A broken promise was one of the domino effects on the path of this prison cell. He should’ve seen the curve of betrayal sneaking behind him, ready to have a knife stabbed in his back the moment he let his guard down.
Thomas Pitch lay on the coarse linen of the twin bed, his gaze blank on the blenched plaster walls. As if he were being sentenced to death right now, his memories were flashing before him like a slow-motion picture.
He cherished the good memories, longing for those wonderful sunny days where all he did was smile and laugh. Nothing bonded him to the doubt he had for the future.
What he had in store was bleak and desolating. Pitch hadn’t gotten the chance to apologize. To either of them.
Wanting to go numb to the heartbreak, the pain, and the grief, his tearing emotions kept throbbing him awake with what he felt. Denying what would befall him in a few days, he ruminated on his past as if to find a path out of there.
After being thrown out by his people, with not even ‘thank you for all your hard work, doctor,’ the High-warlock became speechless at how easily someone could turn their back. Being a doctor, his mission was to heal the wounded without any payment. Yet what he got in return at the bitter end was thrown to the wolves.
The prison cell he was in didn’t matter if it was comfy or not. The white walls seemed like a mental hospital. The tiny camera showing outside didn’t shine any hope in his despair.
Even as much as Pitch wanted to destroy that camera in anger, he wished to see the sunset lower and the crescent moon shimmer among the twinkling stars before his death.
As an immortal, he lived a long life, but Pitch wasn’t done with it. He always told his friends that he laughed at the face of death but realized his demise would befall soon, which had him scared like a little boy afraid in the dark.
“A merciful slit in your throat,” mocked an archangel before they threw Pitch into the prison, sealing the door—in a way—sealing his sentence. Gingerly touching his neck, he gasped softly at the thought of the blade slicing his flesh. He imagined a flicker of glee crossing his executioner’s golden eyes and a smirk tugging on his angelic face, defeating one of the most powerful Galas in the world.
Pitch’s magical powers weren’t the only thing that made him known, but how knowledgeable he was. He had gotten all his important information from reading everything from ancient history to modern spell books.
He continuously told people that history books hold more truth than any mortal could.
In addition, he was many types of doctors collected in one person; Pitch could be a general surgeon, a pediatrician, a dentist, or anything related to medicine. Even more so, he had a license as a physiologist and psychiatrist. His Ph.D. degree was mind-blowing, one of the reasons the Infernals loved him. Also, he concocted healing remedies and mastered the art of making potions.
Rubbing his face, all he could do was watch the camera show the sun casting down in the azure sky. His chest had an empty pit where his heart used to sit. Before he could do more reflection about how his pathetic life was over, a loud grinding vibrated in the silent room as bolts whirled in unlocking the hatchet door.
The only people visiting this condemned man were priests and creditors. And for him, both classes could burn.
A fellow walked in with his strong jaw clenched and stern eyes piercing at him in glowing hatred. Golden locks fell impeccably on his broad shoulders. The Archangel stared at the renegade High-warlock.
When he put the food in a glass box that could be delivered on the opposite barrier, gloating glinted behind his angelic visage.
Pitch looked at the cold steak, clumpy mashed potatoes, and overcooked southern beans. There were no utensils on the plastic plate. The wrenched angel was going to make him eat his food with his bare hands.
He was going to die anyway; there was no point in eating disgusting meals before his death. So he didn’t move from his bed, but his gaze caught behind his captor.
Taking a step back from the barrier, the Archangel shrugged at seeing the dejected Infernal. “Too bad it’s not poisoned; dragging your death row is more treacherous for me than you.”
When he turned to leave, a child with coal-wide eyes and gripping her nightgown tensely stood right behind him. The Archangel almost leaped out of his skin because he hadn’t heard her following him here. He demanded, “Sara, what are you doing here?” Flickering his golden eyes at another girl with him, he groaned, “You both are supposed to be in bed.”
In a low whisper, as if the little girl didn’t want the prisoner to hear, Sara answered tightly with his restless tone. “I wanted to see who the man everyone was talking about...” she hesitated before continuing, dropping her vocal tone even softer, “the one you will kill.”
The Archangel glanced back at his captive, who stared in confusion at why this child wished to see him. Lavender eyes darted back and forth between the relationships of these two, Pitch wondering why this leader of the angels was treating her as if he were her guardian angel.
The reason he was baffled was because he had known this man for a very long time and had never seen him treat anyone like this. Pitch knew the other kid near the door had brown hair and was wearing a blue nightgown. She was a famous individual because of her background, but the other girl he had was enigmatic about who she was.
