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The sun hung low over the dusty fields, casting long shadows across the boy's small farm. At 19, Fern had known nothing but the rhythm of the soil: planting, harvesting, selling what little he could at the village market. No family left after the last raid years ago, just him and the endless cycle of survival. That afternoon, as he trudged home with a sack of wilted vegetables slung over his shoulder, the wrong place became his undoing. Gunfire cracked in the distance, but it was always there, a distant thunder in this war-torn corner of the world. He didn't run; why would he? He wasn't involved.
Boots thundered up the path. Soldiers (two of them, faces smeared with camouflage paint, rifles slung casually) grabbed him before he could drop the sack. "Terrorist scum," one snarled, though Fern's wide golden-honey eyes screamed innocence. They zip-tied his hands behind his back, the plastic biting into his wrists like teeth. Dragged into a waiting jeep, he protested in broken pleas, but a fist to his gut silenced him. The drive was a blur of potholes and mockery, their laughter echoing as they invented crimes he never committed.
The room they dumped him in was a concrete tomb, buried somewhere in their outpost. A single bulb swung overhead, its light harsh and unsteady, buzzing like angry insects. They untied him only to strap him to a rusted metal chair, ropes coiling around his ankles and wrists like serpents. Fern's heart hammered; sweat soaked his thin shirt. "Please, I'm just a farmer," he whimpered. Soldier A, the taller one with a scar across his lip, grinned. "We'll see about that."
It started with questions (endless, looping accusations). "Where's the bomb cache? Who are your contacts?" Fern shook his head, golden honey eyes wide with terror. They didn't believe him, or perhaps they didn't care. Soldier B, stockier and meaner, produced a pair of pliers from his belt. The metal gleamed coldly under the bulb. "Let's loosen his tongue."
They began with his left pinky. Soldier A held Fern's hand flat against the chair arm, fingers splayed. The boy thrashed, but the ropes held firm. The pliers clamped down on the tip, just above the nail. Twist, pull (slow, deliberate). Skin stretched, then tore with a wet rip. Fern's scream pierced the air, raw and animalistic. Blood spurted in rhythmic pulses, painting the floor in crimson arcs. He bucked, chair creaking, but they laughed. "Not a terrorist, huh?"
The finger came off in sections: nail first, popping free with a crunch like breaking a twig. Then the first joint, bone grinding against metal until it snapped. Fern's vision blurred with tears, his body convulsing in shock. The stench of copper filled the room. To stop the bleeding, Soldier B lit a butane torch, the blue flame hissing. He pressed it to the stump. Flesh sizzled, bubbling like frying meat. Fern's scream peaked, then choked into gurgles as smoke rose, acrid and choking. The wound cauterized black, a charred crater where his finger had been.
They didn't stop. One by one, over hours that blurred into eternity. Right thumb next (clamped, twisted, severed). Blood sprayed across Soldier A's uniform; he wiped it off with a chuckle. "Messy little bitch." Each amputation was methodical, savoring the boy's agony. By the third finger, Fern was babbling, pleading for his mother long dead. The pliers crushed bone with a sickening crack, tendons snapping like rubber bands. Blood pooled under the chair, sticky and warm, mixing with urine as his bladder gave way.
Breaks came only for more questions, their voices mocking over his sobs. "Confess, and it ends." But he had nothing to confess. The fourth finger (index on the left) resisted, the pliers slipping in the gore. Soldier B tightened his grip, yanking until the joint dislocated with a pop. Fern's head lolled, sweat-matted hair clinging to his face. The torch sealed it again, the burn worse than the cut, nerves screaming as flesh melted.
By nightfall, five fingers gone. His hands were mangled ruins, stumps oozing pus and blood despite the cauterizations. The pain was a living thing, pulsing through him, making his teeth chatter. They fed him water laced with salt, forcing it down his throat to keep him conscious. "Can't have you dying yet," Soldier A said, patting his cheek. Fern's golden eyes dimmed, despair creeping in like fog. What had he done? Nothing. But in their eyes, that was enough.
The torture dragged on. They switched to his feet next, though his legs were still intact then. Kicks to his shins, boots cracking bone. But the fingers were the focus that first day (each loss a step deeper into hell). By the tenth, his hands were fingerless clubs, blackened and swollen. He screamed until his voice was hoarse, throat raw. The soldiers wiped sweat from their brows, satisfied. "Tomorrow, we get creative," Soldier B promised.
Fern slumped in the chair, body trembling. Tears carved paths through the blood on his face. Sleep came in fits, haunted by the phantom itch of missing digits. The room reeked of burned flesh and fear. He prayed for death, but it didn't come. Not yet.