I woke up in a coffin.
That was one way to wake up. Knowing that I was in a metallic box, with little to non-existent air, as well as cramped and tight corners. However, I was unbothered by this knowledge. Uncaring of the fact that somehow, I had slept on a soft semi-orthopedic five-by-six bed surrounded with duvets, and now I woke up in a coffin.
For someone as claustrophobic as I was, I didn't seem all that worried. I could feel fear beginning to bubble in the deepest corner of my mind. A slowly growing horror at the knowledge that I was buried alive. Yet despite the growing emotion, like a tap that leaked water yet never seemed to fill the bucket, the fear never quite reached me.
I don't know how long I stayed in the coffin, in that dark, dreary silence filled with nothing but my own apathetic thoughts. It could have been an hour. Maybe two. Maybe even a full day. Somehow, my capacity for patience and my ability to feel boredom had become a thing of legend. Still, it didn't take much longer before I decided to move.
The inside of the coffin was engraved, and I was resting quite relaxed and comfortably on what seemed like velvet cushions of the highest order. Considering how heavy the top of a stone coffin would be, and the weight of what I imagined was six feet of dirt pressing against the lid, I didn't have the greatest hope of getting out.
My arms came up, pushing against the coffin lid. Unlike my previous thought, it didn't feel even a quarter as heavy as I expected. The lid came off with barely a hiss before I tilted it to the side. There was no heavy thud of metal on stone. Instead, I could hear the faint whir of machinery as gears and wheels went to work.
Curiosity.
Whatever had happened to my sense of fear, atrophied as it really was, didn't quite seem to reach my curiosity. I felt it at full blast. The questions rang in my head, the what, the why, the where.
My hands reached out. Unfamiliar pale hands. I clasped the corner of the coffin and, with a solid grip, heaved myself out. Where the motion should have been smooth, I didn't expect to straight-up catapult myself out of the coffin. Regardless, I found myself landing smoothly in a crouch. I didn't need a mirror to see the frown on my face as I looked around the room.
I found myself in a majestic and ginormous room. A room filled with luxurious silk curtains that blocked the windows. Expensive-looking chairs that seemed more valuable than anything I had ever owned. A fur rug filled the center of the room, the fur from a beast I could not even name. Yet despite the sheer luxury and opulence, the entire room was in disarray.
The expensive-looking chairs had been upturned. The chandelier hanging above was dented. The curtains had rip marks. The bookshelves that lined the walls were broken, their contents scattered all over. A huge portrait of what seemed like a man and a woman had been ripped, with the focus of the carnage centered on their faces, making identifying them a hassle.
The only thing that seemed unaffected was the black and red coffin nestled in the absolute center of the room. At a glance, it looked to be at least twenty feet away. My brain came to a halt at that realization. Twenty feet. I had leaped at least twenty feet out of the coffin. The previously forgotten fear and worry began to bubble up again, but once more I could sense it without truly feeling it. Without the animal part of my brain screaming that I should run, cry, or preferably hide myself under a chair and wait for things to make sense, I began to move automatically. I was not the neatest person by any definition, but something about the untidiness of the room irked me deeply.
"You can't just leave everywhere scattered, my love. Do I truly have to teach you how to be a gentleman as well?"
I slowed as I came back to myself and realized I had been trying to arrange the room. Or at least make an effort. I had straightened the huge bookshelves, something that looked like it would have taken at least ten men to move. I was halfway through replacing the books when the memory ended.
I remembered a woman. A soft yet vibrant voice so full of life. The smell of roasted garlic. A dash of blonde hair like a streak from a painter's brush. A smile so heartwarming I felt something slip past my eyes. My forearm automatically came up and wiped the liquid away. If I had spared a moment to look at my arm, I would've seen the streak of red on the black sleeve.
Instead, my focus was on the memories. That same intense and innate sense of curiosity filled me. Who was that? The blonde-haired woman with a smile that froze me for long seconds. I tried to search my mind for the memories, yet they were simply inaccessible. Not missing, I knew they were there, yet it felt like some kind of mental block stopped me from reaching them. It didn't matter how much effort I put into thinking about it. It was like futilely battering at the walls of a castle with my bare fist.
Utterly useless. So I just decided to stop. I was done with restocking the shelf and arranging what little I could, and that quieted the thought of disappointing her. With that done, I looked down at myself. There was no mirror present in the room. There was what looked like the remains of one in the corner, unfortunately not spared from whatever calamity had struck. It looked like it had been hit with a wrecking ball, hit so hard it skipped breaking and jumped straight to being pulverized.
A pity. It was one of her favorites.
The thought struck me like a hammer, and I staggered backward away from it. I found I possessed another emotion that didn't seem atrophied, annoyance. It was slowly getting to me. The unknown memories. The unfamiliar environment. The scattered room. I needed to leave. I needed to breathe. I needed out.
