Spinning Mental Corruptor

Screaming. So much screaming, and it couldn't cover up the noise.
The noise of a drill, which was boring into Jim's skull. Slowly. Excruciatingly slowly.
He was strapped into a chair much like one you see in a dentist's office. Like the one in the "operating" room, as I called it.
But the chair was spattered with blood. Most of it on Jim's right hand side, running down the side of his face, down the chair, onto the floor. Running from a large hole in Jim's head, which was widening at a rate that was painful to watch. A hole that was being occupied by a drill, like one you see at a construction site, though on a much smaller scale. Yet it was still quite long, so it was also much more narrow. It was like a robotic arm, attached to a device behind the chair. A large, black, computer-like device. Somewhat like one seen in a dentist's office. In the operating room.
The drill was boring into Jim's cranium, causing insignificantly small pieces of flesh and hair to fly madly off the site of the cut. But the blood, though some of it coming as flecks with his flesh and hair, was coming out by an amount that made me want to vomit. And I would, it would be easier to vomit though, if I wasn't screaming. Screaming at the blood spilling out at every angle, running up the drill, splattering on the drill, splattering on the chair, on Jim's face, on my face. I was screaming at Jim's thoughts that were being broadcast to me. Every though, showing itself in my brain, one after another. Images of his family, of the woman he'd had sex with, of the shows on TV he enjoyed, of the words he was thinking of. Ohgoddeargodmyfuckinggodfuckshitiffuckinghurtspleasemakeitstopohgodmakeitfuckingstopleasestopstopfuckstop.
I was screaming at Jim's expression. His eyes. Wide, bloodshot, turning pink at the edges, blood trickling slowly out of his tear ducts. The mask on his face, covering his mouth and nose, no way for him to breathe except for a small barred opening on the front of the mask. Blood began to trickle out of that too, as the noise of the drill changed. Changing from a screeching, maddening, stereotypical sound of a dentist's drill, to a sound even worse. A sound of squishing, spurting blood. The sound of a small and frail squishy object being churned up and thrown around every which way. A grayish-pink matter began to squish out of the hole in Jim's head, red liquid oozing out, dripping down his face, covering as much surface as possible. His eyes rolled back into his head, blood began to spill out of the barred hole in his mask. His body began to twitch, flail, as if he was having a seizure. But the drill kept going, the blood kept pouring, and I kept screaming.
Screaming.
So much screaming.