Teacher P.O.V

Percy was a good kid, he had a couple of friends (not as many as I felt a good kid like him should) and, although he struggled with his ADHD and dyslexia, he worked hard in everything he did. If he applied himself to something nothing could stop him. He's always been a happy kid, well, until two weeks ago. When he'd just come back after a few months of absence (apparently he'd been on a trip to Greece and other such places) and he'd had a broken look in his eyes; where once they had a kind-of mischievous sparkle, they now possessed a broken-no shattered-look in them. Like glass that had been repeatedly splintered. As if his very soul had been torn apart and that inner carnage was reflected in those tired eyes.

But that was stupid, he was only eighteen and that sort of thing didn't happen. They were just eyes!

He had quit the swim team and changed for P.E in the toilets, he apparently had a skin condition and when he though no-one was looking the smile would drop and the look on his face would be enough to almost brake my heart. We knew he was trying to hide it, but all the teachers had seen it and we were all worried about him.

I thought about this as I watched him walk across and sit in the chair that the terrorists had brought up.

The leader rubbed his hands together in sick anticipation, "Well lets get started, remove your shirt so I can see my lovely new canvas, a blank canvas is a great place to start." Percy nodded, taking in the sadist's words.

"It is. However, I'm afraid there'll be a problem with that." What did he mean, and why wasn't he terrified. The haunted teen spoke reasonably to the psychopath, carefully choosing his words.
"Oh. And why is that?" The monster raised an eye-brow. But the young boy carried on, completely unflinching.

"Well, as you're going to remove my shirt anyway, there's really no harm in warning you that the 'canvas' as you so kindly put it, is not exactly blank." What?
"Meaning?"
 The leader looked intrigued now.

"Meaning, there are already a few scars." The terrorist barked out laughter.

"I thought you meant something serious there for a minute kid! I'll tell you now, no skateboarding scrapes are going to measure up to what I'm going to do to you ." He motioned to one of his men, who passed him a box. He opened it to reveal various 'tools' that I had no wish to ever see in use, and brandished them tauntingly in front of Percy's face.

Still he didn't seem scared at all. "OK, but don't say I didn't try to warn you." And with that cryptic remark the terrorists started to remove the broken boy's shirt.

Third Person P.O.V

As the pale blue shirt was lifted above the broken boy's head, gasps echoed throughout the hall.

Murmurs sprang out and the noise was deafening until the terrorist shouted for order, bringing immediate silence, then he turned to question his young captive, looking shocked.

"And how did an innocent little city boy come across scars like these?" Percy's torso and arms were covered in a patchwork of scars, burns and brands. Not a square centimetre of flesh was free of the horrendous marks. I felt sick. "Is the seemingly well-behaved young lad in a gang?" Questioned the terrorist.

"Nope." The  captive replied casually, popping the 'p'.

"Previous terrorist attack?" Percy tilted his head to the side. The terrorist was acting like he was playing a guessing game. A morbid version of '20 questions'.

"Not exactly."

"Explosion?"
"A few." More gasps.

The monster paused.

"Previous torture?"
"A good percentage of it." The 'audience' couldn't get more shocked.

"Interesting...and the others? Fights?"
"In a way, but not the type of school-boy-fights you're thinking of." Another raised eyebrow.

"A war?"
"One or two. Hell had a part in it as well, but we chose not to dwell on these things." Percy turned to the children and staff, despite his casual tone (in a situation where most would be screaming and begging), the brokenness; which was normally kept so well hidden, was all too obvious in his eyes, "In the interest of honesty: you should all probably know that I don't have a skin condition, I was just hiding these," He gestured to the scars that littered his body, "The cream I use on my face is a concealer and pain-killer for my arms and I wasn't on a tourist trip in the time I was gone, I was kind of in Hell and at war." Even more gasps. "Oh, please stop with the gasps, the concern is appreciated, but like I said: we try not to dwell on such things."Everyone was too stunned to utter a sound. He said it so casually, it was how he dealt with it. He had to act as if it wasn't anything to worry about or it would become something and his already fragile grasp would break.

Percy turned back to the terrorist with the knife, who was currently clearing his throat.

"As intriguing as this conversation is I would like to start our work, seeing as you are obviously well versed in this, I will simply consider it more of an accomplishment to break you." He said it as if talking about getting a strike in bowling. My blood ran cold.

Percy looked him straight in the eyes. "I dare you to try: I may scream, but you will never be able to break me."
The terrorist simply smirked in sadistic pleasure and brought his knife to Percy's exposed shoulder.

He dug it in and carefully brought it up and down, carving a deep zig-zag into his shoulder and upper torso. As soon as the cuts were made, dark crimson liquid began to stream from the wound like water from a dam, starting with just beads of dark red on the silver blade then swelling to a flow. Flowing down and dripping over the ridges and dents in his worn skin. It was horrid, but Percy barely even grimaced at the pain which must have been burning through her shoulder like a wildfire.

"You are strong, I've done this to 3-tour special forces military personnel and they've screamed at the first cut, especially with the acid on the knife." There was acid on it! how was Percy not screaming!
"3 Tours? Newbies." The poor boy-soldier- chuckled darkly.

The terrorist and apparently experienced torturer laughed as well, but he was genuinely amused. It was sick.

"Yes, well. OK, Mr.....?"
"Jackson." The boy supplied, his words slightly clipped.
"OK, Mr. Jackson. This is how it's going to work: I will create my art on one part of your body, then before you can die of blood-loss, I'll bind it. You wont get any pain-killers or water to clean the wounds, but it will be bound."
Percy wasn't even shaken.

"Then I must be thankful for small mercies." It seemed the blood didn't wash away his sarcasm.

The terrorist seemed simultaneously annoyed and amused by the casual response. The crowd, watching in morbid fascination and horror, were crying by now at the simple brutality of the situation.

The monster continued to cut Percy all along his arm and shoulder until it was covered in blood, the gashes sizzling slightly around the edges, stained slightly by a murky green.

Percy had still barely made a sound throughout the experience, it was astounding.

"Well this doesn't seem to be working." The torturer observed.

"My apologies." The sarcasm would have been amusing if the situation weren't so dire and if his tone wasn't strained with the pain of his arm being carved. While most of the cuts were shallow, designed to scar and inflict as much pain as possible without killing him, some were scarily deep. One or two even exposing the stark white of bone.

The only sound in the hall was the echoing drip of Percy's blood hitting the floor and the 'audience's' muffled sobs.

The monster bound his wounds in dirty linen, obviously torn from something much larger. All it did was slightly stem the torrent of blood and quite possibly give Percy the start of an infection. At least it covered the horrendous wounds, Percy's scars were hard enough to bring your eyes to, these new wounds were something else entirely.

"I think we'll try burning now, why not eh?" Percy had been holding back the immeasurable pain until now, but he knew that, faced with burning, even he would be unable to prevent his screams. He lowered his head in defeat, they would never break him, but they would hear him scream.

The students and staff watched in absolute horror as the monster lit a torch and the terrorist brought it to their pier's other shoulder.

Then cried and shouted for help when his tortured screams pierced the air.

He screamed so loudly as the torch slowly melted his skin, layer by layer, first going pink then red then burning black before it moved onto the next layer, leaving a weeping red wound surrounded by charred black flesh. He screamed so loudly that his throat went hoarse and he began to taste the copper of blood at the back of his throat. As if the flame was burning his throat, not his skin. He wanted to stop, to stifle the excruciating pain, to save the students the torment of hearing his screams. But the pain was too much.

His screams just got louder.

A/n:

Styxe I feel bad.

-Samantha2611