horror short stories

Days on bone

The fingertips are one of the most sensitive parts on the human body, and often the starting point for torture.
It's been days.
Days since the last drop of water. Days since the last morsel of food. Weeks since the last rays of sunshine. But only minutes since the last social interaction.
A man, with rough, cold fingers and a voice heard only once, in a chuckle of joy, had last visited for only mere minutes to apply the latest form of torture.
Heated cutting wire.
Yesterday... at least it might have been yesterday, it was cutting ears, nose, eyelids off, today its heated wire to the fingers
It's been days since the only sound other than a heartbeat was heard. It's been days since the only odour other than the stench of blood was smelt.
It been days since full vision, unburdened by heavy, dry eyes have taken in cold dark stone walls.
Wire, tight and blistering hot slowly cuts through sweaty skin of the index finger tip and tightens to the bone, scraping and scaring the bone with every attempt to remove it manually. Only to be placed up a knuckle every time the weak, dry bone cracks.
One day at a time, one by one fingers are docked until what resides at the end of the forearm is no longer a hand but a mangled chunk of meat.
When there's nothing left, its on to the next hand.
Like clockwork, at least assuming it like clockwork considering the lack of a clock, the man with cold hands comes to take a little more, with out so much as a sound.
Torture is a technique used to extract knowledge, however it's been days since anything other than pain had been recalled. Pain of slowly cutting off fingers. Pain of eyes drying in their sockets. pain of heart thumping hard, to the point of bursting. Slowly choking on blood and screams.
Its been days, since light touched this soul.