Beneath The Surface

Act 1 - There's no such thing as 'loved ones'.

Normal text
Thinking
Onomatopoeia

Astaroth's POV
Astaroth blinked, staring face to face with a blackout window. She looked down and found herself sitting on a chair. Well, 'sitting' was a bit too far-fetched for the current situation. Maybe strapped here with a couple of knives embedded in her flesh while waiting to be tortured to death would be a more apt description. Her eyes watered from the stabbing sensation that's plaguing her entire body, a biological reaction most normal living things had to pain and suffering.

But am I normal?

Astaroth observed her cuffed hands on the armrests with interest. Thick steel shackles wrapped around her wrists tightly, not allowing for any movements. Not even a wriggle of the wrists. They were firmly taped down. Her legs weren't pardoned from all this torture either. They're also given the same treatment.

She remembered her past weak self, screaming and begging for mercy. Naively tugging at these metal shackles, thinking that it would magically break apart if she tried hard enough. But there's no such thing as fairy tales in real life as evident from the deep gashes on her wrists, remnants of her futile struggle. The rusty shackles cut through her skin, revealing flesh that had long turned black due to infection. But she's still stuck here. Nothing changed.

She casually clenched and unclenched her fists, sending sharp jabs of pain surging from her wrists to the rest of her nervous system. But she didn't cry. Didn't even shout. Far from it. A relaxed smile was plastered across Astaroth's face. As if she's relishing the idea of pain attacking her consciousness. A very different reaction to her past self.

Well, I guess it's because I'm wiser now.

Astaroth no longer screamed like before. Don't get her wrong. It's not like she had suddenly attained godhood and transcended beyond the realm of frail mortals. She could still feel pain. Well, her body could. But her brain doesn't seem to be registering that elusive feeling anymore. It's more... muted. Like how humans don't flinch when ants bite them. So Astaroth didn't know what's the point of even crying. It's just a small thing. Why blow it out of proportion when it's only a little skin being scraped off? It's not like the end of the world or anything.

*Hehehe. That's because you're not normal, my little Asta.*

Why are you here in a dream too?

This same annoying voice. It appeared around this time in her life too. When she's stuck entertaining a bunch of clowns. At first, Astaroth thought that she must have gone insane from being skinned alive so she didn't answer it. But as time went on and the deep raspy voice continued talking to her, egging her to eat everyone in this godforsaken place, she decided to humour it. Surprisingly, her hallucination replied back to her. So she had been spending time getting to know her brain a little more. Only to find out a few weeks later that this voice was the consciousness of the sticky black, seemingly alive, substance those bastards had injected into her as a welcoming gift on her initiation day. It had somehow grown a mind of its own. One that's separate from her own identity.

*I'm a part of you. So wherever you are, I will naturally be there. Even if it's in a dream.*

Sounds like a stalker.

*Not crying for help?*

No point when there's no one here to see it.

Astaroth calmly sat on the death chair, wondering when those hooded folks would get their act together and finally end her. She's tired of living in this dull and boring world. A place without her sister. Her perfect goddess.

She leisurely leaned back on the chair and stared at the glaring light strips hanging on the ceiling. Because of these things, she hadn't seen or felt the warm rays of sunlight in a very long time.