There was blood on his hands; the red so red it stuck to his fingers like dye. He wiped and wiped but couldn't wipe that coppery paste away. The darkness. The metallic stink—
That was his first memory. His only memory. He knew how to eat. How to walk. How to speak. But from whence did he spring…?
There were hands. There were feet. Many, many eyes—
"Are…you alright?" A fresh, minty breeze. But the feeling didn't last long; the stench of excrement and festering wounds, and the heavy musk of unwashed bodies too potent to avoid.
He didn't flinch from the light skimming of his arm. After all, there were bugs. And rats. And feces.
Fear was far, far from his mind.
Perhaps innocence defined him at that time…
"I'm sorry, um…?" The voice spread warmth inside; the gentle touch clumsy in the dark. How pretty he sounded. How soft and delicate. "…who are you?"
He flinched; covering his eyes with matted, lice infested hair. There was nothing to say, after all…
Nothing at all.
"I'm Tristan." The boy leaned closer, ignoring the stench. "Tristan of the Bolgasi clan." He whispered, too close to his ear.
A secret? A name to hide. But why? He didn't know why. He didn't know even know why he was here at all…
Was he always here? Born in filth; living in darkness. Living in fear…
Perhaps he was always, always here.
An emptiness permeated; the desolation of body after body after body hardly moving even as groans infested ear after ear—
The shadows hindered him from seeing the devastation clearly. But he knew. Only pain awaited. Only agony—
But the harsh grip upon his back burned against his bruised and swollen skin. He stiffened. But absorbed the pain without retaliating.
"I—was taken. From my family." The whisperer desperately clutched his arm. "I didn't know who it was. I couldn't see! But I felt there were many hands…so many taking me…"
He couldn't answer the boy properly; his lips and tongue dry and without feeling.
"I've heard. From the others. They were taken, too. But some don't even know we're here at all! What happened in here? Why are their eyes soulless? Why are there wounds that aren't healing?! Everyday. Everyday! I see someone else bleeding. One taken. Another gone! And some don't even return at all…"
Tristan's voice shook. "Could you—tell me why?"
The breath against his ears. The hot against his cheek. He turned incrementally.
He could see it; the boy's shadowed face not as dirty, thin, or hollow like his.
The well defined brow. The delicate, rosy cheeks. And the pleasing blue eyes. Such warm, vivid eyes. Such a mellow, pleasant feeling—
But the clanking of chains—The latch that was releasing—
His heart was thundering. His head was ducking.
And the shivers ran across his arm—!
The groans stopped. The air stilled. And the chill in the air forcefully spread—
The heavy thud of boots. The rapid shuffling of bodies. The cursing. The hitting. The biting—crying—groaning—
"Oy. You there. Yeah, you!" A hand reached, fiercely grabbing his chin. "Rejoice. It's your turn. We've been preparing for you all day!"
"What are you—-What in gods name are you doing?! Get your hands—!" Tristan gripped and tore away the muscled, adult arm. "Get off of him!"
The boy beside him was desperately screaming. Fiercely struggling. Trying to help him—trying to flee—
But what good would come from that?
A swift fist. An even faster slap of flesh. He ducked his head instinctively. And the sound of wretching—convulsing—beside him.
"Don't worry, boy. I haven't forgotten about you! But this one," his arm, it's being shaken, "he's destined for me today!"
"No! WAIT—!" Tristan was reaching—
But that thin voice didn't linger long as he was dragged from the cell? that was holding him. He drooped without fighting. What use was fighting?
He knew nothing. Expected nothing. Had nothing. And no one, no one at all to return to, after all…
***
These memories of pain, he wouldn't reiterate them. They were—
Delusions. Hallucinations.
Did those blades—did they really filet his flesh? How about the potions? The poisons? The pills?
His mind scattered. His will shattered. Was that him screaming?
Wasn't it the boy next to him? But that boy's eyes were empty; the body now just a shell they've ripped and torn into—
The red liquid coagulating even as it dripped; the flesh mixing in.
Who could tell him? What was happening—?
Short lived relief. Short, brief speech. And then it all began again.
There were men. Women. Even children. The pieces of them destroyed by flame.
He heard about it; the hole dug in the backyard for the leftovers. If there even was.
To erase their time upon this demented, earthly realm?
Perhaps they weren't even alive to begin with, after all…
He didn't know how long he was there. He didn't know…
But his heart never stopped beating. And the feeling of piercing—stabbing—nauseating pain continued.
An eternal torture that raged on and on and on…A timeless. Endless. Excruciating. Pain.
***
Days went by in this fashion. Perhaps weeks. But there was no day here. No night. Who, really, could tell him the time?
Perhaps he was taken back to that cell…but he couldn't feel it. Didn't know it.
A pleasant drifting. Was it the end? Of feeling? Thinking? Questioning? Perhaps it was the end of lamenting.
But who could lament a life they didn't remember living, after all…
His head, it wasn't working properly. He couldn't lift his hands. And his legs, they refused to rise.
Perhaps they weren't attached to his body. Perhaps his body wasn't attached at all.
His eyes held nothing but a foggy, muggy white…
His body, it wasn't his body. It wasn't. But he knew. He understood. It wasn't right…
Was he dead? Was this the way of dying?
Even if he died, was it any different than living? At least these comfortable feelings persisted. It was pleasing, after all…