Did it ever truly matter? The business of living, was it a hoax? A wild goose chase? It’s all so grey, devoid of a dash of colour.

  He hung loosely, limp and bound by shackles against a faintly pale marble. Flecks of blood and muscle fibres stained the slab a shade similar to his hair.

  Blood pitter-pattered, alongside the screeches of white maggots from a necrotic wrist and ankle. The larvae crawled over to the half-eaten hand and foot that lay below the limp Azrael.

  On reflex, he wriggled the last set of fingers and toes he was left with, eyeing the severed remnants of his once familiar extremities being devoured at a painstakingly slow pace. It felt as though his limbs were still attached, and the insects crawled across intact flesh, setting his hairs on end. But then again, it was the lone scenery he bore sight to, apart from Mol’okh’s maniacal dance of blades.

  At the time he wasn’t entirely sure when his bowels and bladder moved, but he was glad he had a personal attendant who moped his excreta once a day. The same apparition who tended to him was also in charge of feeding him gruel, which was devoid of any specific flavour, prolonging his existence evermore. He was closer to a sentient vegetable in his current state than a rotisserie chicken shredded alive, barely latching onto the embers of life.

  “Can’t it all just come to an end?”

  Speaking hurt.

  Breathing hurt.

  Living hurt.

  Despite the torment he had endured, death was nowhere in sight.

  Is it a luxury I can’t afford? What price must I pay to reach the end?

  All his questions were devoid of a single clue that would lead him down the path to salvation, free him of his mortal coil.

  An emptiness beseeched him, looming over his battered state. There was nothing else he could do. And yet, within the depths of who he was, a flame flickered to life. A flame that sputtered and coughed up smoke, but one that persisted despite the elements trying to weather it down.

  “I have no choice but to live then,” managed the redhead. “Vengeance is all that remains.” The word felt strange to swish around his mouth. Vengeance. A notion he had glossed over, despite the brutality he had witnessed at the orphanage.

  He hadn’t thought of revenge against Mol’okh from the time he’d met Stella. She had him inebriated in solace, enticing him with the first step away from the grey life he had led thus far. His darker thoughts had mellowed out, forgoing escape for the comfort he had had.

  “Never again. If I get out of here, I’ll never succumb to such weakness.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Gritting his teeth, he’d realised vengeance had been brewing within him, the moment Mol’okh had planted the idea in his head. He had awakened a dormant part of him, magnifying his earlier iterations of the concept, adding fuel to the lit flame, till it spread over a forge. A raging maelstrom of conflagrations were birthed, set on devouring everything in his path, till nothing but the ashes were all that remained.

  A world raining ash would do him justice. A world wherein he played the part he chose than the one forced unto him. Like the monster he was meant to be.

  “If death won’t besiege me, I’ll inflict my wrath upon all that broke me. First, I’ll kill that monstrous bastard! I’ll kill him if it’s the last thing I do, even if my teeth are the only means I have of fighting back!”

  Humming a mellifluous melody, Mol’okh produced a clean napkin, wiping the blood and flesh off the scalpel, setting the blade in its place amongst his collection. Grabbing a bloodstained chin, he examined the redhead’s face, assessing his conjunctiva and then opened his mouth, examining his tongue.

  “Anaemia and cyanosis are worsening and yet he is not dead, in spite of the blood and weight he has lost. You are quite the tough cookie.” Throwing his head back he cackled, tapping his prisoner’s face. He took note of his bound prisoner’s lack of consciousness, allowing the residues of mirth to remain on his lips. “I should not get hopeful, but I cannot help giving it a shot. The question is, is it too soon? Can he withstand the procedure?”

  Assessing the rest of the redhead’s vitals over a cursory glance and a physical pat down, Mol’okh mulled over his next course of action. Picking up the briefcase he had carried there, he set the case atop a glass cabinet, tampering with the lock.

  “Should I? Should I not? Click-clack.” Brushing his braids to the side, he flitted his gaze from bag to prisoner. “He has held on longer than the other specimens I have broken. How long has it been? Centuries? Or has it reached a millennium already?”

  The mirth from Mol’okh’s face lost its glamour, replaced by a convoluted pang, morphing his features into a snarl, painted behind a facade of indisputable turmoil. The skin around his eyes crinkled, sagging with a sudden weariness.

  “I have waited long enough.” His voice hardened, bereft of an ounce of mirth. He clenched his teeth, engorging a vessel throbbing over his temple in a large bulge, like stormy clouds bearing ominous news. Exhaling a sigh, he steeled his resolve.

  Stopping mid-tamper on the locks, he unlatched the cover of the case. The inside was fitted with a velvet lining, wherein lay a scooped crater. At its centre was a fist-sized organ, resembling a lesser portion torn off a larger whole. It was pulsatile with intact circulation, the placid darkness skulking around its borders.

  He grabbed the organ singlehandedly, turning over the pulsatile object, eyeing it more intently than the fiery passion of a lover. Cracking a wry smile, he held it up against the faint light, admiring its beauty.

  Savouring the moment for a split-span longer, he hung his head, freeing his mind of the trance he was immersed in. His eyes lingered on the limp redhead, slithering over from his dipped chin to torso.

  He traced his prisoner’s sternum with a thick finger, mottling bloodied red over the spot that took to his fancy. Nodding his head, Mol’okh held the pulsatile organ over the marked spot. His eyes were locked in on his target and in a vicious thrust, he lodged the organ deep in his prisoner’s chest, where his heart was.

  Peeling his eyelids wide open, the redhead howled in agony. The screams rose in intensity, running his throat dry till he gurgled liquid crimson past cracked lips. Spilling the burgundy tipples over the edge, dribbling down tattered flesh, he thrashed his limbs in a convulsive frenzy.

  Mol’okh rolled his eyes at his prisoner’s screams, rubbing his temples. “Yes, yes, show me a more exciting reaction than the usual-usual.” He pulled a stool from the darkness enveloping them, resting his chin atop steepled fingers. He watched the redhead with a weary yet intent gaze, mindful of every move he made.