Chapter 14-Memory world (2)
The room was silent, yet not empty. Silence here was not peace—it was a suffocating blanket, pressed tight against the ears, broken only by the clinking of chains in the corner. Every rattle felt deliberate, like a reminder that someone was still alive in this place when they should not be.
Simon's shallow breathing rasped through the gag, wet and labored. It was the sound of lungs struggling against starvation, of a body that clung to life against its own will. Each inhale dragged like sandpaper through his throat, each exhale a dying animal's whimper.
Carl stood tall in the lamplight, his broad shadow stretching across the blood-streaked wall. The lamp flickered, and with each tremor of flame his outline warped—elongating, bending, becoming monstrous. His fingers, stained in hues that no artist's palette could ever hold—clotted crimson, dried brown, fresh scarlet—hovered above the table of instruments. His hands didn't rush; they glided from tool to tool with reverence, caressing sharp steel, polished glass, jagged iron, as though each blade whispered secrets only he could hear.
He didn't pick one up immediately. He savored them, like a starving man stroking food before he tasted it.
Lumian stood paralyzed in the small body of the boy. His heart—though not truly his—raced like prey cornered by a predator. He wanted to scream, to rip the scalpel from Carl's hand, to gouge his eyes out. But his child's limbs trembled and betrayed him, useless reeds swaying in a storm. His jaw quivered, teeth sinking into his tongue, and the copper taste of blood filled his mouth. His silence became agony.
Carl broke the silence with a voice too calm for the horror it carried.
"Art," he said, lifting a scalpel and letting the lamp catch its thin edge. "Art is not about beauty. Beauty lies. It hides the rot beneath. But suffering…" He tilted the blade, watching the light ripple across its surface. "Suffering never lies."
The words rolled through the room like venom.
On the floor, the boy's mother whimpered. Her torn dress clung to her, soaked in patches of blood. Her scalp bled freely where her hair had been ripped out, strands matted to her face. She clutched at herself, trembling, but still her eyes clung to her son—her gaze frantic, desperate, like she could shield him with nothing but her broken stare.
Carl ignored her. His world had narrowed to his son. This trembling, wide-eyed child was not just a witness—he was the audience, the student, the heir.
Carl crouched, bringing his face level with Lumian's. His smile stretched too wide, too rehearsed, as though carved into his skin with invisible knives. His breath stank of iron and rot, washing hot across Lumian's cheeks.
"Son," he whispered, almost tender, "do you know what separates gods from men?"
Lumian's throat convulsed, but no sound emerged. The boy's small chest rose and fell, fluttering like a sparrow caught in a fist. His pulse thundered in his ears, deafening.
Carl tapped the scalpel against his temple—lightly, almost playfully.
"Power," he chuckled. "Creation. Men are bound by flesh. Gods…" He dragged the blade across his palm, drawing a thin red line, grinning as the blood welled. "…sculpt it. They reshape life."
His eyes gleamed. His voice rose, brimming with manic excitement.
"Don't you feel it, son? Don't you feel the greatness of it? This—" his voice cracked into laughter that scraped the walls "—this is art!"
The laughter echoed too long, too loud, like the room itself recoiled from it.
Carl stood and turned to the cage. His steps were slow, deliberate, like a priest approaching an altar. He unlatched the heavy iron door with a screech that grated against the air and pulled it open. Inside, Simon stirred.
The boy—Carl's own brother—was nothing more than skin draped over bone. Naked, his ribs jutted sharp as prison bars. His body bore the map of torment: blackened patches of burned flesh, raw wounds left open to the air, pale scars that twisted like rivers across his skin. A filthy cloth gagged his mouth, soaked with spit and blood. Over his eyes was a blindfold, stained with dark red on either side, the marks of blood weeping from his sockets.
Simon's lips moved beneath the gag, muffling a whisper.
"Hun…gry… hungry…"
It was the only word he knew now, broken into a pathetic chant.
Carl reached in, cupping Simon's head as though holding a child. His fingers stroked the matted, greasy hair with gentleness that felt obscene.
"Brother," Carl cooed, "it's time for painting. Hold on, it won't hurt much."
Lumian's chest tightened. He wanted to vomit, to claw the walls until his fingers broke, but the boy's small body kept him prisoner. He was forced to watch. To live it.
Carl turned his head, locking eyes with the boy. He lifted a glass bottle filled with a clear, faintly shimmering liquid. His grin widened.
"Son," he said proudly, "this is hydrofluoric acid. Let me show you what happens when it touches flesh."
