Walter Skinner suffered. Not physically, much. No marks would remain. His skin burned, his gut knotted, he clenched his jaw. All mere side effects of the psychological pain, the torture he endured, unable to escape his captors. Their words battered his ears, beating through the shields he held. The line faltered and spears jabbed, taking quick advantage of the gaps. Each touch flashed rage or bled shame. Nowhere to hide, nothing he could do.
"Look at this one, Daniel, Walter's in the bathtub. Wasn't he cute?" Mrs Skinner gushed to her disgustingly eager audience.
Nothing except die.