The brain itself doesn’t contain any nerve ending that can detect pain. C.C had told him once, when he’d curiously asked what it’s like to be shot in the head, that the pain comes the sudden compression of the skull. When the brain itself is destroyed, one’s senses vanish. She’d told him that it’s the most peaceful of the violent ends.
He thought he’d be able to brave through the experience, slam his head into the drill and get it over with, but it’s not quick, not at all, and he lets out a garbled wail as he’s skewered on the drills above his eyes.
It’d be just two holes, he’d thought, just two smooth metal bores spinning in healing bone once the most unpleasant part, the two drillheads pushed through. But it’s not, it’s in him too close for him to find any sense of detachment and he’s losing himself. There’s blood in his eyes and he can’t see - can he see? He can’t think, he can’t hear but it’s all coming back again as his matter knits itself back again and nothing is pushing in far enough to cut out the animal terror in the back of the brain his higher consciousness is too torn to tattered to control.
He thrashes his legs uselessly, heel horns clattering sharply on the floor, instinctively trying to back him away when there’s no way to move.
And the noises coming out of him don’t stop, don’t fade, until the demon finally pushes a lever to reverse the drills. They pull from his head with a squelch and he slumps, legs finally stopping in their clatters. The only noise now is deep, exhausted panting
He’s a mess: blood and chunked matter ooze from wounds already healing over; his chin coated in blood from bitten lips and fear-spittle; body slicked in fear-stinking sweat; wetness pooling from the chair under him where his bladder released.
Cw: body horror - Graphic description of torture
He thought he’d be able to brave through the experience, slam his head into the drill and get it over with, but it’s not quick, not at all, and he lets out a garbled wail as he’s skewered on the drills above his eyes.
It’d be just two holes, he’d thought, just two smooth metal bores spinning in healing bone once the most unpleasant part, the two drillheads pushed through. But it’s not, it’s in him too close for him to find any sense of detachment and he’s losing himself. There’s blood in his eyes and he can’t see - can he see? He can’t think, he can’t hear but it’s all coming back again as his matter knits itself back again and nothing is pushing in far enough to cut out the animal terror in the back of the brain his higher consciousness is too torn to tattered to control.
He thrashes his legs uselessly, heel horns clattering sharply on the floor, instinctively trying to back him away when there’s no way to move.
And the noises coming out of him don’t stop, don’t fade, until the demon finally pushes a lever to reverse the drills. They pull from his head with a squelch and he slumps, legs finally stopping in their clatters. The only noise now is deep, exhausted panting
He’s a mess: blood and chunked matter ooze from wounds already healing over; his chin coated in blood from bitten lips and fear-spittle; body slicked in fear-stinking sweat; wetness pooling from the chair under him where his bladder released.