"Oi Azrael. Azrael! Come on up, already.”

  Awakening from his cot, the redhead saw chocolate waves bristling past his temples. A brilliant smile shone through the bleak darkness. A faint glimmer of hope. One that he would hold on to with every fibre of his being. Extending a hand, he reached out.

  Warm palms cupped his hands, pulling him to his feet. A row of beds rested beside him, all neatly arranged and dusted. Devoid of a blemish.

  A sight he wasn’t sure he would ever come to see.

  “C’mon now. Breakfast’s ready.”

  He could feel his lips work, drawing up muscles he had long forgotten existed. Touching a tender finger to his face, he could feel the corners of his lips drawn up, parting a lightness, that unburdened the heaviness in his chest.

  A gentle breeze caressed his cheek, feeling the rising rays of a poignant sun throwing the chamber into a dance of shadows.

  He followed Stella, shuffling past the doorframe, leaving the room behind. He rounded a corner under her guidance, hurrying down the stairs. Her warmth crawled up his arm, her firm grip pulling him along.

  The wood tickled his bare feet, the worn-out bark a fleeting memory, fading with every stride he took. He was led down to the orphanage’s foyer, as he kicked off the last step.

  The shadows lingered around, scuttling about the corners, nooks and crannies. The ever-watchful darkness was aware of his existence and yet stuck to the background.

  The scent of burning pinewood tickled his nares, as Stella reeled him over to a table. Pushing him into a chair, she took a seat beside him, her radiant smile, brighter than ever.

  In front of him, a plate of baked bread was laid alongside cold cheese and sliced meat.

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  “Finally, food fitting us hardworking folk. None of that sour gunk no more.”

  “Take as much as you like, dears.” A frail yet firm voice tendered his ears. His eyes shifted to the source of the sound. Eyes widened as his world blurred.

  “Granny.” He nearly choked on his words, holding back a sob. Sliding off his seat, he extended a hand, his fingers reaching out, lengthening with every step forward.

  “Off to wonderland, already? A little too early in the game for that!”

  The summertime melody paved way for a voice from the depths of the abyss. Silver hair moulted, moulding a vivacious darkness into sharp focus.

  Blades cut into flesh, splaying red flecks. Steels pillaged his arms, carving out chunks, gouging out what remained of his form.

  “Granny…” he groaned. The very words had him sputter, dribbling a length of slobber down his chin. An effort barely worth the struggle.

  Then again, he would rather welcome the physical pain, a pleasurable lull to the ailing thoughts plaguing his mind. It was proof that he was still alive. A strange notion. It made him question whether the struggle was worth it. But that choice was never his to make.

  To think loss is what gives life purpose. Is this what it takes to avoid a grey existence?

  But that did little to stifle the screams. A distant sound. And yet so close by.

  He could feel his throat turn raw, his eyes slid over to the tips of his fingers. A clean nail was severed from the digit. Steel dug into the wedge at the far end of his limb, nipping bone and skin off his finger.

  The screams intensified. A harrowing howl. A never-ending scream. If only they’d put a muzzle on that wild mutt and shut his barking maw up!

  His throat hurt worse, gurgling up a raw rush of burgundy tipples, wetting his chest.

  Maybe that’s why they feed me gruel. Turn that pale broth into wine. Raising an eyebrow hurt more than ever, but it was a reflex he had little control over. It’s the secret ingredient to their liquor. Suffering’s the secret sauce.

  He dribbled red wet, curving the corners of his lips. The act was more an ache that cut deeper into his sore jaws. A brief respite from a horrendous reality.

  “What has got you grinning from ear to ear?” cackled Mol’okh.

  A second nail dropped from his hand. A sausage of a bulge followed the clipped nail. A red rush, thereafter, lamenting the loss of a lover.

  The screaming intensified, nearly clawing his ears out the head with its splitting shriek.

  Why oh why, does the screaming continue? What moron can go on, without hacking out his throat in such painful howls!?

  He could feel his innards ache, his gullet itch, as he broke into a coughing fit.

  Perhaps the same idiot who can’t tell his voice apart from another, pinning the blame on all else but himself.

  Mol’okh’s cackle persisted, echoing after an eternity of screams.