" I'm sor-"
"DON'T, JUST DON'T SAY IT. YOU DO NOT EVEN DESERVE TO SAY IT AFTER WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME! I BEGGED YOU, SCREAMED AND PLEAD, BUT YOU DIDN'T HEED MY WORDS. THEN WHY SHOULD I!"
I yelled with tears streaming down my face when witnessing m...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The basement reeks of damp stone and blood, a suffocating pit where despair clings to the walls like rot. Jeeva's screams tear through the air, raw and jagged, clawing at my ears. Each cry bounces off the concrete, but it does nothing to soften the iron in my heart. Years of torment, years of watching Sharmila waste away, her spirit shattered by the sins of others, have forged me into something unyielding, something cruel. Jeeva, my stepbrother, chained to a rusted chair in the center of this forsaken hole, is the key to the truth. I'll carve it out of him, piece by agonizing piece.
"You think screaming will save you?" My voice is low, a growl that slithers through the dim light. I loom over him, my shadow a monstrous specter against the flickering bulb above. "After everything you and that bastard Alexander, our so called father, forced upon us? Upon me, upon Sharmila, upon our family?"
Jeeva's head slumps, blood dripping from a gash above his brow, painting his face in crimson streaks. His chest heaves, but his eyes, those damned defiant eyes, gleam with something that isn't fear. Not yet. I can still see the smugness, the same arrogance he and Alexander wielded like a whip, lashing at us until we bled. They dragged me into this underworld, this cesspool of violence and deceit, when all I wanted was peace for my family. They tormented Sharmila, my little sister, until her laughter turned to silence, her eyes hollowed by their cruelty. They broke her, and for that, Jeeva will pay.
My fingers twitch, aching to crush the life from him. But death is too kind. I want answers. I want him to feel the weight of every sin he's committed, to drown in the same anguish he's inflicted. I reach into my coat and pull out a thick wax candle, its wick charred from past use. Striking a match, I watch the flame hiss to life, then hold it to the wick until it catches. The candle's glow casts grotesque shadows across Jeeva's battered body.
I tilt the candle over his thigh. Hot wax drips onto his skin, sizzling as it meets flesh. His body jerks, a choked scream ripping from his throat. The wax hardens, a grotesque seal on his thigh, and I wait, letting it cool. Then, with slow deliberation, I peel the hardened wax away, tearing at the raw skin beneath. His screams grow hoarse, but they're not enough. I press the candle back to the same spot, letting the flame bite deeper, the heat searing into his flesh. His cries become a symphony of desperation, but my heart stays cold.
"You think this is pain?" I hiss, leaning close enough for him to feel my breath. "You don't know pain. Not like I do. Not like Sharmila does. Do you remember her screams, Jeeva? When you and Alexander locked her in that room, let your men taunt her, threaten her? Do you remember how she begged for mercy, and you laughed?"
His eyes flicker, but he says nothing. The memories burn hotter than any flame: Jeeva's betrayals, the deals struck in shadowed rooms, the blood on our hands. Alexander, that tyrant, molded us into his pawns, but Jeeva embraced it, reveled in it. He thrived on our suffering, on Sharmila's tears, on my futile pleas to be free of this darkness. They forced me to dirty my hands, to spill blood I never wanted to touch, all while they laughed at my resistance.
