The Boy

“How can you– What are you?”

“I am a child. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The man snorted. “Oh, really? Well, then you’re like no kid I’ve ever met!”

“I’m not like anyone you’ve ever met, child or otherwise.”

“Care to tell me what makes you so different?”

“No.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

The boy said nothing. He stared forward dispassionately, blood dripping from the gashes on his face and body. His arms hung limply at his sides, and it was a miracle his legs were managing to hold him up; a few of the slivers from the shattered femurs were actually extending through the skin.

“Fine, then. We’ll skip the how, and move on to the why. I am quite positive I have broken every bone in your body at least once, now. Ignoring the fact that it should be physically impossible for you to stand, the pain should have at least broken your will and kept you from trying, by now.” The man narrowed his eyes at the boy, clenching his fists around the whip and the club.

“Why do you keep getting up, kid? There’s a whole room full of people waiting to be sent into my chamber. You’re just a slave; I believed them when they said you have nothing to tell me. But I meant what I said about beating you until you couldn’t stand.

“You volunteered to take their place,” the man continued wonderingly. “No slaves are that loyal to their masters. And even if you were ordered to take the first hit, you could make it end whenever you wanted to. You’ve been in here long enough! Just stay down, and let someone else come to me!”

The man struck again without warning. Bones cracked loudly as the boy was flung against the wall. He lay there for a moment, a bloody crumpled heap on the mucky stone floor. Then he moved.

Slowly, the boy put his hands under his chest. Tears streamed down his dirty face, and his bones let out a series of audible complaints as he heaved himself onto his knees, and then onto his feet. He straightened clumsily, using the wall for support.

“Why?” the man demanded. “Why get up? Your master isn’t in here! You have a choice!”

“I know.” The boy pushed himself away from the wall carefully. He took a step forward, grimaced, and then took another. Gradually, haltingly, he stumbled on, until he was back in front of the torture master. With a lot of effort, and not a small amount of pain, he lifted his head and met the man’s gaze.

What the man saw in those clear blue eyes sent shivers down his spine, and he knew what was going to be said before the boy even opened his mouth:

“I choose to keep going.”