Which left me alone in the dark basement. Shackled to the wall and bleeding, while I waited for my shell to repair the damage he’d done with his butcher knife.
Yet my wounds were not the source of my most excruciating pain.
She’d given herself to him.
Given herself to him in a way she’d sworn she would never give herself to me.
Despite my attempts to detach myself from the she-wolf who would surely die in birth as my own mother had, a new feeling crackled inside my flame at the thought of them coupling outside of breeding… then settled like a black lump of coal at the bottom of my fire. I’d rather he had broken both my arms than relayed that knowledge.
The next morning, my torturer came down even earlier than usual. He beat me, cut me, and broke my arm without uttering a word.
Be careful what you wish for, as the upright primates say. For I discovered then that the silent torture was much more brutal than what came before it. Without him to provide commentary, I was left with nothing to do but imagine him and the she-wolf I had claimed as mine copulating in the bed I had custom ordered. And our torture sessions continued in this fashion for weeks and weeks.
Him silent. Me left to imagine with more and more coal forming inside my fire, like cancerous lumps.
But then, on what I believed to be the eighty-third day of my capture, he once again broke protocol. This time by showing up at night, before I was fully healed from that morning’s torture.
He silently beat me all over again. Then cut me deeper than ever before, then once again broke both arms, even though I’d made no noise of protests.
“I was warned to keep you alive, but in truth, I did not expect you to live so long,” he admitted when I was reduced to little more than a welted skin bag of broken bones. “But if the timeline is still correct, the hatchling will arrive tomorrow afternoon. Then I will finally be free to kill you the morning after that.”
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. He’d fractured my jaw in at least two places. If not for the duct tape, I suspect it would be hanging loose and cracked.
I had no desire to answer him in any case.
He knew as well as I that I would never lower myself to beg for my life.
Better to die, anyway, I thought as I watched him walk back up the stairs. If I could not have my ultimate revenge against my father’s murderers…or father the hatchling that would come from my congress with the she-wolf, what was the use of living?
At least I told myself those were the reasons for the despondency burning grey inside my flame. But as the severely overused healing agents inside my shell began their repairs, my mind was overcome with images. Of the pretender copulating with my she-wolf. Of the father who’d raised me bleeding out on the North Wolves’ field. Murdered in front of me by the wolves who sired the mate, who was currently pregnant with the hatchling I would never meet.
Indeed, this torture had been extremely well-executed, I had to give my persecutor that. My world had become a fog of both mental and physical anguish and pain, topped off by a hunger so great, I could no longer distinguish my impotent frustration from the crunching sensation of my shell feeding upon itself.
I had been depleted of everything, including the strength it would take to unshell and break these shackles. My original plans to travel to a time before the loss of my planet…my new plan to kill the dogs who murdered my father while their grandson flew over my head…
Everything was lost.
And though, I would never admit it out loud, yes, of course… I would like this torture to stop. But all I could do about it was will myself to die before my torturer had the chance to deliver the final blow.
The eating sensation had turned to numbness. I suspected my body had finally ran out of muscle tissue to consume. I could only see out of one eye. My entire world view had become a slit with darkness encroaching on both sides.
It would not be long now. I suspected. And I closed that one remaining eye, resigning myself to my strange fate.
Only to snap it back open at the sound of Ola calling his name.
No, not his name. My name…the reminder comes back small and weak. She’s shouting out my name. My name…I’m still Damianos. Barely.
“If this is some kind of trick or joke, it’s officially not fucking funny. This baby wants out, and I don’t want to do this without you!”
She is about to go into labor, I realize. But can’t find Other Damianos.