Toiling through another hard day at work, and working out, Azrael found himself exhaustively crashing on his creaky, barely-held-together cot. A limp forearm covered his forehead, while his second arm hung loosely off the ledge, nearly touching the cemented dirt. A sense of serenity washed over him, recalling a quote he had held onto since he was a child.

  “A grey existence is tantamount to death.” He swished the words around his mouth, trying to place where he’d come across the saying. Or maybe it was my own creation. A smile cracked across his exhausted features, savouring his moment of solace in prison, a luxury he could rarely afford in his earlier days.

  Abruptly, a distraught voice dissolved his serenity, spurring him to his feet. The unmistakable summertime melody had his heart pounding, drowning out the exhaustion and solace he had given in to.

  Gripping the bars of his cell, he frantically searched for the source of the voice. A pair of amber eyes met his own, wrought with abject fear hounding cornered prey. Despite the rippling muscles shaping up her physique, Stella was helpless against the translucent apparition, who had its hands wrapped around her, dragging her out her cell and to the end of the hallway, away from the ‘Carnage Room.’

  What awaited at the end of the hallway, Azrael was unaware of. Right then, he realised he had been devoured by his misplaced solace, helpless against her screams. Her brown tangles of hair whipped back and forth, her lips mouthing past the screams: “RUN AWAY AZRAEL!”

  Reaching out through the length of steel, he extended his arms, his fingers leagues away from reaching her. The space that divided them lengthened with each desperate breath, while the chocolate tangles disappeared from sight. However, her screams persisted, lasting an eternity longer.

  Once her voice had abated, the deafening silence besieged him, opening a void that devoured his despair wrought existence. What remains for me here? Do I too act like the others, give in to the world that I am forced to exist within than live the way I’d wanted?

  *

  Action spurred on by an empty vessel, working a hollowed-out routine, led mindlessly like the gears of a machine, described the state the imprisoned humans had amounted to. A state of near death, and yet existent. Deprived of will and purpose.

  Did the mind push the body, or the body lug the mind?

  His days were consumed by the demands of prison work, dictating every waking moment he lived. His mind grew numb as he immersed himself in studying books on the intricacies of the human body. Matching the lifeless cadavers to the theories he learnt of, passively storing the knowledge without a true sense of purpose. He continued in a mechanically adherent manner to the workout routine Stella had provided, detached from the conscious flow of time.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Time. I’m not sure if it could be measured in days, weeks or months. Years and decades wouldn’t have been all that farfetched, or perhaps it had been a half-day or mere heartbeats that had come to pass.

  Sitting at his propped-up bench, he mindlessly impelled through weights he had no recollection of, pumping his blood and pulsing his heart, till his body was a wreck pushed past the limit. Sweating bucketfuls, he realised he had reached the end of his tasks for the day. The cadavers were packed and stowed away, his body battered to a pulp by the workout regime. The slick sweat tainting his back and every crevice of his being, was a sign he had pushed past his physical limits for the day.

  Till tomorrow then.

  Prying his frame off the bench, he dragged himself over to his cell. A room that remained the same as ever, except for the missing summertime melody that had whiled away his time. Time he could do a little less with, especially the moments he had spent by himself.

  Entering his cage’s confines, he let loose a weak stream of water, as he peeled off his rags for a tunic. From the clogged basin, he drew in the pitter-pattering water with scooped palms, tossing the murky wet over his face and rubbed it down his neck. He kneaded the water under his arms and splattered some more over his back and chest.

  He took in deep breaths, easing his pounding heart, as he stared at a cracked mirror, eyeing the fragments splitting his face into a medley of disjointed body parts, scattered about, like a puzzle. Or rather a monster.

  He scoffed at the thought.

  Me? A monster? Wouldn’t that be a sight worth seeing?

  He pulled a dirty rag off the edge of the basin, dabbing it against the wet. Cooled off from his arduous heat haze of work, he felt lighter, despite the chasm devouring the part of him where his heart was. Shaking his head, he tossed the rag over the edge of the basin and dragged his body over to his cot.

  He watched the ceiling wordlessly, as he awaited the lull of slumber. Perhaps falling asleep in a timeless, windowless cell was meant to be easier than being governed by the rise and fall, of daylight. Or the ear-splitting death throes of a rooster. He allowed a faint smirk to touch his lips, a rough gesture that felt like he was using muscles he had long forgotten of, as his lids dipped over a heated set of pink orbs.

  In the canvas of darkness, an oaken table with a headless corpse and a silver haired head was laid out on a platter, alongside the appearance of amber eyes and chocolate brown hair, fluttering in the windless oblivion.

  Stella never met his gaze, her body was unblemished and beautifully sculpted, laid out over the table.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he reached out, sprinting towards her. His fingers extended, the tips yearning for a long-forgotten touch. Of warmth he had long forsaken.

  A flash tore through his vision, temporarily blackening out his line of sight, in a wave of interference.

  It mattered little to him as he forged on, his feet carrying him further and further, caring little if he hit the edge or stumbled over. He had more at stake than simple bruises or a cut. Wounds healed over time, paving way for silvering scars. But memories were forever, especially the haunting kind.

  Blinking the blur out his eyes, his vision readjusted.

  Stella remained where she was.

  In the next instant, her muscles were shrunken. Hollows hounded the sagging flesh, beneath her eyes. She remained where she was, unmoving.

  Scythes danced and bit into flesh, till a bloody splatter was all that remained.

  Eyes pried open, the redhead found himself violated. The lingering remnants of sleep clung to him like a heavy shroud, leaving his throat parched and his frame drenched in a cold sweat. With each laboured breath, his chest rose and fell. The bruised sagging bags, reminiscent of battle scars, hung under the bloodshot whites of his eyes, mirroring the turmoil within.