Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-34823985-20181203115538

The unmistakable scent of urine tickled Mack's nostrils. By now he knew what that meant and the familiar realization allowed doubt and fear to spring up from a very shallow part of his mind. Those feelings had been conditioned into him over the last few months and never slipped too far beneath the surface these days. He knew he was safe for the moment when it was feeding time, but that came seldom and he had eaten yesterday or had it been longer than that?

Uncertainty was another trait he exhibited way too often now, but he was sure of what was coming his way today. His younger self, like say about four months younger, would have balked at the thought now entering his head. He would have said, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Get a hold of your sack, give them nuts a squeeze, and then fight, fight, fight!"

That Mack had died in the first week of captivity and now the piss soaked, bloodied pulp of a man was all that was left. He didn't struggle anymore and he certainly didn't act in any way that would invite more punishment on himself than his captor intended. No, he did what he was told, never spoke unless spoken to and always said thank you after every visit just like he was taught to do. The thought now crawling in his head brought forth feelings of both fear and revulsion. He was thinking maybe today was the day he would die and a part of him, the bigger fraction now, wished for it.

You know why he pissed himself, don't you? He does that whenever he hears the deadbolt sliding free. A little more usually spills from him when the cellar door creaks open, admitting the first bit of light he's seen since the last time it was closed. He really starts to gush when he hears your footsteps coming down the creaky old stairs. 