(Hello, this is the author writing. Since this message is really important, I am writing it directly into the chapter. This chapter touches on serious topics, including sexual abuse. I advise readers to read this chapter at their own risk. If these topics are particularly difficult for you, I recommend skipping this chapter. There will never be another passage like this in the rest of the book)
Nero hesitated. There was no reason why Nero should look into this room, why he should suspect his sister was behind it, but he did so anyway. Slowly, Nero pressed down on the handle. There was a slight, audible click, and the door opened. The door hinges were apparently well oiled, because there was no noise when Nero pushed it open wide enough to carefully stick his head through. It was a small room, similar in layout to the cell he had just been in, but this room was lit not only by a dim torch but by many candles scattered on tables. Nero believed it had once been a small library, for bookshelves lined the walls, filled to the brim with old books. However, the reading tables had been pushed aside to make room for a small but seemingly fine bed, which stood in the middle of the room. An incredibly delicious-looking feast was laid out on a table with two chairs.
The moans and grunts came from a naked man lying on the bed. Nero couldn't see the man's face, but he had short gray hair, which clearly showed that he must be quite old. So did his wrinkled, sagging skin, which rippled disgustingly with his strange movements.
Nero's black eyes lingered on the old man for only a second before immediately falling on the young girl lying beneath him. Her skin was pale, lacking any warmth or health. Her long black hair fell down the side of the bed, still wet as if it had just been washed. Of course, Nero knew immediately that it was his sister, Eliza. She was dressed in nothing but a white robe that had been half pulled up.
Nero froze when he saw this sight. He was too young, too ignorant to understand what was happening, but he knew that whatever this old man was doing to his sister was what was destroying her. Nero clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. Blood dripped down his hand, while in his other hand, he still held the knife, which now seemed heavy in his grasp.
Then the old man slapped Eliza across the face. "React, bitch!" he ordered angrily, and Nero recognized the voice immediately. That disgusting, gruff voice had burned itself into his brain when he sentenced his own mother to death at the stake.
It was none other than the priest himself. Nero's face contorted. First, he killed his mother, and now he wants to kill his sister? The last bit of restraint in Nero disappeared at that moment. All emotion was filtered out of him, replaced by a cold, cruel rage. It was like the biting wind on a dark winter night, cutting, merciless, all-encompassing. There was no more doubt, no more waiting, no more caution. There was only one goal for Nero at that moment. Everything darkened: the room, the bed, the bookshelves, and the candles. It was just him, the rusty knife, and the priest. He ran. He ran toward the priest, his legs carrying him quickly across the floor. The priest finally seemed to hear him, but Nero was already upon him. He jumped onto the bed and, without uttering a single sound, rammed his knife into the old man's back, right between his shoulder blades.
With a disgusting sound, the blade pierced the skin and sank into the old man's flesh, who cried out in pain. He threw Nero off him, who still had a firm grip on the knife handle. He pulled the blade out, leaving a deep hole in the priest's back.
The priest roared in pain and desperately grabbed his back to stop the bleeding. He stumbled off the bed and into a table, knocking over a candle. Hot wax dripped onto the floor, but somehow nothing caught fire. "What have you done?" the priest asked Nero, who was slowly getting back to his feet. His whole body ached.
He said nothing but simply ran back toward the priest, who backed away from the young man. He swung his fist, "Stay away from me!" he commanded angrily as he struck, but Nero somehow managed to dodge it. Suddenly, he was standing in front of the naked priest again, and, without thinking, he rammed his knife into the man's body again, but this time he didn't wait for the priest to push him away; he simply pulled the knife out again, rammed it back in, pulled it out again, rammed it back in. He repeated this over and over, probably almost twenty times. The priest had fallen onto his back and was now lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. He was gasping for breath, painfully trying to move away from Nero, who was sitting on his chest.
He looked into the eyes of the priest who was dying before him. It was obvious that he was in his final moments, but Nero did not move. He remembered the wolf. The animal he had felt so sorry for. He couldn't help but compare the situations. He had put the wolf out of its misery because he felt sorry for it, a wolf that killed almost every day, a monster in so many fairy tales. He had mourned for it, despite its sharp teeth, despite its claws, and despite the blood in its mouth. And now he sat before the priest, whom he did not mourn, whom he did not pity. The wolf only killed because the wolf was hungry, for the wolf only had claws to survive, and the wolf only had sharp teeth so as not to starve.
But this man had everything. He had wealth, he had food, he was loved and praised, he had warmth and security, and yet he killed. He killed his mother because he blamed her for a disaster for which no one was to blame, and now he hurt his sister, not because he would die otherwise, not because he would starve to death, but because he wanted to.
So it was the same situation now. Both times, the mercy of an animal was in his hands. Both times, he had to decide with the knife to end the agony. And yet, as similar as they seem, they were completely different.
For Nero felt no pity for the old man before him. He felt no pity for the disgusting monster in human form before him. He looked into his eyes, and the old priest was panicking. He did not want to die, Nero realised. Like almost everything that lives, this man also feared death. The end of life. Nero watched the struggle in the man's eyes as he tried not to fall asleep. As he tried not to step into the light, but slowly and surely, the life faded from his eyes.
Nero waited a good minute before finally getting up. All the hatred slowly flowed out of him and was replaced with weariness and exhaustion. Nevertheless, he ran to his sister, who lay motionless on the bed. He put his ear to her chest and heard a faint heartbeat, tears in his eyes. He shook her, "Eliza, wake up! We have to leave!" he urged her, but she just lay there motionless. He shook her even harder, but she didn't move. Her eyes remained closed, and blood flowed from her nose.
Then Nero heard quick footsteps behind him. He spun around as the single guard came through the door. He first saw the body on the floor, then the two children. He said nothing, but simply grunted and grabbed them both. Nero fought back, but Eliza remained motionless.
The guard simply carried the two back to the cell without looking back. He paid no attention to Nero, who was struggling, but this time he actually snatched the rusty dagger from his hand. He dragged them down the stairs. When he reached their cell, he simply threw the two children inside. Nero landed hard, his broken rib hurting like hell. He slowly got up as the guard closed and locked the door behind them.
Nero struggled to his feet with incredible effort and dragged himself over to his sister, who was lying on the floor. Blood was flowing from a wound on the back of her head. Nero lifted her up and carried her to the bed. He covered her and lay down next to her, his arm wrapped around her. It was quiet in his cell. It was empty in his cell. Slowly, Nero fell asleep, exhausted and injured, unable to keep himself awake any longer.
When he opened his eyes again, hours later, the body of his sister was cold. The warmth that had comforted him every evening for the last eight years of his life was gone. Nero slowly sat up as something inside him froze. He put his ear to his sister's chest, but heard nothing.
Sometime during that night, she had died, leaving Nero alone.