Garden Of The Abyss

Eventually, he tired himself out, falling to his knees as he leaned his head against the clammy, stone floor, lightly banging his forehead against the stone. Fresh droplets of crimson dropped from the edges of his black-steel cuffs, falling monotonous onto the stone as the pain was null on his aching body.

"...I'll kill you. I'll kill you. I'll kill you…"

Decartes loomed over him for a moment, listening to the repeated mutters of the young man before spinning around as his long, sable robes fluttered behind his sudden, exaggerated movement.

"It seems you're a bit preoccupied at the moment with faraway delusions. I'll be back, Ren Nakamura! Make sure to eat your fill; today is going to be a long, productive day!" Decartes laughed sadistically, waving as he marched off into the depths of the dark corridor beyond the cell.

It was just that; the frivolity that knew no limits, his constant, unbreakable way of somehow never being on the bitter end of an exchange--always turning it into a laugh for himself, no matter how low the situation.

He was the epitome of madness; it's embodiment. The Marquis of Madness, Decartes Martus: the man he hated most in this world.

Continuously, he brought his now bloodied and bruised forehead down against the stone; part of him simply wished that it'd eventually lead to his own death, while most of it came from a desire to overthrow the memories constantly replaying through his mind--attempting to rid them through continuous hits.

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you...Decartes…" He muttered repeatedly.

It all fueled the haze of his shattered mind: the overwhelming, vomit-inducing stench of death that hanged so potently in the cell, the presence of his companions' corpses, filling his mind with utter anguish that was simply inescapable, and the ever present questioning of his own vision of what reality was.

Leaning forward as far as possible while continuing to lightly bang his head, his weight was centered on his chained wrists, causing them to swell, bruise, and bleed.

Despite it all, pain didn't even register for his fractured, uneven mind; he was lost in it--his desire for the Marquis to be undone, and all of the agony persisting in his heart.

"...Kill you...kill you…" He continued.

Time wasn't perceived by him as it seemed only moments later, the haunting footsteps approached once more.

Immediately, he lifted his blood-stained head as his crimson-painted, white tufts hung over his eyes. He couldn't see it yet past the darkness clinging to the corridor past his cell, but the footsteps could belong to none other.

It took his constantly ringing ears to adjust and realize that it wasn't just a single pair of footsteps that approached, but a set of three.

Even with the rage that persisted through his veins, his body trembled at the approaching presence of the malevolent man dressed in black, loose-fitting robes.

"Good evening, Ren!"

--As his unmistakable, skin-crawling voice greeted him, Decartes' appearance was revealed as he stepped from the shadows of the faintly lit corridor, and into the cell.

Beside him were two of the cloaked, masked subordinates that stayed wordless and enigmatic. He noticed something held by the leftmost of the black-robed, silent followers: a veiled, tubular object with contents unseen.

Decartes peered down at the plate that was still present with food, untouched; a frown overtook his expression.

"You need to eat, Ren. It's not good to starve your body of the nutrients it needs, even more so considering the stress it's going to undergo these next few days. Don't trick yourself into believing you can off yourself in here by simply neglecting to eat; if need be, I'll feed you with my own hands," Decartes smiled.

"...I'll kill you, Decartes…I'll kill you…"

Of course, his reply was expected as a wide smile came over the Marquis' face as he leaned down, spreading his arms in a flamboyant pose as he reveled in the contempt of the chained, young man.

"I see you're holding onto that anger quite lovely. It'll bring you forward, yes. With rage such as that, nothing can stop you from the 'spiral', hm?" Decartes grinned close to his face.

In the face of such madness, he was wordless, though his contempt didn't fade even as it was overpowered with fear.

Decartes' head was tilted to an unnatural, almost completely twisted angle before he swiftly withdrew, standing himself straight as his blue, neatly-kempt locks bounced.

"Now, now, now! I have a gift for you! It's so absolutely fantastic, amazing, gorgeous, unmatched, lovely--oh, you'll just love it," Decartes spoke while his hands danced through the air.

Halting his erratic movements, the Marquis held his hand out with a straight expression, "Give it!"

Though he barked his command in almost a shriek, the hooded follower silently bowed before placing the veiled, tubular object on the Marquis' palm. A smile wider than any before persisted on the pale, ghastly man's expression as he held the unknown object, holding it in front of him.

