in to feed him or beat him at all. There were no other screams, for once, all was quiet.