The Dark Divine - A Tale Of Evil

Accept Hell

Luigi awoke to a warm, damp feeling covering... everything.
He rubbed his face, looking at his hands. He felt a shock of fear as he saw that he, and his bed, was drenched in fresh blood.
He felt his breath grow heavy. His lungs felt like bricks. Shaking, he tried to crawl out of bed. He fell to the floor, turning to avoid hurting himself too badly.
Whimpering, he pulled himself to the doorframe.
"SHOULDN'T YOU BE USED TO THIS? IT'S BEEN FOUR DAYS."
Luigi choked back a sob, cowering.
Tears welled up in his eyes, and they mixed with the blood he was trailing around. As he pulled himself away, he saw a little pool of blood...
Outside the guest room.
He forced himself closer, though he didn't want to.
The pool of blood has a small trail leading to the door.
It was true, then.
His guest bedroom was now a slaughterhouse.
He sat against the wall, finally letting himself cry.
Burying his face into his arms and holding his knees to his chest, he quietly and sadly demanded answers.
He refused to believe the Chaos Heart only wished to torment him.
He wanted to know why, exactly, this was happening.
He cried for around an hour. Eventually, he felt a slight numbness. He couldn't bring himself to keep this up for any longer.
Luigi stood up, deciding to try cleaning the blood off once again.
He attempted to wash the two layers of blood in the shower. Just like when he tried the first time, his tries were in vain.
He wondered how this was happening
Realistically, it would wash off him. It wasn't, though. He stared blankly at the wall for a little while, then accepted that he wouldn't be able to clean it off him, turning the shower off and stepping out.
He sighed, drying off and at least putting on an old t-shirt and sweatpants. At least he wasn't wearing bloody clothes anymore. At least there's that.
He trudged down the stairs, ignoring the presumed hallucinations around him.
He didn't care to pay them much mind.
"I'm not getting out of here...", he grumbled to himself.
He heard the notification for the updates on what was going on outside. He'll read it later.
He leaned onto the arm of the couch, staring at the ceiling. He felt defeated. Maybe it was just because he cried until his mind refused to acknowledge his own emotions that made him care less about this hell. It didn't matter, though. The origin of emotions have no bearing on how real they are.