Death wasn't as terrifying as I once feared.
I had assumed being stabbed in the guts would be excruciating, but maybe because I'm high on endorphins, it's not as bad as I expected?
Or perhaps I'm just numb to pain after enduring the tumor eating away at my brain for the past five years.
Or maybe this pain simply pales in comparison to the time I was tortured by gang members after being abandoned by the snot-nosed brats who were supposed to be my "friends."
The torture itself wasn't something I would call enjoyable. Though the gang certainly seemed to have fun with it.
They pumped my veins full of some strange liquid, which I later learned was steroids. The reason? So I could experience every bit of their "hospitality" without blacking out.
"Haa! Haa!"
For starters, they peeled my face off—cleanly, like removing a mask. The guy who did it could've had a promising career in the arts. It's a shame he fell into this line of work, but he seemed to enjoy it, so good for him, I guess?
"Haa!... please..."
Stab
Fun fact about me: despite being born a slum rat, it seems I had noble blood coursing through my veins. How did I know this despite never meeting my parents? My face. And no, I'm not being narcissistic when I say I was unnaturally good-looking—not just by slum standards, but even by regular society's.
Black hair that never lost it's luster despite living in dirt, fair skin, sharp yet delicate features, deep blue eyes—there was absolutely no chance a face like this could come from the disease-ridden, filth-infested slums.
Stab
"Please..."
One might think such looks were a blessing, but such luxury is a sin in the shithole that was the slum.
Being the dwarf I was due to malnutrition, and my thin, delicate frame only reinforced the illusion that I was a runaway aristocrat girl—despite being a teenage boy who should've been in his prime.
It wasn't all bad since pity often times came my way from kind adults but they were in the rare. Most of the attention I got was... unpleasant. From both women and MEN. People with rather twisted tastes.
Long story short, this face of mine brought far more trouble than fortune. I should've been grateful to the torturer who removed such a liability for me. But being the uncultured brat I was, I just kept screaming, from pain—until my vocals simply broke.
And peeling my face was just the beginning.
They let me choose five fingers to cut off. Twenty options, but I had to pick five. That was nice of them
They poured scalding oil down my back.
Stuffed burning charcoal into my mouth and bound it shut for hours.
Peeled the skin off my chest with a fruit peeler.
They forcefully inserted a hot iron rod in my right eye, crushing it and simultaneously cauterized it.
Despite all that, I was alright.
They amputated my left arm, so I was all right. …No, but seriously, you'd think I would've died from shock alone. Instead, I lived. Not just lived—I remained sane. At least, by my own standards.
Hell, if I'd known they were going to take my left arm anyway, I would've just sacrificed all five fingers from it instead of distributing the damage. Too late for regrets now.
Oh, and by the way, I was only fourteen. Before all this, my worst crime was stealing food from market stalls with my fellow slum rats.
So why did I deserve such cruelty?
Because the gang leader herself once offered me a spot in their ranks. I, being good at reading people, understood that her intentions weren't exactly PG-rated. So I declined—politely, I might add.
Apparently, she didn't take rejection well.
"Please.... die."
Stab
Surprisingly, they never crippled my legs. Instead, they turned me into their personal errand boy—running chores, fetching food and smokes, cleaning toilets. And, of course, being a convenient punching bag whenever someone needed to let off steam.
Looking back, if I was going to end up working for them anyways, maybe I should've just accepted her offer in the first place. But I guess this was her way of making me regret refusing.
My life was a tragedy... until it wasn't.
Not after I took over the gang.
Not after I climbed the underworld ladder and claimed the pinnacle for myself.
Not after my name became feared across the globe at just Twenty-Eight years of age.
I got called many titles over the years—Haunted Doll, Living Undead, Mummy, Grave Walker. But my favorite?
The Devil
Wrapped in bandages from head to toe, with metal prosthetics replacing my left arm and both legs, which by the way I also lost due to an accident, a glass eye replacing my right, a metallic jaw accompanied with the speech synthesizer since my tongue no longer formed words after being burned. I certainly no longer resembled human.
The kind-hearted might call me pitiful, but the general consensus was something closer to fear. Frankly, I couldn't disagree. And my current reputation only reinforced that sentiment.
Anyway, I'd love to tell you the full story of how I reached the top… but I seem to be running out of time.
"DIEEEE!!!"
STAB! STAB! STAB!
Ah right, I completely forgot to introduce this little lady. Quite rude of me to ignore the one person who's keeping me company in my final moments.
It would also be rude to deny the wish of the little miss who has been asking me so earnestly, while holding the rusty kitchen knife firmly against my guts.
She must be one of my many victims. I'd love to apologize, but after being stabbed twenty-three… twenty-four… now twenty-five times makes it difficult to form words even with the speech synthesizer.
How ironic. The Overlord of the underworld—who controlled the many powerful figures across the world with mere gesture—dying in a filthy alley, one identical to the one I was born in.
Fitting.
Even thinking is getting harder. I can feel it. Just seconds away now…
Me, finally freed from this damned world.
And this world, finally freed from the damned me.
I wish I could thank this brave girl—this "Miss Hero," as I'll call her.
Miss Hero, you've done a great service. To both this world and to me.
I'd reward you with all my money—since that's the one thing I never lacked—but your passionate stabs make it difficult to tell you how to access my secret vaults. Shame. I miss my secretary in times like this.
Still, I hope you found the satisfaction you sought.
All I can offer is my thanks.
To you, Miss Hero—you saved the world. May you have a life far better than mine.
To the friends who abandoned me all those years ago—fuck you.
To my parents—I hope abandoning me never made you feel guilty. Because that would just piss me off.
To my secretary—honestly, you're the only person I'm kind of sad to leave behind. Maybe spending so much time with you made me unconsciously form a connection. You were my only close human bond, even if it was mostly just business.
To Shiro, my dog and my one true friend, I hope you move on from me quickly and get blessed with better owners.
And lastly, to the world—may you, or any world for that matter, never again suffer the plague that was me.
I, too, am tired of living.
So let this be the end.
Yours sincerely, Caspian.
...
Was letting me rest in the afterlife really too much to ask?