"Some hundreds of years may have passed. I don't know. AM has been having fun for some time, accelerating and retarding my time sense. He made certain I would suffer eternally and could not do myself in. He left my mind intact. I can dream, I can wonder, I can lament. Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as human, a thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that humanity becomes more obscene for the vague resemblance. Inwardly: alone.
I have no mouth. And I must scream."
I know what you want
but I'm not going to give it to you, Drummond
. I hope you live a long and painful life. In a prison. In a bed. In a place that stinks of shit and piss. Breathing through a tube. Eating through a tube. And I hope that every day, you want to die but can't do a fucking thing about it.
While everyone was laughing and joking over the roast, the mold evolved at a rate scientists had thought impossible for a salad. With blinding speed it formed a neural net - dendrites snaking from cell to cell, connecting with pimiento nodes, feeding off the olive glands. By 7 P.M. it was self-aware. By 8 P.M. it had developed the powers of cognition and the ability to observe its surroundings. At 8:32, when it was placed on the dinner table, it realized it had no mouth and no limbs, and it was completely, utterly screwed.
— The Gallery of Regrettable Food, by James Lileks
I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
S.O.S... Help... S.O.S... Help... S.O.S... Help... S.O.S... Help...
I could hurt you, like I do with most people. Hurt you while youre looping through the same action, so you feel that pain over and over and over and over again. The only thing that doesnt change is your brain. That keeps going. The pain is always fresh, it never gets easier to deal with, but Im told theres a certain point where you crack, and you go around the bend. Takes a few days for most. Then you get to a point where you work through your issues. You dont want to, but you do, because the only thing you have to occupy yourself with is the pain and your own thoughts... so you get mostly better, and then you crack up again, and you get better, and that becomes a loop of its own...
Until well after the sun goes out, they think.
— Gray Boy
explaining his power, Worm
I am Susejo of Choi, or I was, and I have been here for a very, very long time. Longer than you can imagine... but who knows? Perhaps you will not have to imagine it. Perhaps you will survive. You entertain me. I expect you will be with us for some time.
Nothing can compare with the horror of being condemned to solitude for all eternity. The word, of course, is beyond our comprehension. When you return home, try lying down in a dark room, so that no sound or ray of light reaches you, and close your eyes and imagine that you will go on like that, in utter silence, without any, without even the slightest change, for a day and night, and then for another day; imagine that weeks, months, years, even centuries will go by. Imagine, furthermore, that your brain has been subjected to a treatment that makes escape into madness impossible. The thought of a person condemned to such torment, in comparison with which all the images of hell are a trifle...
I see most of you don't recognize poor Timothy, but you've no doubt heard of his exploits under his nom de superplume,
the musclebound, nine-foot tall fuchsia force of nature known as The Humongous. In pre-Flux days, Mr Tibbetts was a mild-mannered accountant with suppressed anger issues. Ordinarily, this would have presented no real worry, but the Flux physically externalized his rage, expanding his body mass into the indestructible , grunting horrorhero we all love. The thing is, when the rage ultimately subsides and escapes his body like air from a deflating balloon, what is left is a distorted, enlarged mass of muscle tissue and skin draped over a skeletal structure too puny and frail to handle it
begged for death several times now, but our government considers The Humongous a critical weapon in the War on Superterror. Frankly, his care and feeding are among the easier tasks you'll have.
—SÜPER, by Corey Redekop
Don't panic, Morgan
. You're safe. We're in your lab. Please don't struggle, because it won't do you any good. You've taken my life from me, Morgan, and now I've taken yours
. I need you to try and understand what you've done to me. You're a selfish fucker
, so I don't expect you'll grasp the full enormity of the hurt you've caused straight away, but you're a man with plenty of time now
. I've done what I can to give you the perfect conditions in which to reflect. I hope you don't mind, but I've made a few body modifications of my own, just to help keep you focused. You'd be amazed if you could see what I've done to you, except, of course, you can't because I've taken out your eyes
. And that split tongue of yours? Gone too
. I didn't want you shouting out for help when you should be thinking. But the biggest change is your arms and legs. I've amputated them
. Like you said once, nothing's going to grow back, but everything seems to have healed quite nicely. The door is sealed, and I doubt anyone will come looking down here for a long time. I'm going to end my life now
, Morgan. See, I still have the power to do that. You, on the other hand, are stuck here forever with nothing to do but think about what you've done
. Well, almost forever
—Almost Forever, by Daniel Moody
Would you like to die?
When you are stuck in a coma, it's a question you ask yourself at least once a day, and since she had no idea how long her days were, it was probably far more often than that. She often thought about death. She often wished for death. In that first year of being unable to talk or move or even wake, she would scream at the top of her metaphorical lungs for someone, anyone, to please, please kill her
. Even now, four years on, after she'd found a kind of rhythm and routine to her eternal daydream
, even now, there were bad days when she tried to will herself away. It never worked, though...
