“That was reckless for a coward like you.”

A familiar voice from the depths of the abyss, reeled Azrael back to reality. He opened his eyes and was met with the unsightly dark furred creature, towering over him.

Dangling near the window’s ledge, from the clutches of the serpentine shadows, his tranquillity was soon replaced by trepidation.

“That was most unexpected,” said the creature in an ecstatic tone. “It would not hurt to take you home as a consolation prize. That is, if you manage to survive what I have in store for you next.”

Azrael gulped nervously, realising his end was further away than anticipated.

He was reeled back into the orphanage, the shadows surging forwards, wrapping around his waist

The redhead barely had time to scream, as he was dangled over the ground by the vivacious darkness, plastering his arms to the side, and binding his legs.

The shadows wrapped around him, as taut as black linen over a mummy. The creature whisked him along, over the crimson splattered floorboards. He parted ways with the room he had lived in, parting ways with his urine-stained mattress, forever. The only life he had lived, was turning into a distant memory, as he sped past a corridor, catching glimpses of nothing more than walls smeared with flecks of flesh and gristle.

They were people at one point. But now, they’re people no more.

Despite his bound state, his head was free to move. His gaze fixed on the passing blurs of the desecrated dead. His innards churned and convulsed, but his lips had other plans.

“Clearly you have no regard for interior decor.”

“I prefer to be thorough in my investigation,” replied the creature. It rounded a corner and began descending a flight of stairs.

Azrael wrinkled his nose. The stench he had come to recognize in a single night, was scattered about the only home he’d ever come to know. A stench that he knew was inevitably more nauseating than the dripping urine he’d had to wipe off. A stench that intensified with each step his captor took, bringing them closer to the bottom of the stairway.

A true monster in the flesh.

In a passing blink, the creature had descended four steps at a time, bringing Azrael to the ground floor. Instinctively, he averted his gaze from the edge of the stairs, as his captor trod off the final step.

The creature grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head towards the gruesome sight. “Relish the perdition of your comrades!”

Grunting in protest, he was forced to eye the bodies littering the once well-kempt hallways of the orphanage. In its current state, it was closer to a human abattoir than a home.

Taking his time, unlike the blurs of flesh he was whisked past, he realised he could hardly recognize what part belonged to what half of the body nor who was who, once flesh was reduced to a splatter of bones and sinew. And yet, amongst the cadavers, his gaze shifted to the silhouette of four boys’ corpses meshed together, their limbs shuffled about, and their desecrated heads lined up beside their groins.

Should I be relieved I ran into some familiar faces?

Azrael recalled how Alyson’s head was devoured by the creature. The very thought summoned bile, wetting the back of his throat with a scalding aftertaste. His gaze was fixated on the defiled bodies for a moment longer than the rest, knitting his brows in a restless frenzy.

“Were you close to those four?” asked the creature, curving its lips into a knowing smile.

“No, far from it!” he protested, with a vehemence. “I see their heads weren’t up to par for your gourmet palate.”

“They turn sour when they grow, especially with all the raging hormones. Bleh.”

“But ‘lil kids are to your liking?”

“Well yes. They lack the unnecessary garnish,” said the creature, rolling its eyes, spilling conventional wisdom known to all but Azrael.

Lugging him along to the dining room, the creature continued on its entourage of the desecrated orphanage.

“I am surprised this place has a chandelier and pricey furniture. Was the old lady wealthy?”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Taken aback by the mention of an old lady, his visual field narrowed, his heart nearly crawling out his throat.

“Ohhh, did that strike a nerve?” asked the creature. “If it did, I recommend directing your gaze towards the middle of the table, where a pleasant surprise awaits.”

A massive oaken table took up the entirety of the dining room, tainted with red splashes. What caught Azrael’s eye wasn’t the explicit explosion of colour but rather the prominent lump with glistening silver hair resting at the centre.

“No, it can’t be.” His throat constricted, welling up with a surge of emotion. Why’d I think she alone would be fine, amid all the bloodshed? Peeling off his optimism with the dawn of realisation, he instinctively clamped his eyes shut. “I don’t want to see it.”

“Ah, but I am afraid this is the best part.” The creature forcibly dug its fingers into Azrael’s palpebrae, prying open his lids. Liquid crimson stained his face, his struggles futile against an unrelenting grip.

