He felt sick. The rank stench of sweat and urine drove into his nose. Bile and bits of food crept up his throat, reaching for a handhold. He forced it back and swallowed. They’d hit him if he vomited, his collapsed cheek served as a reminder of the last time they were displeased with him. Physical pain still affected him, he wasn’t past his threshold, yet.
He didn’t know how long he had been here. Time is everything and nothing, with nothing to mark the intervals. They had stripped him, inspected him. The bag had been on his head from the beginning, but he remembered their cold hands, squeezing, slapping, probing, palpating, jiggling and manipulating his flesh. He had shrunk at the touch, physically uneasy and afraid; it made them explore him all the more.
They had tied him to the wall, spread eagle, naked except for the sack on his head. The moist air clung to his skin, the darkness smothering in his little bag. The silence made his ears ring, low at first, then louder, deafening him. He thrashed against his restraints, raw skin screaming, bleeding. Everything, imagined and real, tormented him. A breath on his neck, something crawling on his chest, distant laughter, all worked against him. He pulled air painfully through his broken nose and tears welled in his eyes.
The door creaked open and shut with an ordinary click, but he broke out in a sweat nonetheless.