I don't know how long I was here. I was hanging from the ceiling, with every square millimeter of me in pain. I was also very hot. The temperature in this 'dungeon' must have been 44 degrees Celcius (That's pretty close to 112 F.) at least. I was hung with my hands and legs tied behind me, from my wrists and ankles. Everything had been dislocated, I'd had other bones broken; including a rib, had half my skin flayed off me, and weighed about three quarters of what I should have from starvation. I'd had one eye gouged out, and they only let me keep the other one so I could see what was coming. I'd been electrocuted, prodded in the worst possible way, had much of my hair ripped out, been smeared in my own waste, only had urine to drink for I don't know how long, had my tongue slit, been beaten black and blue, been raped, was missing two ears, one nose, all toes on my right foot, three fingers on my right hand, and we can't forget the privies; can we? I'd also been sleep deprived, and had my eardrums blown out. There was more, but I can't think of it right now. All I could think about was death. The sweet release that was so long in coming.

What was my crime? Being a war reporter who told the truth.

I don't know why I was still alive. I was alone for the moment, in a brightly lit pink room; and I wondered if I would ever see the dark again before I died.

I think I stopped believing in god the past few days, weeks, or whatever. I had lost all sense of time. I had no references to go by. If there was a god, why would he let what happened to me, happen to anybody?

Free will! Oh yeah!

Man, the people who were torturing me made Elizabeth Bathory seem like an angel.

Oh, where was Amnesty International when you needed them? Technically I suppose I was a political prisoner. I'd gotten some pretty cool exposés on the web, along with some good, very graphic picture shots. I gave them to private sources, since I knew damn well that the government controlled medias wouldn't touch them with a ten foot pole, to say the least. Needless to say, my non-profit move got distributed world wide; could not be covered up, and now I paid the price.

I guess I won. But oh, at what a cost.

Would I have done it again if I knew what was going to happen to me?

YES!

Justice was a passion of mine, and I could have done nothing less.

Man, if I couldn't die yet, I wish I could at least slip into unconsciousness?

I heard a pully. I had my eye closed. I felt myself being lowered. What was worse? Hanging from dislocated limbs, or touching the floor with half of your skin missing? Or was I going to luck out and be submerged in pure hydrochloric acid?

I didn't open my remaining eye to verify. If they wanted me to see what was in store for me, they'd have to lift the lid themselves. I'm surprised they hadn't sown it back. Maybe they didn't think of it, but like I was going to tell them? I'm glad they probably didn't see 'Clockwork Orange'.

Oh, an acid bath wouldn't feel too good; but at least I'd disintigrate and be outta here, huh?

You gotta be desperate to want to be dropped into a vat of acid. Needless to say, I was. I couldn't even scream anymore. I whimpered instead.

Though I had my eye closed, I could tell the light was fading. It was actually getting darker. I was lowered again.

Oh my god that I no longer believed in, I felt my forehead touch liquid.

OK, now I screamed.

But it didn't hurt. I lifted my head, and yelled, "NO! NO! NO!"

OK, the acid idea sounded great in theory, but I guess I didn't really want it in reality. Or maybe I did consciously, but the subconscious had other ideas?

I don't know, but I was terrified. I still refused to open my eye. I just couldn't deal with it.

I felt someone touch me. Before, if anyone touched me on my raw skin; I would have hit the ceiling if I'd could have, from the pain. But there wasn't any pain.

I was lowered into about 5 or so centimeters (2 inches) of liquid. I don't know what kind of liquid, but the second I touched it, all the external pain I'd been feeling went away completely.

I opened my eye. The room was dark, but there were torches on the wall. I was hanging over a shallow tub of sorts. I felt a hand on me as some of the ropes where cut. What was freed wasn't allowed to fall, but my leg was held up, and gently put into the tub. It was only about 15 centimeters (6 1/4 inches) deep. More pain went away. Everything that touched the liquid seemed immediately healed.

This wasn't where I'd been hung up. Had I been rescued? I didn't really want to be rescued. I wanted to be killed. . .quickly. I didn't want the mutilated mess that I was, to live. I couldn't deal with it. I'd commit suicide if I'd been rescued.

My other leg was lowered. I couldn't see who was cutting me loose.

A hand went into the water and held up my chest as my arms were freed, so my face wouldn't fall in the liquid.

"Git on yisser side." commanded an accented voice.

I got on my side. It was a weird way of telling me to get on my side, but I understood it word for word, though I don't know how.

"Lay back in de water."

I did.

"A go over, an' put yisser bake in de water."

It was water? Well, whatever. I actually managed to follow his instruction, rolled over, and put my face in the water.

"Open yisser eyes an' luk at yisser lempsor' an' 'ands."

I looked at my feet and hands. I had all my digits, and I had no wounds. I felt my head, and found I had all my hair back. I think I even had proper depth perception. "Do I have my eye back?"

My 'rescuer' stood in front of me. He was hell of cute for a guy, despite the nose that seemed to span half across my body sideways. No, not really; but it was pretty big. A pale, delicate looking, turquois eyed, red headed dude with long layered hair and feminine features. He'd handled me with gloved hands, and he didn't care that his old style, high collared, and tailed, velvet, tuxedo-like suit got wet. He wore a cape, too. "Yer. . .dae, Vlad."

I scowled. "My name's not Vlad."

The dude smiled at me, and by George; he had fangs. "Yer were in yisser last life, laddie. Yer chose dis life an' dis death ter compensate for waaat yer did, dragon lord. Yer 'ad a stake in correctin' yisser past brutal behaviour due ter yisser pointed tastes in entertainment in de 15th century ter be at peace wi' yerself on dis side av De Veil nigh."

I nodded. It was all coming to me. I'd been Vlad Tepes in my former life. After I was killed in that life, I ended up pretty horrified by what I'd done; having had to face all my victims individually, and having to experience for myself what I'd put them through. I'd ended up begging for another life to make it right. To forgive myself. 'Stake' in correcting. . .'pointed' tastes. I chuckled. "You so funny. Are you looking like a vampire in Count Dracula clothes just for me, Gatekeeper?"

"Nah. Oi alwus luk an' dress loike dis. Oi 'av ter admit de combinashun av yisser former life an' de flicks they made aboyt Stoker's character did influence me tastes, though. After al', in a way; yer were wan av me 'eroes."

I just shook my head. "You choose strange heroes, dude."

He flicked both wrists. "Jist call me Stefan."