Sting is the understatement of the year.
As soon as the liquid makes contact with the gashes on my back, it feels like my whole body is going up in flames. My skin blazes, prickling and burning as the liquid seeps into the cuts, moulding over my wounds and trailing a watery path down my body, bringing with it spikes of insurmountable pain and viscous agony. My back feels like it is blistering with it heat, and my insides feel no better. Death would surely be a better option than this.
Stop! I want to cry desperately, knowing in my heart that begging would get me nowhere, that begging would get me killed rather than keeping me alive. Yet there is some insane part of me that thinks the latter would just about be the better of the two.
