It sought to squeeze out from him what was evacuated centuries before. Yet still the wrenching continued. His form, not just a horrible and very distant memory, was reduced to liquid mush so long ago. He could not move, for his bones and muscles were nothing but a gelatinous, oozing substance that could never find a known structure again. He screamed in terrorized horror and pain, his voice the only recognizable reminder of who he once was. He dared not wonder if the wrenching would ever cease. He surrendered that hope so long ago, knowing even the slightest, most impotent wish for the pain to end, would result in greater pain. The wrenching pressed on, day after day, year after year, century after century. Yes, he knew it was not without its value, for the decision he had made granted him some dominion. But he never realized the power he lustfully desired and then obtained, would come at such a terminal and eternal price. There was one thing, however, that remained in him. Something the wrenching could not extract from him.
