The worst part of the torture was the isolation.

Alone, deep in the dark hollow of the Earth where Zakhaev keeps him, where all he has is the blackness of air in front of him, and all the things he can feel is dirt beneath his feet. All he hears are whispers.

Maybe we are closer to God than we thought, if we can make voices from nothing. We are just as cruel as Him.

He curls up, wincing when the scar tissue covering his body pulls with the movement. He can't see himself, but he's sure if he had a mirror, he would shatter it. Maybe ignorance is bliss, in that aspect.

Then, shuffling outside startles him. That couldn't be the whispers. They haven't made noises like that before.