The prisoner was held in a basement where precious items were stored, a place that no one could escape from. Only selected people were allowed to enter the basement, and it was under twenty-four surveillance cameras.
Pitch thought the Archangel would be outraged by a random person entering the basement without his approval, but he was relaxed and had a firm temperament for her misbehaving.
Maybe she was a reckless child and couldn’t possibly steal anything, but something told him that wasn’t the case.
"I've never been down here before,” the girl said in the ruffled blue pajamas. She came by the Archangel’s side, the children reaching about to his hips. Her eyes lightened up at seeing the glass cage and she ran towards it. “The magical barrier!”
“Kate, get back here!” snapped the Archangel.
“Is it true if someone breaks the barrier, they will go asleep, and an alarm will ring out?” gasped Kate in wonderment, running back to him about her knowledge.
The Archangel replied sharply, “Yes, now stay by my side.”
However, Sara didn’t seem interested in the magical barrier or what the basement provided. She stared at the person in the cell and twisted a strand of black hair around her finger. As she began taking a step forward, the Archangel grasped her shoulder to stop her. “What did I say?” he growled.
Stolen novel; please report.
“He’s so handsome,” sighed Sara with a pout. “What did he do to deserve to be here? You always say to give people second chances.”
Unable to be stared at like a caged animal in a zoo to be displayed, Pitch stood up with crossed arms and watched the girl’s doubtful expression.
With a hardened countenance and a frown, the Archangel snarled in disgust. “Handsome or not, don’t let him fool you. The best villains are the ones who seem the most charming and trustworthy to come to. He has done unspeakable things.”
“What has he done to be killed, though?” Sara pushed, never leaving her gaze on the inmate.
This girl, who looked like she was seven years old and seemed out of place here, was poking at Pitch’s core and releasing emotions he tried to keep at bay. A hard lump formed in his throat in disbelief at his mistakes. No one was going to have a grand funeral for him.
Being tossed to the other side was not the worst part of his unraveling, despairing madness. The realization of dying alone made him shiver. Pitch ordered himself to remain calm; however, he could only hold on to his torn soul for so long until he exploded into a silent sob.
What did he deserve to be here for?
Making many friends in Hell, he somehow became the Devil’s best righthand man. No one dared to break into Hell or harm the demons in there, for he was able to cast a spell on anyone before they could vanish into thin air.
Being close to the Devil had quirks and was great overall. Pitch’s friends were the Devil’s ones, and the other way around. He became close to an important person that the King of Darkness loved and had promised to save the gem of Hell.
Yet from his cockiness in knowing he was a great doctor and thinking nothing could ever surpass his powerfulness, the gem that glimmered and was precious to the Infernals died because of his self-righteous assurance.
Pitch knew the horrible loss hadn’t been completely his fault; however, the guilt bore down in his soul like a heavy brick. He was here because the Infernals had relied on him for his expertise in saving them, but he failed to fulfill the promise, and now he has paid the price.
The echo of the heartbroken tone from his boss and those distressing dark chocolate eyes caused tears to roll down Pitch’s cheeks. “You promised.”
Perhaps he deserved to be in this miserable cell and be hung at the gallows for breaking his vow. At least, he had another thing in common with the Archangel and the Devil besides wanting to not be in human sight.
“Michael is the most handsome person!” Kate shouted out in a beam, interrupting his train of thought and causing him to face reality once again. This brought him choking to hold back his devastation.
There had to be another way out of this, right? The High-warlock always had magic tricks up his sleeves. He slumped his shoulders before he gave himself a chance to redeem himself. The magician was out of tricks and magic.
The Archangel scoffed at her and swayed his head at her remark. “Thank you, Katerina. Learn girls,” he pointed out, “this villain is the definition of toxicity and evilness.”
If Pitch wasn’t stuck in the ghastly white room, he would’ve taken the comment of being ‘toxic’ as a compliment. Somehow in his heart, he knew there was one more trick to play for a dead man.
Leaning against the glass barrier and refusing to remain silent anymore, he scoffed back. “Handsome? I wouldn’t fuck him if it saved my life.”
“What does fuck mean?” Sara quickly asked, tilting her head to the side at him. Then she tugged on the Archangel’s shirt to get his attention, who gasped at Pitch’s crude humor. He reflectively tightened his grip on her shoulder and spattered, “Do not use such foul language in front of my children!”
“I want to know!” declared Sara and turned to the cell. “Dr. Pitch, what does fuck mean?”
The High-warlock cracked a chuckle, amused by Sara’s question and her formality. He found the Archangel’s horrified look hilarious. He explained to spite him, “It can mean different things, like intercourse, a bad word, or perhaps excitement.”