Eyes wide-open, the creature hoisted him over the lump, dangling him mere inches over the gruesome display.

The redhead couldn’t help but resist, his struggle a fruitless endeavour against a power greater than anything he could imagine.

He could do naught else but slump his shoulders, giving in to the despair clutching at his heart. Inadvertent trickles streamed down his blood-streaked rivulets, smudging his face and vision in a tainted blur.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Granny’s severed head rested at the centre of the oaken table. Her features were contorted in unrepressed anguish, reflecting a despair more agonizing than the expression Azrael had donned. Her eyeless sockets were congealed around the orbits, paraded by an army of flies.

“The brats lost all hope, once I severed all four of her limbs and decided to pluck her eyes out. By then, her throat was torn from all that screaming.” The creature burst into hilarity, loosening its grip around the linen wrapped wreck of a redhead.

Dropping down to the floor with a dull thud, Azrael’s legs had given way. He had buckled down to his knees, plummeting into the depths of an inescapable abyss. “Why is this happening? What’d I do to deserve this hell?” His innards convulsed, his throat was parched, inevitability gripping at the very fibres of his being. He quivered, his nares reeling from the stench of death. An inevitable stench spiralling into a deep-seated hatred, spurred into ignition.

“Is it done yet?” A voice interrupted, across the entryway to the dining room.

Azrael nearly missed the sound, lost in the smouldering flame that had been lit, but he was gripped by a vague familiarity cutting through the embers of hatred. Shifting his gaze from the table’s edge, he realised he couldn’t see the entryway well enough. Hesitantly, he pushed himself to his feet, using the oaken table’s leg for support.

“Who’s that you got there?” asked the voice, gesturing to the rising redhead.

“You might know him better than me,” replied the creature, wiping an elated tear off its face.

“YOU!” exclaimed the voice.

Locking eyes with the newcomer, Azrael’s pupils dilated with the dawn of recognition.

Briar stood an arm’s length away, his hands on his waist. “Why’s he alive? Didn’t you clean this place out?”

“The little coward popped up when I was snacking, though he was a lot gutsier than I had anticipated. Of course, nothing compared to your wicked act of inviting me here.”

“Wait, what’d you mean?” asked Azrael. The abhorrence within transmuted into a wildfire.

“Oh,” said the creature. “I happened to pop up in the mortal realm on urgent business and ran into Briar here. He was quite insistent on bringing me to your orphanage, so I could sample some mortals for… research purposes.”

Azrael glared glumly at Briar, slackening his jaw. “You sent this monster here?”

“What do you mean by monster, you darned brat?” said the creature, huffing in indignance. “I am the demon Mol’okh! A being beyond the likes of your comprehension.”

Ignoring Mol’okh, Azrael forged on. “You killed Granny and even your henchmen. Do you understand what you did?” Covering the distance separating Briar, he splayed his hands exasperatedly. “I tolerated everything you put me through, thinking of her. Now, I have no ties to this place, so I’m gonna –”

“Gonna what?” asked Briar, shoving the redhead against the edge of the oaken table. “You couldn’t lay a finger on me last time. What makes you think this time will be any better. Besides you’re nothing more than a snack for the return trip.”

“Yeah, about that…,” started Mol’okh. “I might have said I would take you along. But now that we have a gutsy coward-turned-challenger, there has been a change of plans.”

“Challenger?” scoffed Briar, running his eyes over Azrael, as if he was the mud clinging to the sole of his boot. “If it’s a fistfight, the chances of me losing to this filth is near impossible.”

“But not impossible.” Mol’okh smirked, tugging at his chin, amusedly. “Let us settle it with a friendly slugfest to the death. The winner will get a once in a lifetime opportunity to come home with me to the Abyzz.”

“Fine by me.” Azrael planted his feet apart. He clenched his fists and took up a fighting stance, glaring daggers at his double-crossing adversary. “All I want is to mess up this hell spawn of a bastard.”

“Are you going to stare me down to death? You can’t run to Granny no more, now that she’s–” Briar gestured to the decapitated head at the centre of the table, stifling a giggle.

Loosening a furious howl, the wildfire beneath his guise detonated into a raging inferno. Azrael lashed out with all his incendiary rage imbibed into his right fist.

Briar swatted aside the punch, as if it was nothing more than a fly.

