Kail wondered how long it had been since his capture, how long it had been since he’d last seen the sun. Day and night held no meaning for him, who counted by the cycles of pleasure and pain. His mind was sluggish, muddled in a dreary haze, his thoughts tired and fuzzy. He no longer had energy enough to think, only to feel. He felt the pleasure then the voice rewarded him and the fear when he was punished. He felt the satisfaction when he did as commanded, and the pain when he resisted. He no longer fought the voice, for he no longer had the strength nor the will to do so. He questioned why he resisted, questioned why he sought out the pain. He questioned why it was worth living if death hurt less.

The voice teased him, it held him in contempt. It taunted him for his strength and whispered for him to let go. Each night he held on longer through the pain, each day he wondered why he held through the bliss. It was a slow seduction, one that ate away at his mind and ate away at his spirit.

Longer and longer he hung on that rope, dangled on that small sliver. But his hand was slipping, his grip growing weak. Those whispers chipped away at him, like waves against a rocky shore, and every passing moment threatened to sweep him away.

He did not know the meaning of reality any longer, when time was eternally dark and he was alone but for his thoughts. The pain hurt his body, but it did not strike his soul. The whispers did that enough, and they would not leave him. When he was being whipped, when he was being branded and flayed, he hid himself in a corner of his mind. He left his body behind, a body that was broken beyond repair. But he could not hide from the whispers that were always with him. They mocked his resolve and told him to let go. They told him to stop struggling. They promised peace. They promised salvation.

He would have broken long ago, had it not been for a child, perhaps real, perhaps not. He could not tell, for his sight had been stolen from him and his senses were forever scarred. To him, the child sounded a small boy, perhaps five or six in years. He cleaned Kail’s body and healed his wounds. He fed Kail water and food. He cared for Kail, and he gave Kail strength.

The boy was small and had never seen the world. He had a sister, a year younger, that filled his heart with pride. They were orphans in the darkness, and she his light. He sheltered her and cared for her, just as he did for Kail. The boy was a kind soul, not innocent but still pure. He asked Kail about the outside, about the sun. He asked about the stars and he asked about the moon. He dreamed of the grass under his toes and the wind on his face. The child was pure, and in that purity Kail found strength.

Each time the child came, he would tell Kail about his dreams. He would tell Kail about a future on the surface, where there was no need to hide. A future where there was no need to run. He told Kail about his sister, who he loved with all his heart. And Kail loved the boy, for the boy was like him.

And so the seasons turned, and so his heart withered. The cycles of pain and euphoria, the cycles of wanting and hating. He felt the pleasure in the voice, and he felt the need in his body. He felt the bliss from his sin and he felt the disgust from his weakness. He felt the corruption growing around him, felt the light in his heart fading. And yet he was still not broken. The voice that whispered did so because he fought. The voice that whispered did so because he struggled. The voice that whispered did so because his heart did not break, because did spirit remained.

The child gave that to him, the strength from its hope. The child gave him strength from its wonder, from its dreams of a better future. The child gave him strength to hang on, for the child believed in him. The child believed in Kail, even though he was broken and mangled. The child believed in Kail, even though he was weak and feeble. The child believed in Kail, even though Kail hated himself. He hated the pain. He hated the darkness. He hated the voices and their words. He loved the pleasure and the bliss, he loved the craving and the need, and he hated himself for it. But the child did not hate him. The child believed in him. Kail loved the boy, for he reminded him that he was not alone.

In the lonely hours when it was silent, in the dark times when his heart weeped, Kail found solace from the boy’s companionship. He found happiness in his laugh, he found joy in his pride. Without him, he would have been broken. Without him, he would be shattered. The boy’s wishes were his own. His hopes and dreams were Kail’s. The boy was his love. The boy was his heart.

The boy was his star, his light in the darkness. The voices loved him for it, for the seeds of sin and vice had been planted. It is well known that every seed needs some light to bud.

I know not what drives this burning hunger, what would satiate it. Yet I cannot turn back not, I cannot ever return to what was before. There is blood on my hands, and He feeds me more and more. Yet their corpses never allay my appetite, serving only to further the raging storm that swells inside my chest. More, and I grow. More, and my children spew forth. The madness grips me in my throes, and I lose myself to this ruination. What will it take to end this—this curse?