I spun on my heels and began to power walk, ignoring the majestic cloak following my movement and the twirl of my hair. I pushed the door open and walked out, leaving the room behind me. If I had the mind for it, I would've stopped and marveled at the passage I found myself in. I would've stopped and wondered about the tapestries that lined the walls, a black dragon on a field of red. I saw it. Or perhaps a glimpse was more accurate.
Yet it didn't seem to register. My feet kept pounding against the floor as they took me down a flight of stairs. I vaguely noted how the stairs seemed to move. It was a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of thing. There was a smell of parchment, dried blood, and rosemary, as well as a hum. Two different kinds of hums, I realized the more I walked. The first was familiar. The kind I had heard when I pushed open the lid of the coffin.
It was the hum of machinery. Electricity passing through copper. The turning and groaning of gears. It filled the walls and the ground I walked on. I turned a corner, this one lined with plate armors, empty and standing in forever vigilance. My feet carried me down the hallway as I tried to make sense of the other sensation.
It was a different kind of hum. I found it hard to explain. It was in the air. It permeated the ground, the walls, and even me. I felt it in myself, in the blood in my veins. It filled every part of me. I was so immersed in the sensation that it took me long seconds to realize I had come to a stop. I blinked confused eyes as I beheld where my feet had led me. It was a throne room. Just as massive as everything else in this place, humongous to the extreme, filled with the same sense of extravagant and opulent wealth on display.
There were the huge tapestries here as well. Tapestries that held the same design, a black dragon in a field of red. A supermassive chandelier lit up and hung at the center of the throne room, along with more recent electric lights lining the walls. If I were more in the moment, perhaps I would've wondered about the sheer paradox that was this entire place.
Yet like everything else, it seemed too little to worry or think about. Instead, I caressed the armrest of the throne. Just like everything in the building, it was scaled to size. The backrest towered high and was inlaid with what looked like soft red cushion. Judging by the feel of it as I allowed myself to finally sit down, it was.
The throne felt comfortable in a way I could not put into words. Familiar, in fact, I realized as I sunk deeper into it. One hand rested on the armrest and the other cradled my face, while my legs stretched out. All in all, it was a languid posture that spoke of little worries and even less fear. The fingers on my free hand gently tapped against the armrest in a slow familiar rhythm as I looked straight ahead. Past the throne room was what looked like an entrance hallway, and after that, there was a humongous door. It looked like the biggest thing I had ever seen since I woke up.
"My lord, you are awake at last."
I turned my head woodenly to address the figure at my side that had spoken. I had heard him coming from miles away. The clack of his feet upon stone, the thump of his heart in his chest, the breath in the air, the space his presence displaced.
I knew he was coming, yet somehow I had not been worried. There was not the slightest hint of danger radiating from the figure before me. A figure whose voice I recognized quite well. My eyes trailed the figure. Dark brown skin, dull gray hair, pale blue eyes set in a beautiful yet masculine face that seemed fit to do nothing much but smile.
"Hector?" The voice that came from my lips was gravelly. Unfamiliar.
"Yes, my lord. I came as soon as I heard your fingers tapping. You summoned us. I assume once Isaac is done with his self-flagellation, he will come running as well."
I blinked at the response. At the soft smile on his face, a soft smile that was slowly shifting into worry. Yet the worry on his face had nothing on the worry in my heart. That fear, that worry that didn't quite seem to reach the bucket, had finally done so and the bucket was filled and was beginning to spill.
"Get me a mirror."
"My lord—"
"Now, Hector." I cut him short at once with a near snarl, the strength in my voice forcing him to take a step back. He immediately pivoted with a quick bow.
"At once, my lord."
Then he left me. Trapped in my thoughts. For the first time, I looked down at my hands. Pale skin with fingernails that looked fit for ripping out a human heart.
Hector returned shortly after. Yet despite my request, he brought a shard of a mirror instead of an actual one. I didn't bother with a word. Instead, I stretched out a hand. When he placed the mirror in it, I lifted it to my face and froze.
What I saw didn't feel like me. Pale skin like polished marble. Crimson irises ringed with black, bright with inner fire. Sharp cheekbones. A mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. Long black hair, alongside a meticulously crafted goatee and mustache combo. Ears that were just the slightest bit pointed. I reached up and traced my fingers over my face, matching the reflection. The skin was cold, but the pressure and the movement were all mine.
These were the features I had only seen in one animated show I watched years ago. The features of a man that had been ready to drown the world in blood and was only stopped because of his monumental depression and the fact that his heart wasn't in it. History's longest suicide note as his son called It.
I was Dracula Fucking Tepes.
And suddenly the impermeable barrier that had blocked my memories and dulled most of my emotions broke. I blacked out in the face of overwhelming horror and dread.