At the End

1: Cruciamen

"Hell is empty
and
all the devils are here."
-William Shakespeare, The Tempest

         He knew the searing pain eating through his abdomen was enough to send a weaker human to their knees. His fingers wrapped around the knife lodged into his body, skin torn and blood pouring out like he was under a running faucet.

         It felt like his skin was charred, roasting under the humid air that stung his bare body. The sun blazed down, its rays anything but comforting to his mangled flesh. The alley was empty now, the perpetrators long gone.

         Even in broad daylight he wasn’t safe.

         There was only one option.

         He pushed the weapon further into him, teeth clenching so hard that it felt like they might break. The scream never passed his lips, but he felt the vibrations deep in his throat. If he wanted to survive, which who the fuck knew why he wanted that, he would have to stop the bleeding.

         He also knew that if he pulled the knife out, he would be free from the world his human body currently resided in. The idea of peace after death was enough to make him laugh, shocking pains tearing through every nerve in him as he did. His lungs gasped for air, his own fingernails tearing at skin as he knelt to the ground. The only noise his ears heard was his own heavy breathing.

         He wasn’t sure he was going to survive this time, but damn the fuckers who did this to him if he did.

         Although his entire being rejected being alive, even if the only emotions he felt were hate, he would live.

         His cursed existence had no meaning. He was broken.

         But he would survive.