The chains were woven through his flesh, their links driven into his bones, and yet he did not die. He could not understand it. He knew something had changed yesterday. Yesterday, the pain of the pinchers and screws seemed greater than anything he could understand, building to a climax he dreaded, and then—that point, he moved beyond something. The pain was greater, growing greater at every moment, and yet, distant, less real. He felt sympathy for the pain, disgust at the mangled thing he’d become, but there was nothing to save now, was there? Without hope, what was pain?
Inflection Point
Tale Told 