Don't make me watch it, don't make me see her eyes as she screams for sweet releases, don't do it. You're hurting her; that's not the worst part; you're enjoying it.
If you've ever heard of astral projection, it's not just possible only when you're asleep, it's brought on by intense pain too. Whilst the screws were being hammered into my wailing sides, and the blood was baptising the floor below me, I felt something warmer than my own blood that was slowly drenching me in red, I felt the soothing release, that what I presumed was my spirit, out through the tip of my skull, as if the shell of what remained of my body was being ignored; left behind to be shattered and broken.
The pain went as well, but it wasn't all good news; I could now see myself being tortured, but my body wasn't limp and my eyes were screaming visions that no man, woman or child should suffer to see. I stopped caring about myself faster than I could blink to avoid the scolding irons pressing into my cold, dry eyes, when I saw my daughter.
They had her in their hungry hands; my pride, my love of seven beautiful years. How can somebody deface a child? How can somebody bring such metallic, cold tools to a child's face and...
I can't. This isn't happening. I could see her getting torn apart in front of my eyes and this was not happening. I shook my entire body to awake from the projection; it worked, a little. I felt dizzy and overpoweringly sick, however pain wasn't the problem anymore, they were. I shook and writhed and cried and rattled by chain-harnesses to oblivion. But these people knew their toy; they had done this a thousand times, so they weren't about to let some emotional father spoil their fun-time.
I think the worst thing about it was their smiles. I sighed a sweat-ridden sigh, whilst they stopped holding me still with their cattle-prods and pliers.
"Got a little angry, did we?" he said, pumping out of his smoky lungs, in that intensely grotesque spittle-voice.
"D...don't..." I couldn't manage a syllable more, but they knew what I was meaning; not me, just the kid, just don't touch her. They understood, but that never, ever means that they would stop. Poor Jessica, it would be better just to kill her as she is, instead of letting her live. They turned round to concentrate on her again.
A chain slipped to the floor.
I coughed, spitting blood all over the rough plywood walls in shock, they hadn't noticed, either. That chain held another chain in place, and with my broken body, for Jessica's sake, I sheered my way to the floor in a flurry of clanks, bangs and surprise. I was on my knees when they turned around, but I didn't need much time.
Their bodies were taken off-guard as I fell into them with every scrap of power I could muster. Every beating in school, every telling off, every time I ever felt at all angry powered me into them, knocking them to the ground.
I took a nearby knife...
"I love you, baby," I croaked in a whisper, as her body twitched. The knife went through her throat and filled the air in a blossoming silence; she didn't scream anymore.
That silence lasted forever, whilst they picked me up and threw me down, cut my skin and twisted my legs to breaking points.
I'm tied up in the corner. I helped my little girl, and it took every last ounce of pain they had to deliver to kill me after that. I felt nothing, no pain or remorse. Sweet, loveless nothing.