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     The agonizing pattern continues, with your captor returning periodically.  Sometimes he just stands there and other times he brings you something to eat or drink.  Its apparent that he is purposefully keeping you weakened with hunger.  The anxiety of his arrivals is almost too much to bear.  You begin to wish he would get on with whatever horrible acts he wished to inflict on you.  Nothing he could do could possibly be as bad as the horrific scenarios that you play over in your head every time you hear those ominous boot thuds making their way down the hall.  He hasn't given you the dignity of allowing you any opportuntity to relieve yourself.  You held in your excrement long after allowing yourself only to piss on the ground.   Finally, one day you are unable to refrain any longer.  You pull your legs underneath you, lifting yourself as far off the cold floor as possible.  You cry uncontrollably as your legs shake with weakness and indignity as your relieve yourself on the floor.  You allow yourself to collapse to one side, using one foot to push the pile of shit away from you and towards the drain on the floor.  The horrifying experience makes you thankful that he doesn't bring you more to eat.  


     You have no concept of idea whether it is day or night.   Your only reference is the time between when the dangerous stranger reenters your dark chamber.  Over the course of your time, in the lightless room, your eyes have become more accustomed to the darkness.  Even in the odd orange glow you are now able to see the bruised and battered condition of your body.  Red and purple bruises blanket your thighs and blood encrusted scrapes and gouges rake up both your shins.  When you touch your face it is difficult to find any familiarity.   Your bones are protruding from your gaunt frame.  Several large wounds on your cheek and forehead are crusted over in a scabbed mixture of blood and puss.  The skin around them is taut and swollen and greening puss oozes from the few places where the scab has broken away from the frail skin.  Your lips are broken and bleeding, split open by damage and further aggravated by lack of water.  Your arms are the only part of you that seem somewhat familiar.  With the exception of the raw exposed flesh beneath the shackles, they are relatively untouched.  You begin to track your time in the dark cellar by the condition of your wounds.  The bruises begin to fade, but the open wounds become more and more infected by the day.   The stench of excrement and infection permeate the air in a sickening mixture.  

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