Chapter Text
“The lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:18
Here sits the boy. He is thin and feeble. He sits alone on an old wooden chair in a room of endless darkness. Chains bind his wrists and ankles and have rubbed the skin into calluses. Above him, a lightbulb hangs on a lonely wire. It’s always on. Its glow reaches only the boy’s shoulders and the top of his feet. The air is thick with something. Dense dust and a stench of rot. All the walls are hidden by the dark. It makes an endless void around him—an illusion of infinity. The floor is made of cracked concrete; it stretches out only a few metres before it becomes part of the void, too.
Matted hair masks the boy’s face; he is stripped of all clothing. His bare skin is stained with remnants of yesterday’s blood and filth. Beneath his chair is a metal bucket, shallowly filled with feces that fall through a hole in the seat. Flies would come through the iron pipes above to feast if left too long. Each of the boy’s breaths fogs in the cold like smoke, but they carry no life. The boy has no memory of his past. No beginning, mother or voice. Doesn’t know how he was born, nor that he was. This is the only place of familiarity; he’s been here longer than his mind could reach. His knowledge extends only to his name and the mere fact that the room he’s in is dark. He does not know he’s suffering.
There’s a short flight of stairs that leads up to a wooden door. Up there the devil lives—but in truth, he’s only a man.
Every day, the man fumbles with his keys. Always missing the lock on his first try because he’s always drunk. The door creaks open. Harsh light seeps through, silhouetting a man. It shrouds him in luminescence. His shadow stretches and distorts along the concrete floor, swallowing what little blessing of light the boy has. Then the door shuts. The man descends the stairs; every board creaks under his weight. As he grows closer, he starts to sing. Arms sway over his head and out to his sides. He dances with soul. As his feet touch the ground, he goes silent. And takes a few tender steps into the light.
The drunk is fat and old—thick wrists and heavy hands. His stomach droops over his beltline, and his shirt is too small to hide the greased hair on his chest. A grey box dangles from his right hand; he sets it by the boy’s feet with a hollow thud.
Then the man sings again.
“I’m back~”
His voice is sickly sweet and thorned. A melody dipped in poison. His fingers trace the contours of the boy’s jaw, tilting his head up. “Of course I am. I’d never leave you alone for too long.”
The boy says nothing back—he never does. Those words are a distant echo of a nightmare endured far too many times. It has lost meaning to him, but he never thinks of it in that way. It is a task of reflection that he is not capable of.
“Quiet as usual, huh?” The man kneels on one leg. He pokes the boy’s forehead. He never bothers to cut his nails. Each jab leaves a tiny divot in the boy’s skin. The boy makes no response.
“Yeah… as usual,” the man sighs and stands up. Disappointment is heavy in his tone. He looks up at the ceiling and reminisces on older days.
“This used to be so much fun,” he grumbles, “You used to scream as soon as I opened the door.” Reveries take up much of his time. “Now, you don’t do anything.”
The boy says nothing.
“You sit here, silent like a fucking doll. It’s boring.” The silence hurts his pride. It cuts like a knife, going deeper into the same wound—boredom. No matter how he changes his methods, the boy never does anything new. The boy is as unfeeling as a corpse. There is no sign of life other than the boy’s breath.
The drunk scoffs and slurs, “Whatever… at least you make me money.” It’s the bargain he tells himself; a fragile illusion of control. The boy has far more power than he does. Neither of them realises this. The man keeps talking to prove he still exists. But the boy has learned, far in the back of his mind, not to indulge him.
The man’s eyes drift to a trolley in the corner. Dusty surgical tools—scalpels, tweezers, scissors—lay in a tangled heap. On the lower shelf, a metal tank bows the plate beneath it. A short hose is crudely coiled around the valve. He grabs it by the handle and drags it along the concrete. The wheels screech in agony because they were too broken to roll, and they leave behind a scratched trail.
It is brought to the boy’s side. The man sifts his hands through the clattering tools until he finds what he wants. A rusted scalpel. He spins and twirls it in his fingers. A long time ago, he was a butcher. The tip of the blade kisses the boy’s cheek and slides across. A thin line of red wells up. Only one bead of blood slips free before it is sealed.
“Anything you want to say now?” the drunk asks.
Nothing.
“Say something.”
Still, nothing.
“SAY SOMETHING!!” He snaps. Specks of spit land on the boy’s face. He reeks of alcohol and cigarettes. He tangles a fist in the boy’s hair and yanks him forward. The chair lurches. Chains snap taut, preventing him from getting too close—but the man closes the distance with his face. And yet, the boy still says nothing.
“You know what? I don’t care! I don’t. I…” He loses himself completely. In anger, he plunges the scalpel into the boy’s chest, just below his throat, and drags it down. Flesh splits and ribs crack. The blade carves him open.
“SAY SOMETHING! YOU STUPID FUCKING CHILD!” He drives the blade down until there’s no flesh left to split. Blood runs down the boy’s legs, pooling at his chained feet. He doesn’t cry or flinch. No hitch in his breath. The man panted like a rabid dog, eyes wide and frenzied.
He cannot accept it — that whatever made these moments thrilling died long ago.
The drunk lets out a slow exhale and releases the boy’s hair. The chair rocks back. Chains slacken. He catches his breath and reaches for the trolley. This time, he takes a pair of scissors. Everything inside the boy is out to see, from the bones to the heart. The man places a machine inside the boy—a large rib spreader. Used to keep the flesh apart in surgeries. He snips the tissue around the heart and drops it into the grey box. The box is lined with ice packs to keep everything cool and fresh. The man repeats the process for all the other organs until the boy is hollow. Only then does he remove the machine.
Still, all is silent, save for the dripping of blood.
The man snaps the box shut, flipping the latches to lock it. When the man looks back at the boy, the organs inside of him are already regrowing. It’s long before his skin seals itself shut, too. The drunk found it fascinating for a while, but watching it repeatedly, it lost its marvel.
“I have to hand it to you, your regeneration quirk is… amazing,” the man muses. Placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re unbreakable now, aren’t ya? You can just deal with the pain! Without flinching. Like it doesn’t exist, hell, after all this time, maybe it doesn’t anymore.” His weak hand slides up the boy’s neck and cups his cheek.
“But I’ll always exist. No matter what, I’ll always come back for you because I care for you!” His lips grow close to the boy’s ears, and he whispers into them softly. “I’m the only one who could ever care for you. You’re broken. Unfeeling. No one is capable of caring for you, because you are not human anymore.”
The boy says nothing. The man scoffs. Shoving the boy’s face aside. He grabs the box and stumbles up the stairs. Flinging the door open, unleashing the flood of light back in.
“Remember this,” he pauses. “You’re mine, Ambrose. And no one will love a broken thing like you.”
He slams the door. The lock clicks, and the boy is sealed away. It’s quiet again.
Except for the dripping of blood.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound swells until it is almost a voice.
“Ambrose?”
Nothing registers, but he can hear it.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
“Ambrose!”