The air was heavy with the scent of rot and rust. The walls wept with moisture, the stone slick and black. Every drop that fell from the ceiling echoed in the stillness, counting down the last moments of his life. Stygian Lorsch sat against the wall, wrists chained, body wasted from hunger. His skin was dark and dry, having withered slightly and slowly over months without sun, clinging to his bones. His hair hung in tangled ropes across his face, his beard uneven and rough. His eyes, once sharp, were now sunk deep in sadness.
He had forgotten how many days had passed. The guards had stopped coming except to toss him moldy bread. When they looked at him, they no longer saw a man, only a body waiting to die. The thought didn't scare him. Not anymore. No one would mourn him. His father had sold him for coin before he even reached manhood. Said he was a mouth he couldn't afford to feed. The mines took what was left of his childhood, the whip taught him silence, and the streets taught him theft. When the prison guards caught him, they called him a rat, a thief, a stain. He had no reason to argue. Now all he had was his thoughts and time.
"Give me mercy, I beg of you, death."
"I've grown tired of this existence, and I wish to see mother again."
Stygian cries out into his putrid cell.
"Shut up and get up, boy. It's time to get rid of you."
A guard bellows in a deep, rugged voice, jolting Stygian for a brief moment.
Stygian looks up to see the end's messenger and gains a spark in his eyes that he once thought had vanished. The guard unlocks the cell and roughly raises Stygian by his sickly thin arm, almost popping it by the joint in the process. He is then dragged up worn grey brick stairs and meekly moves from a crawl to a limp, as sunlight kisses his face, then his shoulders, then his bare stomach, and then his rat-bitten feet. The sun felt ethereal and comforting to his wounded body and soul. He loved this feeling and never wanted it to disappear; it was too brief for him to enjoy, and he was brought back down from his short-lived peace back into reality as he looked in sorrow at where he was to be decapitated. It was scary and heart-wrenching for him every step he took to the guillotine, knowing that he hadn't experienced what life had to offer, being that he was only 16 years of age. His death wasn't even worth scornful eyes, as there were barely any onlookers of Grim's crude work.
His head was slammed onto the chopping arc of the guillotine and kept steady from squirming by the executioner's dirty shoes. He and three other prisoners were readied for their demise, that being they were an old man and a young girl who looked to be 10 years old. This analysis shocked Stygian, widening his eyes in disgust, anger, and shock, giving him enough energy to...
"SHE'S JUST A CHILD, WHAT CRIME CAN POSSIBLY WARRANT THIS LITTLE GIRL'S DEATH! RELEASE HER!"
He screams at the top of his lungs in fury.
"Shut it, boy, and ready your neck for the justice of your crimes!"
The guard shouts in Stygian's ear as spit flies at his face, and the man presses harder on his struggling, resistant neck.
"Ready the choppers, men! Justice to our Gods!"
The man yells as he readies the large metal chopping piece to the crossbar of the death device. It peaks far and glitters from the sunlight, ready to slice flesh. Stygian struggles as he grinds his teeth and desperately tries to free himself from his restraints.
"RELEASE!"
The executioner shouts to his men, releasing the chopping piece, as it slides down with a grotesque ferocity. Stygian, who was wholly ready for his death and cared for nothing else for his entire imprisonment, wanted to live in the end and begged his body to save him, but it was all for nothing. SLSCHKK. Time slows, and Stygian's head falls from its support almost blissfully as his eyes look on in despair, falling through the air into a thatch basket, fading his consciousness to eigengrau. As soon as his eyes closed, a new pair opened into a black void that was not only infinite but weighed heavily on the spirit. Is this the afterlife? Or just the brain playing a trick on Stygian in his final moments? He doesn't know, and a glistening tear sheds from his eyes, dropping into nothingness.
"Welcome"
A bellowing and grainy voice touches Stygian's ear, startling him as he does not know where it is coming from or what it even means, as he is still shocked at the state he is currently in. He can't help but follow where it came from as he somehow and confusingly moves forward without any legs, as he is just a disembodied pair of eyes moving through a disorienting void of darkness.