The child's body did not understand, but Lumian inside did. His mind screamed. He knew what hydrofluoric acid could do—it dissolved flesh to the bone, seeped into nerves, ate the body from the inside. Death would be mercy compared to this.
Carl didn't wait. He tilted the bottle and poured its contents onto Simon's bare legs.
The liquid hissed. Flesh sizzled.
Simon screamed, a sound so raw it seemed to tear his throat apart. His body convulsed violently, his back arching until his bones looked ready to snap. The gag muffled it, but nothing could hide the agony. His skin bubbled and sloughed, blistering into grotesque folds as white smoke curled upward.
Carl cheered, clapping his hands like a child at a festival.
"Yes! Yes! Look at him, son! Look how honest pain is! Brother, you are my greatest canvas—my perfect masterpiece!"
Lumian trembled violently. He could feel the boy's terror, the confusion of a child forced to watch his world unravel into nightmare. His small hands shook uncontrollably, fingernails digging into his palms until they broke skin.
The mother broke then. Her voice cracked, raw and jagged with despair.
"Monster!" she screamed. "You damned monster! May God burn you in Hell!"
Carl's grin never faltered. He poured again. More acid. More smoke. More shrieks that died into hoarse wheezing as Simon's strength waned.
Thirty minutes. Maybe more. Time lost meaning in that room.
And when Simon's body finally slumped against the bars, nearly unconscious, Carl crouched and reached for another vial. This one he applied with care, rubbing it across the ruined flesh.
Lumian's breath hitched. He recognized it instantly.
Calcium gluconate.
Carl hummed as he applied it, whistling softly.
"I can't let you die yet, brother. No, no. You're too precious. Too valuable. A dead canvas is useless. But you… oh, you can endure. And endurance is art."
Lumian's insides twisted. He knew—Carl wasn't healing him. He was preserving him. Keeping him alive just enough to continue the torture, to draw out his suffering indefinitely. Death was mercy, and Carl had denied even that.
When he was finished, Carl locked the cage and turned back toward his family. His eyes shone with feverish delight. His lips trembled with anticipation.
The mother's tears streaked her bloodied face. She glared at him with a hatred so deep it seemed it could kill. She remembered every sweet word he had ever spoken when they first met, every promise of love, every laugh they had shared. The man she had once believed in—this creature before her had devoured him.
She spat on him.
Carl paused. Slowly, he wiped the spit from his cheek with his fingers. He examined it, then laughed quietly.
"Still fiery, my dear. That's why I chose you."
His grin widened. He leaned down, his voice dripping with mock affection.
"But now… it's your turn."
---
The woman's breath caught. Her body tensed as Carl's hand gripped her arm and yanked her upward. Pain lanced through her scalp where blood had dried against her hair. She stumbled, nearly collapsing, but Carl dragged her to the center of the room.
Her eyes flickered, just for a moment, to the past. To another time.
She remembered a younger Carl, standing in sunlight, smiling as he held her hand for the first time. He had been charming—gentle even. He had spoken of art then too, but not of flesh or torment. He spoke of colors, of canvases, of painting the world brighter. She had believed him. She had believed his soft words, his promises of protection, his warmth.
She remembered the day she told him she was pregnant. He had held her face, kissed her forehead, whispered, "You've given me a reason to live." She had cried then—tears of joy.
But that man was gone. No—he had never been real. What she loved was a mask. What stood before her now was the truth.
"Monster…" her voice shook, but she forced the words through bloodied lips. "You lied to me. You lied to me every day"
Carl only chuckled. He dragged her toward the table of instruments. One by one, his fingers brushed the blades until he selected a thin, wickedly curved knife. He turned it in the lamplight, admiring the reflection.
"Lies?" His voice was soft, almost pitying. "No, my love. Lies are kindness. I gave you lies so you wouldn't break too soon."
He leaned closer, the knife grazing her cheek, cold enough to sting. His whisper was almost tender.
"And now I'll give you the truth."
The mother closed her eyes as tears streamed down her face. Her last memory of the kind Carl flashed again—the one who had laughed, who had promised her forever. It cut deeper than any blade.
Behind her, Lumian felt the boy's body quake. He wanted to fight, to scream, to throw himself at Carl. But he was frozen—trapped inside frail limbs, forced to watch the man he hated tear apart the fragile pieces of love and memory.
Carl's laughter filled the room once more, mingling with the sobs, with the rattle of chains, with the faint hiss of Simon's burned flesh.
And the lamp flickered again, stretching shadows across the wall like claws, as the nightmare continued.