—An Unattractive Vampire by Jim McDoniel
My vision was confused and blurry. I couldn't hear at all. I tried to open my mouth to call out, but my mouth wasn't there. Neither were any of my limbs. I tried to move. No response. All I could determine was that my body was a lot less body-shaped than I remembered. It seemed unusually two-dimensional
. Puddle-like. No,
I thought. This isn't fair.
Only one of my eyes was functioning. I focussed it as well as I could, but it was half-flattened and leaking goo
. All I had was a blurry view from a puddle in the middle of an empty wasteland.
No. NO. This wasn't the end. It couldn't be. The universe had played a lot of mean tricks on me, but this was crossing the line.
"What is hell? Hell is oneself. Hell is alone, the other figures in it Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from And nothing to escape to. One is always alone."
Recently, it has been said that Jabba the Hutt captured one of his rivals and, as punishment, demanded that the monks surgically "shed" his body and place his brain in a jar among their own
. For his own amusement, Jabba wanted to see whether the hapless enemy would survive. Unfortunately for him, he did
. Now, blind, confused and unable to communicate, this brain has commandeered a set of the spider legs and wanders the palace, lost and without purpose.
," [The Revenant] said. "Will I be dead?"
I hate having to tell them. "No," I said. "You can't die
. You just won't be able to control your body anymore. You'll still be there, but you won't be able to do anything."
I felt the wave of sheer terror, and it made me feel sick
. To be honest with you, it's the worst thing I can think of - lying in the dark ground, unable to move, forever. But there you go. It's not like you decide to be a revenant and experienced professionals advise you as to the potential downside. It just happens. It's sheer bad luck. Also, of course, it runs in families
, and thanks to a thousand years of inbreeding, the Mesoge is just one big family. I really, really hope it won't happen to me, but there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.
—Return Of The Pig, by K.J. Parker
That's the special horror of the Yeerks
. They don't just take over your mind and eliminate you. You continue to be aware. You continue to be conscious. You sit there in your own head watching the Yeerk open your memory, watching the Yeerk fool your friends and family, watching the Yeerk turn the people you love into the same kind of slave you've become. You try to move your hand, but you can't. You try to make your mouth speak, but you can't. You don't even control what your eyes look at. That's what it's like.
Haralit was left a boneless, bubbling, shivering mound of discarded flesh, and yet somehow still alive. It seemed that a god's blood and power coursing through your body
for so long made you hard to kill
, the Worm of Magic reluctant to let go of such a desirable host. Haralit's one remaining eye looked up at me in agony and horror.
—The Traitor God, by Cameron Johnston
From the center of each pillar, a figure pulled away as if trying to escape mud. They were still covered in rock
, but it was a thinner layer, enough to keep them trapped but not to hide their shape. The rock only retreated fully from their faces, letting them open their eyes, open their mouths. They did not scream, even though the horror in their eyes made it clear it was all they wanted in the whole world.
Each of these pillars was a person.
I saw the way their eyes rolled in mad terror - the panic and despair as they were allowed to see freedom, if just for a moment
- while they sang for the Old Man
's pleasure. The worst thing was how glorious they sounded: they were a perfect sunrise, a walk through a well-tended garden in spring, the laughter of someone you love. I could have listened to them for hours if I didn't understand the atrocity that had been committed to capture that sound
—The Ruin of Kings, by Jenn Lyons
, smaller in Yggdrasil's space than a microbe in the human system screamed. And screamed.
The soul of Donald Marquette stared out the eyes of Edgar Poe
to the creature that had carried him here. Trapped! He was trapped in the body of a man, doomed to agonies and melancholy and wretchedness beyond imagining! Trapped in some sort of infernal time loop! To live and die... and live again... In this accursed being... The final revenge... For his sins...
There are structures within that were once separate organisms; aboriginal, evolved, and complex. It is designed to improvise, to use what is there and move on. Good enough is good enough, and so the artifacts are ignored or adapted. The conscious parts try to make sense of the reaching out, try to interpret it.
One imagines an insect's leg twitching twitching twitching. One hears a spark close a gap, the ticking so fast it becomes a drone. Another, oblivious, reexperiences her flesh falling from her bones, the nausea and fear, and begs for death as she has for years now. Her name is Maria. It does not let her die. It does not comfort her. It is unaware because it is unaware.
It is possible, of course, to imprison someone within the pattern of a carpet for a thousand years or so. That is a particularly horrible fate which I always reserve for people who have offended me deeply as have these magicians! The endless repetition of colour and pattern not to mention the irritation of the dust and the humiliation of stains - never fails to render the prisoner completely mad! The prisoner always emerges from the carpet determined to wreak revenge upon all the world and then the magicians and heroes of that Age must join together to kill him, or more usually, imprison him a second time for yet more thousands of years in some even more ghastly prison
. And so he goes on growing in madness and evil as the millennia pass. Yes, carpets!