“Intercourse, that’s a big word!” exclaimed Sara. She pulled on the Archangel’s shirt again and asked, “What does intercourse mean?”
Pitch wondered why the Archangel allowed the girls to tug on him without any protest. He stood in a protective posture, and his face showed a fatherly expression.
The Archangel groaned wearily, “I’ll explain later. Maybe when you are much older.”
Clicking his tongue, Pitch shook his head. “Maybe if you tell them now, you can save your breath later."
“Agh, no,” the Archangel replied tartly, wanting this conversation to be over. He began to leave, nudging the children to follow him.
“Aw,” chuckled Pitch, “They are too innocent and precious to know about intercourse. How cute. That’s fucking stupid.” Why was he making small talk? There was no point in it. Suddenly, the tears he tried to hold back came like an unexpected oncoming freight train. Torment shredded through him like a grinder.
His mind clicked into knowing he was going to die in a couple of days, which hit him like a hard punch to the gut. He collapsed to his knees, stinging tears flooding down his face. What was the point of hiding his fear anymore?
Thomas Pitch lost his dignity the moment he cursed through his screams, trying to pry away from these idiotic people who call themselves ‘heroes’. They tossed him into this asylum of a prison. He had been a wanted man by them for a long time, from the mayhem he had created to how many lives he had taken.
Seeing the Archangel just standing there made him feel embarrassed and powerless. He didn’t feel so powerful anymore. The villainous darkness that sparked his soul and made him flamboyant had blown out.
He cried out in a despairing sound, “I want to live! Please, give me another chance!” His body shook with terror as he asked himself where he would go once he died. He knew Heaven was out of the question, and Hell—that would be so uncomfortable. Would he then go to the despicable Purgatory?
Watching the Archangel’s face freeze up in perplexity, Pitch bargained, “Give me a second chance!”
However, the sympathetic look was gone in the next instant. A cold gaze took over the Archangel’s face.
“You have killed countless of my people with no care in the world and many times started up chaos around the world that affected humans. You deserve no second chances,” rebuked the Archangel.
The words stung almost as badly as the pang of sadness taking over the infamous warlock. “Please,” Pitch gasped, and he fell to his knees, his body smooching against the glass barrier. “I am begging for my life!”
The Archangel halted from leaving the room, the despair slowly choking everyone. He angled his face at Pitch and snarled, “No, you made your bed.” He scoffed. “Even my brother agreed he wanted you dead. The first time we ever agreed on something,” Turning on his heels, he guided the girls along with him: “Let’s go.”
Gasping with the utmost horror, Pitch gulped back tears. Slumping on the cool floor and his black outfit feeling tight on his sweaty body, the High-warlock stared up; hot tears stroked down his face.
The girl stared right into Pitch’s eyes. Infernals used to tell him his lavender eyes could hypnotize anyone. The powerful warlock looked back, hoping to hypnotize her, set him free, or something. He swore he saw a flicker of understanding in Sara’s coal eyes, yet she broke away as the door closed with a bang.
***
The remaining three days were long and tiring. Pitch lay on his bed in a depressive state, letting his mind lead to the most gruesome deaths. First, he dreamed of the Archangel slitting his throat, and he woke up in a pool of sweat, yanking his fingers to his throat.
The next night, his dreams became worse, with the Infernals burning him at the stake. He sobbed himself back to sleep. The last night, he dozed off, dreaming of being in Hell, having a feast with his best friends, declaring war, devising plans to conquer the world, and kissing—
There was a noise that startled him awake. He gasped and sat up immediately. It was woefully black before the lights switched on. He released a fearful, shaky breath from the deepest part of his soul. It had to be time.
***
Heavy chains dragged on the grass. Two men, who looked like brothers, escorted him to his executioner. Pitch fought with all his might against the Archangel’s sidekicks, but he knew it was pointless because his hands were bound with magic-proof chains. His lavender eyes glimmered up at the Archangel wielding a sword; his face contorted with hatred.
Was the Archangel’s face the last thing he'd see? Pitch prepared himself for what was going to come next. He heard a girl with tangerine hair read off a list of his wrongdoings, which he felt was unnecessary.
He was on his knees on the cold ground, his black pants dirty. His gaze fixed on the stars that greeted him. He refused to look at the Archangel anymore.
With his hands curled tightly around the sword’s hilt, the Archangel spoke, “Any last words?”
Thomas Pitch breathed in the night air, embracing the kiss of death. The silence of betrayal and bewilderment answered him. His eyes caught the blade glinting in the moonlight as it rose. He fluttered his eyelids close and accepted his fate. A grin twitched at the corners of his mouth before the sword silenced him.