For his entire life, the darkness was all that the boy had known. He was born there and it was what had greeted him each day. He did not have parents nor friends, only a sister that he loved with all his heart. For as long as he could remember, they had been together. When their masters came to torture them, he had protected her. When she was starving, he gave her his meager food. He loved her more than his own wretched life. They had both been born to this wretched hell; they both were bound to it.

It was then one day that she was taken from him. He woke to find her gone. His heart broke then, for he no longer found a purpose to live. His masters approached him, promising her return if he did as they asked. He agreed, for even his life meant nothing to him if he could not protect her. They led him to a room that reeked of blood and death. Metal hooks hung on the walls and dried blood caked the stone. There in front of him lay a hunk of flesh, no longer a man, but not quite a corpse. With every breath it convulsed in pain, with every movement agony. Its flesh writhed and twisted as it knit itself together, smoke billowing as the god’s ichor did its work. The boy’s heart went out to the thing, which knew only of suffering and only of pain. It felt strange to feel pity for something, to he on the other end of that all-too-familiar blade.

His masters gave him their will then, for they ordered him to care for the dying man, to give him companionship. They had him scrape the caked blood off its flesh and wash the broken skin. They had him feed it water through cracked lips and shovel cold gruel into its mouth. He put salve on its wounds and bandaged the cuts. He spoke mindlessly as he worked, talking about the only thing he knew of: his sister. Each day, he cared for the mangled body until slowly, it began to resemble a man in his eyes.

It took many long days of care until it spoke to him at last, and even then it seemed delirious. Even so, the boy loved the creature who was always in pain. Once, the boy asked him about who he was and where he came from, and the creature told him about the surface. The notion filled the boy with wonder, the boy who had only ever known the darkness. The creature told him stories about wonderous things. It told him about balls of light in the sky so bright that it hurt to look at. It told him of tiny stars that twinkled, and a moon that shone gently in the night. It told him of forests and rivers, of mountains and valleys. It told him tales of adventure, stories of old about knights and valor. It told him stories of castles and glory, of princesses and treasure. The boy wanted to see it for himself, this surface. He wanted to see these wonders before his own eyes.

Each night, he left having healed and cleaned the man, and each morning he returned to find him caked with blood once more. He did not ask questions, for his masters would not want him to do so. Healing was the most he could do to help the man, and so he did it all that he could. It pained him to watch wounds cover the creature, and he wondered if he was even helping. He questioned if it would be kinder to let the man die, but he could not find it in him to do so.

One day he came too early, hearing voices behind the door. He stood there in waiting, uncertain and nervous. It was the mistress’s voice, quiet and sweet. She was whispering to the man, telling him to let go, telling him to stop struggling. He heard the cracks of the whip and the sound of tearing flesh. He smelled the drug in the air, and he realized when she was doing. It was fireweed, the sweet scent that followed her wherever she went. The drug dampened emotion and thought, heightening the senses. He knew, for he had seen her use it. Men became reduced to mere husks as they grew addicted to the flower. And the boy shed tears at the thought of the man facing it every night, at the image of that battered creature broken in the mind.

The boy knew then what he could do to help. That night while he bandaged the man’s wounds, he asked again about the surface. He asked about the stars and the sunlight, and he asked about the stories of old. He promised to take the man there, promised that the future would hold better. The boy knew that he could not stop the pain, that he could not heal the man’s wounded soul. But he could give him hope.

When he lay before him, broken and crying, the boy could give him strength. The boy could not save the man, he could only ease his pain. If he could not see in the darkness, if he was drowning in despair, the boy would give him light, he would give him hope. It was the least that he could do. It was all that he could do for him. For the boy loved the man with all his heart, just as he loved his sister. It was the purest of love—the love a child gives to a mother, the only kind of love a child knows.

The boy had no way of knowing that the hope he gave was all that kept the man going. He had no way of knowing the frayed rope the man clutched, the single string that was running out. The light in the dark that the boy gave was all that held together his broken soul. But the darkness was unending, and the light slowly extinguished in the face of it.

I know now that all is lost. My heart is but a shriveled thing, too broken and weary to continue. Too long have I been fighting, with nothing to show for it but a ruined soul. Even now, the hunger closes in on my sanity. My hunger, irrepressible and incorrigible. It swallows my every thought, and in the end, when I have succumbed and the need abates, I am left marred and blighted by guilt. When—

When did I become a monster?