Resident Evil Oneshots

My torturer

The stone walls of Castle Dimitrescu were thick with age, coated in centuries of grime and moss that thrived in the shadows. The air in the dungeon was damp and cold, so cold that it seemed to seep into your very bones, making your skin feel as though it had turned to ice. Chains clanked softly in the corners, the only sound in the oppressive silence apart from the occasional distant drip of water. It was a place built for suffering, for despair, and in that moment, as you sat chained to the wall, you felt every bit of its oppressive weight. You had messed up. Messed up badly. The details of how you had ended up here were a blur now—an unfortunate series of events, one wrong move after another, leading you straight into the clutches of Castle Dimitrescu and its fearsome inhabitants. You had heard stories, of course, whispered tales of the horrors that lurked within the castle's walls, but you had never imagined you'd experience them firsthand. And yet, here you were, a prisoner in the dungeon, waiting for what felt like an inevitable end. But death would be a mercy, you knew that much. The real torture was the waiting, the anticipation of what was to come. The knowledge that every day, without fail, she would come. Lady Bela. The first time she had appeared before you, you had been struck by her beauty. She was the eldest of the Dimitrescu daughters, with piercing eyes that seemed to see right through you, and a presence that commanded fear and reverence in equal measure. Her pale skin and delicate features belied the cruelty that lay beneath. And cruel she was—crueller than you could have ever imagined. The door to the dungeon creaked open, the sound echoing ominously off the stone walls. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in your chest as the familiar figure stepped into the dim light. Lady Bela moved with the grace of a predator, her long, flowing gown trailing behind her like a shadow. She carried with her a tray of instruments—blades, needles, and other devices whose purposes you didn't want to imagine. She said nothing as she approached, her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. The silence was part of her torture, the way she toyed with your mind as much as your body. You were nothing to her—a plaything, a means to an end. She didn't care about your pain, didn't care about your screams. To her, you were simply a way to pass the time. The first cut was always the worst. She took her time, her movements slow and deliberate as she selected her tools. A small blade, razor-sharp and gleaming in the dim light, was her weapon of choice today. She pressed it to your skin, and you flinched at the coldness of the metal. You could feel your pulse quickening, the panic rising in your chest, but there was nothing you could do. The chains held you firmly in place, leaving you at her mercy.

"Are you afraid?"

she asked, her voice soft and lilting, almost gentle. It was a mockery of concern, a twisted parody of comfort. You didn't answer, couldn't answer. Your throat was dry, your mouth parched from hours, days, who knew how long, of imprisonment. All you could do was stare at her, the fear evident in your eyes. She smiled wider, as if pleased by your silence, and pressed the blade into your skin. The pain was immediate, sharp and searing, and you couldn't help the cry that escaped your lips. She didn't stop, didn't even hesitate, as she dragged the blade across your flesh, carving into you with an almost artistic precision.

"Shh,"

she whispered, her voice a breath against your ear.

"You'll only make it worse for yourself."

Tears pricked at your eyes, the pain overwhelming, but you forced yourself not to scream. It would do no good. She enjoyed it when you screamed, thrived on it. So you bit down on your lip, tasting blood, and fought to keep the sound trapped in your throat. The hours passed in a haze of pain and fear, every moment stretching on into an eternity. Lady Bela worked methodically, her expression calm and serene as she tortured you. There was no rage in her movements, no hatred. This was simply who she was—a creature of cruelty, bred for this very purpose. By the time she was finished, your body was a canvas of cuts and bruises, each one a testament to her skill. You slumped against the wall, your strength gone, the chains the only thing keeping you upright. The pain was a dull, throbbing ache now, a constant reminder of your suffering. Lady Bela stood before you, her eyes cold and distant as she wiped the blood from her hands.