There is an ancient saying that goes:
"Expect the worst, and hope for the best."
Yet even those who brace for the worst often crumble when it finally arrives.
Expecting the worst doesn't make the pain any less real when it comes.
Just like Adriel.
He hadn't merely expected the pain. He had braced for it—welcomed it, even.
And yet, he made the fatal mistake of underestimating it—by a margin so wide it could split the heavens.
As he plunged both index fingers into his eyes, he felt his fingertips break through the soft membranes of his eyeballs.
He felt it all.
A hot, wet burst gushed from his eyes as his fingers sank in—thick, jelly-like fluid mixed with warm blood oozed down his cheeks.
The moment he pierced deeper, a white-hot surge of pain detonated through his skull, like lightning tearing through bone and brain.
Every nerve screamed—a storm of agony tearing through him, blinding, raw, and unforgiving.
But his scream never came.
Instead, his mouth hung open in a silent, agonized gape as raw, white-hot pain exploded behind his face.
His vision didn't go black immediately.
No—he watched it crack.
The world shattered like blood-smeared glass, fractures crawling outward from the center of his vision. Red. Black. Flashes.
Then—nothing.
Just pulsating, maddening darkness.
But he kept pushing.
His fingers went deeper—but then they stopped.
Bone.
They struck the orbital plate—that thin layer just above the sinus, the one barrier between his eyes and his brain.
It didn't break.
It wouldn't.
Not with fingers.
All he did was mash nerves and flesh against bone—pressing them into an unyielding wall.
And the pain—
The pain.
His body convulsed.
His jaw clenched so hard that his teeth nearly cracked.
Blood poured freely from the gaping mess of his eye sockets—warm and thick—trailing down his cheeks like tears forged from molten iron.
He tried to scream.
His breath hitched.
Then came out as a gurgled sob.
His arms trembled violently as every instinct begged—begged him to stop.
But he didn't.
He had never expected this.
He thought all he had to do was pierce the eyes and his fingers would reach the brain directly—causing instant death.
He expected a swift death, just like in the movies.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
He tried to break through the bone, desperately hoping it was one of the soft ones in the human body.
He dug deeper, pressed harder—hoping, praying—that the bone would give way.
It didn't.
All he did was grind ruined tissue against the skull. He could feel it.
The slimy friction.
The pop of torn muscle.
The raw scraping of cartilage.
He was blind now, but the images of agony were etched into the back of his mind like a curse.
Nothing.
No death. No mercy.
Just pain.
Unimaginable. Soul-breaking.
Every nerve in his face screamed.
And the pain didn't fade when he withdrew his fingers.
It only grew sharper—a relentless storm raging behind his destroyed eyes.
A savage, pulsing throb echoed through the hollow spaces behind his sockets, as if a thousand jagged needles were twisting with every heartbeat.
His vision was gone, but in its place came waves of nausea and pressure—like his brain was trying to swell and collapse at the same time.
Each breath sent fresh lightning through his skull.
A pounding headache throbbed like a hammer behind his temples, each pulse sending ripples of searing pressure through his neck and jaw.
It felt as if his brain was swelling—pressing painfully against the confines of his skull, begging for release.
He couldn't even cry if he wanted to.
His eyes were gone—destroyed beyond comprehension.
The taste of blood filled his mouth.
Not just from his eyes—his nose had started bleeding too.
A river of red poured from his face, dripping down his chin, soaking his shirt, painting his trembling hands in crimson.
He had failed.
Even now—with everything he had—he couldn't die.
Not like this.
Not even like this.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Somehow, those despairing sounds of his footsteps bypassed the pain and reached his brain—subtly reminding him that it wasn't over... and that time was running out.
But he didn't even have time to think.
The pain flooded him like a furious river, giving him no space to breathe.
'I want to die…'
He walked, his pace eerily regular. Blood, mixed with other essential fluids, poured out from the empty sockets that once housed his eyes.
'Please… just end it,' he cried inside.
But no one answered him.
There was no help coming.
The only thing that kept him company was the desolate silence—and the accursed sound of his footsteps.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He kept walking.
