Note: If you didn’t read my story before this, the ending won’t make sense to you.
Blood drips from swollen flesh onto the cold, unforgiving wood floor. In this underground prison that is called the basement, a dying man attempts to make peace with his inner demons before the outer one takes his life. It is in this moment that the human psyche breaks; an eternity of suffering and despair leading to the price more ultimate than death being paid: the loss of one’s mind, one’s self. It takes not much to infiltrate the fortress we call our bodies, but it takes a true monster to penetrate one’s soul; the true fortress of the human being.
Whether or not he’s realized it yet, does not matter. The patron of his agony only cares for how it’s done. This doesn’t phase the victim like earlier, however. No.
He’s prepared to lose his last grand ppossession. His predator already took all the others.
With wounded eyes, he stares at the blurred brown canopy that is the floor he lies on.
“What do you feel?” The words come out as pained vowels that reflect his torment but echo his resolve.
The subject of his question stands across the room at the workbench of deadly instruments, his face lowered to the table and his cloaked back turned towards the man.
Slowly, his head turns slightly in his general direction. ”Your meaning is what?” This voice is deep, angered, yet withheld, and the response itself comes out as a sort of low growl.
“My……meaning, is,” his prey struggled with the words. Blood seeps from his lips. “What’s it like………doing this? What…….breaks a man to this…………ugh, point?”
The turns back to face the wall above the table. Even more tools of torture hang along it’s majority.
…A pause. Silence dominates the air for a moment. Pondering?
Then a word. ”Rage.” Then a shaking right hand that the man curls tightly into a fist until it ceases. ”If your intent is to find the source of my purpose that fuel my actions before you expire, then there’s your answer.”
The grounded body struggles to a new position, now risen against the wall, exhausted, battered arms sprawled to both sides. He spits a ball of blood and saliva onto the floor. “Where’s…….the real you? What………created………this?”
Another round of heavy, overbearing silence. Then another answer. ”A multitude of factors.” The killer lifts a particular blade of his liking off the bench. He admires the edges like it’s an object of grace. ”I was born a creature of sin. But there was someone who permanently brought out the real me.”
The man against the wall simply closes his eyes, not even bothering to think as those words sink in. A tear slithers down his right cheek, mixing with the crimson on his face before dropping to his tunic and staining what little original fabric remains.
The “creature of sin” slams the knife down onto the table, his back still to the dying street merchant behind him. ”Any last questions?”
The merchant swallows hard. His eyes open for the last time. His kidnapper and tormentor finally turns.
There it is. That……
“…Mask. What……is that?”
Edmun approaches him. He gets in close, standing over him for a few seconds before quickly kneeling down to his victim’s level, causing the man to flinch as the very thing he inquired about is now mere inches from his face. The fear finally overwhelms him and his hands, head, and legs begin to tremble. The merchant does his best to look away, his breathing growing heavy and heartbeat gaining near-painful speed. After staring directly into his eyes for a seemingly everlasting moment, Edmun can smell fresh piss in the thick air. He doesn’t need to look for confirmation, though. He can hear it. First comes a grim satisfaction, but then images of the killer himself doing it in his bed in the days of abuse from his mother flash across his mind, then his vision begins to pulse with red, and the ringing in his ears sets in.
Two full minutes pass of Edmun just deathly staring at the helpless and battered merchant who is filled with terror at this point. He can’t blink the tears and blood from his eyes, no matter how hard he tries, and he can’t mentally bring himself to say or attempt anything. Yet, in his peripherals, he can see his hunter still kneeling in front of him, still just staring into him, somehow completely unmoving, uncompromising.
What’s he doing?!? He’s so……still……
The merchant lets his head hit the freezing wall behind him, and he simply closes his eyes again.
First, an attempt at inner peace before obvious death.
Then, utter sadness and despair.
Then…….his own anger sets in.
Slowly, his head turns to that awful, vile second face.
“Is that……the real you?”
No response. Just that stare. Still no movement at all. Not even a twitch.
Not even a blink.
I can’t take this anymore.
The veins in the merchant’s neck and temples begin to bulge.
His breaths grow more loud and labored, then:
“JUST END IT!”
…………………………………………………….
Gerald the wandering merchant awakens in his bed in the morning, his bed wet and his face and shirt drenched in sweat. Panicked, his eyes dart to the necklace on the stand at his bedside. His right hand shoots off the covers and fumbles for it. It misses and Gerald falls out of bed, tumbling to the hard floor below.
He begins to sob. The necklace suddenly falls and lands onto his face. He fumbles for it again and seizes it, finally holding it tight to his chest. He then, with stinging, dry eyes, opens it.
Inside is a ring. He barely manages to catch in his opposite hand.
Lara…….come home……
Cloth swimsuits aren’t anything they couldn’t have in those days and pens and notepads are also very simple technologies that, while a bit odd, could still be made then.
). It just takes me out of the story a bit, because none of those things were invented until the 1800’s at least (and poor people wasting fabric or money on dedicated swimming wear is a little weird. not unfathomable, but strange). It’s just the image of someone in full guard-ly uniform and a cape using a little ballpoint pen and notepad is… odd, I guess. It doesn’t feel like there’s enough anachronism for it to feel natural to me is what I’m trying to say, I guess.
“Motherfucker.” “I could be your mother,” etc.