To one side was a brick building, and he made the mistake of glancing at it, his attention snagged by a twitchy movement between the bricks, a continuous shrugging of the bricks themselves: Every one was held in place by a mortar of human souls, a red and bone-flecked mortar of crushed bits of living bodies; the bricks grinding them, grinding the faces, the fingers, the gibbering begging bleeding souls, forever and ever, people compressed somehow alive into inch-wide spaces, the bricks moving in place, grinding like ruminating teeth, the whole building shifting like the working of closed jaws-
Constantine looked hastily away, making himself ignore the hoarse and hopeless pleading of those trapped in the jostling stones.
I can feel you, you know, the real you. Beating at the inside of your skull... screaming to get out.
Good news, mother. The doctor said your stroke has left you completely paralyzed. You can't even speak. Which means all our secrets will be safe forever. Oh, here's the best part. Your brain is functioning normally. So I don't have to worry about putting you in jail. You're already there. Now, I'm gonna turn your head, so you can watch me walk away. You don't wanna miss it, 'cause it's the last time you will ever see me.
Technology using the one thing a Dalek can't do - touch. Sealed inside your casing. Not feeling anything, ever. From birth to death, locked inside a cold metal cage, completely alone. That explains your voice....no wonder you scream
Well now that you've shuffled off the mortal coil, we're free to spend a little time together. Picard:
A little time together? How much? Q:
For your sins, Madame LaLaurie, you are damned to live forever. To never know the release of sweet death. To never reunite with loved ones in the realm beyond. But instead to be alone, sealed up in your unmarked grave for all eternity, listening to the world go on around you, even until that world is no more.
Oh, I severed their vocal cords. A delicate procedure, but very doable.
put him in a box.
Yeah. They put him in a box. Couldn't figure it out at first. Didn't make any sense. They didn't give him any drugs, I'd have felt that. Just one big shot of adrenaline, that's all. But you know what? They didn't have to give him drugs. He was claustrophobic - all they needed. His biggest nightmare come true
: buried alive
in a big steel box, wired up to keep him fully alert, completely aware of every passing second. Can you imagine? Afraid of the dark with your eyes pinned open? Wouldn't you just die?
That's how they killed him: they drove him mad, Mrs Jackman
. They drove him out of my head
. They put him in a box
Carrie: Monkey needs a hug.
Nish: [horrified] She's still in there?
But, of course, it was really the souvenirs
that were driving trade. It was beautiful: every time you finished juicing him
, out pops a conscious, sentient snapshot of Clayton! Not a recording, a true copy of his mind, perpetually experiencing that beautiful pain! Stuck forever in that one perfect moment of agony, always on, always suffering!
And what youd call... fun sized!
The meat on the table in front of me can't hear himself, can't feel his vocal cords tearing from the strain of screaming. He can't see anything. He can't feel. He thinks he's dead. I know
. I decide to jack into his auditory nerve, giving him a final message before I turn the lights out
. I'm doing this to you, I say. I'm going to do it to your bosses when I catch them. Your people tortured me, and now I'm paying back in full
. I've been following them in the Net
. Most of my captors went on to bigger things; I like that, because they've got more to lose now. All of them are augmented in some way: I can see the information in the chips in their brains in the Net. Through the Net, I can access these chips; the chips give me access to their brains. After a little reprogramming, I burn out the chip and the surrounding brain cells. They'll live. They just won't be able to feel anything.
The interior of the tank was the Devil's abattoir: Holden, Habsmann and at least four other soldiers lay stretched out over the equipment, chairs, ammunition bins, walls, ceiling and floor. Their bodies had the consistency of warm tallow - drooping and limp
. It was as if Satan had smeared them across Creation's face with his thumb. Five different intestines braided around each other and snaked through the interior like Christmas tinsel, while flayed flesh stretched over the walls
. More shocking, perhaps, was that the soldiers had all been turned inside out, yet they still seemed to live
. Organs pulsed and pumped their precious fluids while they hung from the recoil guard and lay draped over and around the chairs. The mewling came from the flattened faces of Holden and the others: with deflated mouths and vocal cords stretched like washed linen, they could do no more than cry and gurgle. Annunciation was a lost gift.
Humans infected by the Chulorviah
are known as "the Enfolded." For a time, they retain their personalities and skills, but as the mind of the human fades, the alien instinct of the Chulorviah takes over. However, up until the last moment, these unfortunates remain vaguely aware of what is happening to them and how little the Chulorviah thinks of them
. They know, until their minds blank out
and they can do nothing but walk into the sea
, that they are merely a vehicle and a manipulative device for a creature that should never have existed on Earth.
The infernal machineries of a Helbrute sarcophagus are pseudo-parasitic. Their interface subjects the pilot to an agony-wracked waking nightmare that swiftly drives them to the blackest depths of madness. Such is the rage of a Helbrute pilot that between war zones they must be chained down and their weapons forcibly removed, lest they vent their homicidal desires upon their creators.
No. NO! Not the sarcophagus! Khorne damn you, you disloyal curs, just kill me! JUST KILL ME!
—The Chaos Space Marine Khalos the Ravager
being put into a Helbrute, Warhammer 40,000