The footsteps he once hated—now the last thread holding his sanity together.
The pain filled every inch of his mind.
He felt like he was being introduced to pain for the first time—in both lives.
He tried to listen to the sound of his footsteps.
Tried to ignore the pain.
But… he couldn't deny that it was there.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He listened—each tap slowly drawing him away from the mind-breaking torment.
He didn't know how long it took—maybe seconds, maybe centuries.
Time had lost all meaning.
But finally, he could think.
He had adapted.
Adapted to the horrifying pain.
He could finally think—not clearly, but enough.
And all he could think about… was how to end it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
'Fuck… I need to die.'
His mind raced, furiously scanning for a way out—for death.
He didn't care if it would be painful.
He just wanted it to end.
Then—an idea came.
An ironic ray of hope shining through the darkness.
'What if I die through blood loss?' he thought, uncertainly.
It would be painful.
Slow.
But at least it would end.
Using the last of his will, he brought his left wrist to his mouth, teeth bared like an animal cornered by fate.
No hesitation.
No thought.
Just desperation.
Then he bit down.
No—
He tore through his wrist.
Like an animal would tear into its prey.
His jaw clamped down hard, shredding skin and muscle like raw meat.
The taste of iron exploded in his mouth—thick, hot, vile. He didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
Then—crunch.
He jerked his head back violently, ripping a chunk of flesh open with his teeth.
The skin split like soaked paper, veins snapping like cords, the tendons tearing like rope.
Flesh hung in shreds between his bloodied teeth.
The pain was blinding.
White-hot agony surged up his arm and deep into his chest—so sharp, so total, it made even the eye pain feel both distant and near.
A full-body scream vibrated in his bones.
Blood surged from the wound in thick, gushing waves—not a trickle, not a slow bleed—a torrent.
Hot rivers pulsed from his wrist, squirting with every heartbeat, painting the earth in steaming red.
Without wasting a second, he did the same to his right wrist, tearing through flesh once more.
Skin shredded. Veins snapped. Tendons slipped.
Again, that brutal rip—again, that unimaginable pain.
More blood.
Too much.
His arms were fountains now—each beat of his heart pumping more of his life out.
The mist swallowed the scent of blood, but not its warmth as it ran down his elbows, soaked his clothes, and pooled around his feet.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He looked like something ripped from a nightmare.
Where eyes once sat were now grotesque craters—sockets brimming with shredded nerves and pulped flesh, mashed into a gory paste of muscle and jelly.
Blood didn't just flow—it gushed, thick and black-red, mixed with cerebrospinal fluid, mucus, and liquefied tissue, oozing like rotting slurry down his cheeks.
Every orifice on his face bled.
His nose bubbled with a steady stream of crimson.
His ears wept blood in thin, eerie rivulets.
His mouth was stuffed with raw tissue—torn arteries, shredded veins, loose tendons, and half-chewed chunks of his own wrist—all drowned in a soup of blood and spit.
It dripped from his lips in heavy globs, painting his chin with the color of death.
And still... he walked.
His steps were slow but steady—a mechanical, unnatural march.
Like a corpse, reanimated by pain and despair.
Every second step left behind a wet imprint—a dark-red footprint trailing a path of viscera and madness.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His footsteps echoed in the silent dark—for what felt like the umpteenth time.
Eventually, he tried to move his hands—but couldn't.
He couldn't even turn his neck.
He had lost full control of his body.
'At least… I wasn't late,' he thought with a bittersweet sense of relief.
Then it came—slowly and steadily.
Death.
Numbness crawled in from his fingertips.
Cold. Heavy.
His hearing dulled. His vision—already gone—narrowed into stillness.
His heart tried to keep pumping.
But there was nothing left to push.
No more fuel.
No more strength.
His legs felt like lead.
Whatever force had kept him moving—gone.
His eyes rolled upward as his knees finally buckled.
He collapsed—face-first—into the crimson puddle.
His mouth, still stained with the taste of flesh and iron, hung open slightly.
One last breath—shallow and broken—escaped.
And then—
Silence.
Calm. Total silence.
---
*DING*
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