Mors

"No!" I shrieked, my voice raw and desperate. I couldn't do it. My hands, meant to create and nourish, were being forced to commit a heinous sin. How could he expect me to murder someone just because he ordered it? I would never become the monster he was. I would not let him turn me into a killer. "So, we're doing this the hard way?" His expression was frighteningly calm. He gripped my hair, his fingers digging into my scalp, and dragged me backward despite my cries and struggles. I was a puppet, my weak body trailing behind his relentless pull. Down a flight of stairs we went, a path I instinctively knew led straight to hell. And I was right. He kicked open a heavy door and slammed it shut behind us. I was thrown onto a cold, damp floor that reeked of old blood and urine. Disgusted, I scrambled backward, my hands landing in a sticky, wet puddle. I cried out as I realized it was blood. A new scream ripped from my throat as my eyes found a man tied to a chair in the center of the room. He was naked, his body a canvas of fresh, gruesome wounds. He'd been tortured so brutally that one of his ears was gone, his fingers were stubs, and not a single nail remained on his feet. One of his hands dangled by a thread of flesh, almost completely severed. The real horror, however, was in his face. I scrambled back, my body hitting the wall, as he looked up. His eyes had been gouged out, leaving only bloody, empty sockets. His lips were peeled away, and a horrific gash ran from his forehead down to the ear that was no longer there. The sight was so stomach-churning that I gagged and wretched, spilling what little was left in my stomach onto the filthy floor. "Not so fast, little rat. You're here for a reason, and you're not leaving until you complete your mission." He grabbed a fistful of my hair again, dragging me across the floor until we were just a few feet away from the tortured man. My knees, already raw from the fall down the stairs, scraped painfully against the concrete, tearing the skin even more. The man in the chair thrashed violently, his body convulsing as he tried to speak, but only incoherent sounds came out. I sobbed, "Please, let me go." The way he moved looked like something possessed, and it sent shivers down my spine. My plea was cut short by his hand squeezing my cheeks until they ached. His eyes, cold and dark, held a warning that silenced my sobs and forced me into a state of terrified obedience. "God, Andrew, you'll have to speak louder. We're having a hard time understanding you." His voice was a cruel mockery of kindness. "Oh, that's right... you can't." It was then I saw it—the missing tongue. Blood gushed from his mouth with every choked sound he made. I stared at the twisted grin on Agostino's face, the pure evil in his eyes, and a single thought crystallized in my mind: there was no humanity in this man. He was enjoying every second of Andrew's torment. "You should have known this was coming the moment you decided to betray me," he said, turning his back to me as he addressed Andrew. I took the opportunity, inching my way toward the door, hope blossoming in my chest. Maybe I could just slip away. But just as quickly, he crushed that hope. "Don't bother. The door won't open." My hand trembled on the doorknob. I slowly turned to face him, my heart pounding. He hadn't even looked at me, yet he knew. How? There were no mirrors. "Come here," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. I was too terrified to disobey. Shaking like a leaf, I walked back toward him. He grabbed my arm and roughly yanked me to his side, shoving a cold metal object into my hand. It was a gun. "Shoot him," he ordered. I furiously shook my head, throwing the gun to the ground. In a flash of anger, he slapped me across the face, the sting a sharp contrast to the cold fear in my veins. He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear as he hissed, "Shoot him or I'll shoot you." He pressed his own gun against my temple. "No," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Please, no." "No?" he grinned suddenly, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Don't you want to live, Bella?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. When I didn't answer, he undid the safety on his gun and pressed it harder against my forehead. "You have one last chance to shoot him," he said, handing me the gun I had just thrown away. "You'll gain nothing but death by angering me. The only reason you're still breathing is because you agreed to be my toy. Be a good toy and obey your owner. Unless, of course, you want to become a plaything for my men." The implied threat was clear. I had to choose: kill this man or die like my mother. The thought of their hands on me, of the fate that awaited me, was enough. I raised the gun, my hands trembling uncontrollably as I aimed it at Andrew. Tears streamed down my face. "Shoot," Agostino barked, pressing his gun harder against my head. My vision blurred as I pulled the trigger. A loud bang filled the room, followed by his triumphant laugh. "Good girl," he praised me, taking the gun from my limp hand as if I were a loyal pet. I fell to my knees, sobbing as Andrew's lifeless body slumped to the floor. He ordered a guard to clean up the room, then dragged me out by my arm, leaving me with the chilling memory of what I had become. ~•~