Seizing the outstretched hand that brushed past his shoulder, he swiftly pulled the redhead in close. With a clenched fist of his own, Briar delivered a powerful blow directly to the redhead’s jaw.

He could feel the impact resonating in an explosive outburst, paired with the sound of shattering bones. Briar followed up with an unrelenting barrage of straight punches, each strike finding its mark on Azrael’s battered face. His knuckles flew, lodging into fleshy skin, again and again and again. An endless supply of punches, flying off his fists.

Blood spilled, paving way for bruises. The redhead stumbled backwards in a drunken stagger, beaten black and blue.

Dropping the barely conscious Azrael, Briar planted his foot over his fallen prey as he turned to Mol’okh, steadying his shallow breaths. “’Tis a death match, yeah?”

“The winner will not be decided until one of you is slain.”

“Well, if you don’t mind a knockout?” Briar gestured to his latest toil, with a smirk, eyeing the beaten redhead. I would much rather’ve ended myself than be born so weak. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sight of his struggling ‘enemy.’ He couldn’t think of a sorrier sight than the struggling redhead. “I doubt he’s getting back up. Ever. Although I should’ve put this chump outta his misery ages ago.”

Switching his attention from the demon to Azrael, black spots swirled in front of him. A sharp, searing pain coursed through his body, dropping him on his knees, threatening to devour every ounce of his being.

“What’s happening!?”

Panting heavily, Azrael shook his head. I need to strike while he’s distracted. Steeling his resolve with a pair of open hands, he inched forward.

His initial bruises were caked in a fresh set of smarting wounds, amalgamating to a throbbing headache. He wanted to collapse and take a long nap. And hopefully wake up to a reality different from the nightmare he was enduring.

Yet, he knew he couldn’t look away from the predicament he was facing. He feared he may never wake up, ever, if he gave in to even a wink.

Gritting his teeth, Azrael culled the flames spurring him on. Exhaling a breath, he emptied his mind. Reeling in a sharp breath, he lunged forward.

Splish.

Dropping to his knees, Briar glumly stared at the hand touching him. In a myriad of pain and disbelief, he traced the spot Azrael had targeted, his eyes widening in disbelief.

A second splish followed, alongside the guttural screams of agony escaping his adversary’s lips, his jewels crushed beyond repair.

The redhead absolved his grip, right when Briar clutched his groin and rolled about the floor in a blaze of anguish.

The redhead watched his opponent. A small price to pay for your sins. Gritting his teeth, Azrael clambered on top of his incapacitated enemy. But still not enough. His hands tightening around a snot mixed, tear-streaked throat. Despite his win, he could feel his strength waning, exhaustion eroding and muddling his leaden limbs. Gazing into the depths of Briar’s terror glazed eyes, he summoned the last vestiges of his strength, pouring his all into crushing the windpipe beneath his fingers.

“This is agonizing to watch,” said Mol’okh, shuddering.

Briar watched with inevitability, coughing out incoherent cusses.

Despite the heaviness of his bruised palpebrae, Azrael’s gaze darted to the centre of the table. Granny’s severed head was laid out in the middle, her features twisted in anguish. His eyes flitted back to where Briar was, the vessels in the whites of his eyes engorged with a deep crimson tint, on the verge of bursting.

A pang of guilt weighed him down, a thought pulling at the strings of his conscience. Do I have it in me to take a life?

Growling in annoyance, Mol’okh clambered over to the brawling duo. Raising a leg above the fallen Briar, he drove his foot through the skull, crunching through cranium and spilling gyri.

In the same motion, he grabbed Azrael by the collar, hoisting him off the fresh corpse, kicking his deceased adversary off the floor and onto the oaken table. The body slid over the wooden surface, coming to a halt at the centre till the faceless corpse was aligned with Granny’s bodiless head, connected by a thin red thread.

“Jackpot,” said Mol’okh.

Azrael hung his head, clutching his temples, rumpling crimson tufts. “End me already.” Sliding a quaking hand over his transfixed gaze, he sought reprieve from the grotesque brutality. He wanted the nightmare to end. To wake up. Preferably to a different reality. Or never open his eyes, ever again.

“Oh no, no. That award is for the loser. You have earned an arduous path meant for the living.” The creature cackled, waltzing out the orphanage, with his prize in tow.