The Sin Of Loving Too Much

Chapter Two My Descent Into Hell Part 3

The darkness continued to be my only companion until he returned. Again, each time, more eager than the last.

I could hear the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps outside my cell, the faint tapping of his tablet. That sound had become the rhythm of my existence. It was synonymous with what came next, the tests, the violation of my body, the invasive prying into the depths of my flesh.

The tapping stopped, the barrier opened, and there he was. Always the same. Always with that detached expression, his amber eyes bright with hunger. But today, there was something different. Something sharper.

"Subject 1479," he greeted me, his voice carrying that same practiced, false warmth. "We meet again. I've been thinking about you, you know."

How many times had he said those same words? I could no longer tell. He had told me he was thinking of me a thousand times before, and each time his voice carried the same emptiness—a hollow echo of curiosity mixed with hunger.

He stepped closer to my cell, tapping the glowing glyphs embedded into the walls, watching with fascination as they flared briefly before settling. His fingers moved with precision, flicking across his tablet as he prepared for another session.

"I think we've reached an interesting point in our... relationship," he mused, glancing at me as if I were a puzzle he was still trying to solve. "Do you know what that point is?"

I had heard this too before—this preamble to the test. I remained silent. There was nothing left to say to him. My words had been stripped from me long ago, torn away by the centuries of agony.

"Your silence speaks volumes," he chuckled softly, the sound cold and clinical. The same line—repeated again and again, as if he still found some satisfaction in it. "But that's alright. I'm patient. I've waited this long."

He tapped the tablet again, and the shackles around my wrists and ankles sprang to life, snapping closed and dragging me to the center of the cell. The cold metal bit into my skin, but it didn't matter anymore. This pain it caused was just... background noise now.

But I could see it in his eyes—the way they lit up when the chains snapped into place, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly as he keyed in more commands. He was getting more and more addicted to this. To the sight of my body breaking, regenerating, and breaking again.

"You know," he began, pacing in front of the cell, "most of my subjects don't survive long enough for me to really get to know them. Their bodies fail. Their minds break. But you..." He paused, and his lips curled into a slow smile. "You're different."

He had said it before. Every few sessions, he'd comment on my resilience, his voice filled with fascination.

He leaned closer, as if whispering some secret. "I can cut you open. Burn you. Tear you apart piece by piece, and you'll always come back." He sighed, a sound that carried a perverse satisfaction. "It's... intoxicating, really. Watching your body heal itself after the most unimaginable damage. It's like watching a work of art in reverse."

He stepped back, eyeing me, his lips curling upward.

"You never speak anymore," he said, almost wistfully. "I remember when you used to scream, do you remember those days?" He smiled as if the memory was fond to him. "The pleas, the desperation... You thought you could make it end, didn't you?"

I stared at him, my expression blank. His words were just noise—a familiar drone that barely reached me.

"But now, it's different." He tilted his head, studying me, the light in his eyes glowing with excitement. "You've stopped caring. And now... now I think we're finally getting somewhere."