When I was seven, I was the victim of a sadistic group of bullies. Because I never defended myself, their cruelty escalated with respect to time. Their cruelty attained a global maximum when they decided it would be a good idea to restrain me and step on my testicles. The most sadistic among them, an individual whom my resentment favors as worse than Hitler, forced a portion of my testicles onto the ground and jumped on it with all of his evil might.
I should inform you that we were in the restroom facility of a hiking reserve. I screamed loud enough to disturb multiple people, three of whom rushed into the bathroom to behold my writhing, shrieking, vomit-ridden body. My abusers, who were scarcely older than me, likely didn't even understand how much agony their injustice had caused me. Perhaps this is why they were surprised when they were dragged out of the restroom like common criminals and severely punished.
As for the pain. Like sex or religious mysticism, words cannot do it justice. My memory of the incident is hazy like that of all childhood memories, but I do recall yearning for death. If I had to describe it, I would say that it is enough such that you would jump off a building or swallow a tablet of cyanide without reservation. Lots of times we wish for death, but this is usually in a brooding, abstract form. When my nuts were squashed like Gallagher's watermelon, I yearned for death as likely had the Jordanian pilot who was burned alive by ISIS.
After the misfortune, I had to receive multiple surgeries, and became an opiate-addict before my damaged nuts had even dropped to puberty. As a consequence of these disturbances, I am most probably infertile, at least according to the people who specialize in medial knowledge about testicular injury.
The evil bastard not only caused me excruciating physical agony, but he deprived me of the ability to have children. I am still tormented by this. By one swift action, born of the impulse of stupid youth, he destroyed any hope I had ever had of attaining the fulfillment of fatherhood. At least physical agony is fleeting. The pain of lost potential, while not as visceral as testicular curb-stomp, is existentially lacerating, and I'll probably never get over it.