She turned onto her side to try and find a more comfortable posture, wincing slightly as she did so, the aches and pains from her beating a week ago still somewhat tender.

She was afraid, as always, to give in to the pull of tiredness for she knew what the night would bring. But the day’s activities had drained her and she felt worn out. Slowly, inexorably, she closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep.

And the nightmares descended upon her, like they did every night, always the same…

She is in a dark cavernous room. A cold bare room with a concrete floor and metal girders for rafters. She is hanging from one of the metal rafters, chained up to a meat hook.

She knows that however loud she screams for help, no one will be able to hear her because this place is too isolated.

Her feet are not touching the ground and she can feel the hard metal chains biting into her wrists. She can feel the stress on her shoulder muscles as they support her body weight. But she knows this discomfort is nothing compared to what is to come.

As she hangs there, she realises that she is at the mercy of the figure waiting in the shadows.

Her torturer.

He is visible only by the red glow of a cigarette tip. Spiced smoke drifting towards her. The smell of a clove cigarette being smoked in the darkness.

Vainly, she peers into the shadows. Always she does this.

She tries to reason with him. Pleads with him. But it is no good. It is never any good. He is silent. He is watching her. He is relishing her discomfort.

He steps forward into the small pool of light cast by the bare overhead bulb. He is dressed in expensive clothes, metropolitan in appearance, very well-groomed, and there is a deceptively affable smile on his face.

He demands the name.

Always, he asks the name.

And always she refuses.

He takes the cigarette he is smoking and grinds the burning tip into her flesh.

She screams and writhes on the meat hook, but to no avail. She can smell her flesh burning. She can hear the sound of it sizzling. The hiss of the fat bubbling.

Once more, he demands the name.

Once more, she refuses.

Again with the cigarette. Again and again.

Still, she refuses to say the name.

Then he takes the cut-throat razor from the inside pocket of his designer jacket. Slowly, he opens it up, brandishing it in front of her, the wafer-thin steel blade sparkling in the light.

The name.

She refuses.

And he begins to slice into her flesh.

The blood running down her body. Slick and wet. Running in rivulets. Dripping off the ends of her clenched toes to drip, splat, splat, splat, onto the concrete floor, forming a crimson puddle beneath her.

The name.

She refuses. Screaming and crying.

The name.

The name.

The name.

The name.

She tries to force the name down. But the pain and horror always win out. In the end, she always succumbs. Please just make it stop. Anything to make it stop.