"This is a moment that will be marked in history. The returnal of love, the reawakening of passion, the rekindling of depravity!...You feel it, don't you? Something amazing, vibrant, grand...what I hold here is your gift," Decartes leered, "hold him!"

Suddenly a command was given, shaking up the shattered young man as the two, black-clad subordinates took to either side of him, tightly restraining his arms even though they were bound by chains.

It was a perplexing move that he couldn't understand, only immediately falling to tears as he was unable to slur out any cohesive words as Decartes only seemed to revel in his broken, unmended mind.

Instead of words, only fearful, vowelless groans left his lips as the complete restraint of his body sent his instincts into overdrive--fearing whatever the item was that Decartes held.

Sliding the stygian veil from the object, its contents were revealed: a tubular object that housed black liquid that made it impossible to see anything that may rest in its abyssal cage.

"It's alright to feel fear, Ren. It's reasonable to be afraid of what you don't understand. It may hurt today, but joy will be felt tomorrow. We're patient. The Mistress is patient."

As Decartes spoke in a low voice, the young man's eyes could only tremble as they watched his bony fingers methodically twist the cap off of the repulsive flask.

His snow-white hand sunk into the depths of the black liquid held in the tube, fishing for something that lay within it before slowly retrieving something while his smile persisted, keeping his gaze on the shattered adolescent.

Retrieved from the holds of the deathly liquid was something peculiar: an eye that held a spiraling iris.

It took a moment for his hazed mind to piece together what was about to happen, but once he realized, he rejected it.

"...no, no, no, no…" he shook his head.

There was something off about the eye; by no means was it 'human' by the abnormal shape of its iris, or the root-like tendrils that protruded from the back of its bulbous form.

Though his input had little weight on what the Marquis did as Decartes used his free hand to spread the eyelids of the young man's right eye, peering closely at it.

"Yes, yes...this will do nicely," Decartes spoke out loud.

He wanted to plead for whatever was about to happen to be stopped, but only faint breaths, and sometimes jumbled mixtures of sounds left his lips as his teeth chattered.

"...op...it...op...it…"

--No such request found its way to the Marquis.

In the next moment, the bony fingers of the maddened man sunk into his eye socket without any hesitation.

Immediately a scream left his mouth as his body jolted, convulsing from pain and instinct, though he was held firmly by the black-clad subordinates.

Blood seeped from his socket as the Marquis' fingers fiddled around before wrapping around the form of his eye without any sense of gentleness. His screams continued as did his thrashing, though he could hardly move as the men held him still.

Feeling the rigged, abrasive digits of the Marquis scrape the interior of his socket as if reaching into the depths of his skull, he truly felt delved into hell--only being able to watch the persisting smile of the Marquis with half of his vision.

"...Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!...top it!...top it!" He writhed as his words slurred out.

The chains jingled in a viscous melody as he thrashed wildly with his entire body, helpless to the pain by his constraints.

"I see you can speak words besides 'kill'. Pain is a great motivator, isn't it?" Decartes smiled.

Without batting an eye, the Marquis spoke the same as ever while his fingers inhabiting the innards of his eye socket while a mix of crimson and yellow pus seeped out.

At once, the worst of it came as the Marquis began to tug on his right eye with a full grip held on the ocular orb.

In a parade of agony, his only respite was in the fact that the Marquis retrieved his eye with one, solid tug that tore it out completely in a singular movement.

Resigning to the agony, he slumped his head down, watching with his halved vision as a putrid mixture of fluids rained from his vacant socket. More than anything, he wanted to spew the stomach-whirling wake of pain from his body in the form of bile, but his body was far too exhausted to do so as he hung forward with his wrists bearing his weight by the chains.

"Why?" it was the question that persisted in his head. Even in an unfair, unequal world, he felt as if it simply didn't make sense why he specifically had to endure such pain.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?!

As the intensity of the gnawing pain grew in potency, he salivated, thrashing once more as he looked up at the Marquis, who was momentarily inspecting the blood-laden eyeball.

"Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?!" He screamed out, being held by the black-robed subordinates.

"Why?" Descartes repeated, "That's a silly question. It's because you're special, Ren."