By Halrloprillalar

Walter Skinner suffered. Not physically, much. No marks would

remain. His skin burned, his gut knotted, he clenched his jaw. All

mere side effects of the psychological pain, the torture he

endured, unable to escape his captors. Their words battered his

ears, beating through the shields he held. The line faltered and

spears jabbed, taking quick advantage of the gaps. Each touch

flashed rage or bled shame. Nowhere to hide, nothing he could do.

"Look at this one, Daniel, Walter's in the bathtub.

Wasn't he cute?" Mrs Skinner gushed to her

disgustingly eager audience.

Nothing except die.