Bullocks.

I awakened with a throbbing headache that pounded my skull, sending my senses into a blur of dizzying colours. My limbs had a strange heaviness, similar to a few of my mornings after a forgettable night. A pungent odour of copper pipes caught in my throat and coated my tongue in a revolting film. I unwittingly swallowed, and the putrid taste slid down my throat into my gut, filling me with sick. An ever-worsening scent of rotting meat crawled over my skin, settling like a heavy blanket covered in filth, radiating an oppressive heat that paralyzed me.

Wasn't I supposed to be with someone?

Oh yeah, Loukas. That soft-spoken prince . . .

I winced and forced my eyelids open to the darkness before me. Where was I? How did I even get there? It did not matter where I was. My questions were cut off by a bloody headache that felt like an ice pick to my skull, turning my confusion into agitation.

The pain got worse with each passing second. I tried to concentrate on making out the shapes in the darkness. It was not the usual pain of a rowdy night out. It was more akin to the time a loon tried to smash a hammer on the top of my head. That pain was so identical to this—blinding, horrible, and nauseating.

I heard a soft shuffling in the darkness, and an image flashed in my mind. Loukas, the lad I was supposed to work for, wanted to show me something.

The memory only seemed to cause me even more pain. I tried to reach up and rub the spot it originated from at the back of my head. I was stopped by—

A rope bit into the skin of my arms.

My heart pounded in my chest at the realisation as the room was suddenly not as dark as I first thought. The faint light scattering in had revealed vague shapes around me, slowly defining them into silhouettes. I squinted at one of them in desperation to see something, anything. I received my wish. A limp body hung from the ceiling, swaying from a meat hook piercing its chest.

A collection of cuts and bruises covered his bare body, turning his once smooth skin into a mosaic of depravity. Some cuts oozed fluid of various viscosities: thick red fluid that still dribbled in chunks, dried brown streaks and trails that marked their wound's existence, yellow-green pockets of old infections that gushed out of their swollen craters, and thick scabs that futilely tried to save what once was alive.

Other wounds gaped at different depths, with the cuts on the chest and stomach being the deepest. They were not precise nor organised but numerous, frantic, crisscrossed, as if whoever caused them had the sole intent of awarding agony to the victim. The bruises were just as diverse; some were large swollen lumps further deforming his broken legs, others were more painted on the skin by a hurried, sloppy brush. It was a canvas of every colour and harm the human body could produce and endure.

The rusted hook stood out, coated in congealed blood. The skin sagged like folds of cloth around the instrument, looking as though one could easily peel away the rotting layer of flesh. One laceration went from his groin, curving around the tip of the hook all the way up to his neck. His organs spilled out, hanging for dear life from his abdomen, indistinguishable from each other like that bow-wow mutton I used to stomach for dinner. Smelled only slightly worse, though.

The only part of him untouched was his face. A beautiful thing, soft features with a hint of a scraggly beard of a once unfortunate older gentleman. The worsening stench of decay grew more and more unbearable, opening up more of what lay hidden in this enclosure.

Another body was beside me on a large wooden table stained with rot and death. It was less intact, and its flesh had already turned into a feast to the flies buzzing in my ears and the worms I saw writhing and dancing in the multiple flesh pockets. Next to it was a rotting head with its eyes already turned into a black gooey fluid that leaked onto the once sturdy and refined wood.

The neck once attached to his strong, handsome body was a mess of red fatty pulp. The skin at the edges was ragged and torn by something rough, messy, and cruel. His mouth was pried open, revealing his tongueless maw forever in a silent scream. His missing nose and eye sockets were filled with white squirming larvae that were more than happy to eat all I wanted to remember—his face by his eyes, lips, and bright smile. Despite the more advanced decay, there was no mistaking whose distinct features I'd never forget and now would never see again.

That ruffled brunet hair lended the final detail, and the cheap bravery I held instantly vanished.

"M-Makhi . . . ," I mouthed.

Rusted hooks, chains, hammers, saws, and ice picks were within my sight, gleaming in the pale light as if to taunt me. My breathing grew shallower with each tool looming around me on the table, the walls, and protruding out of dismembered body parts. The last time I saw my friend, he was alive and healthy. We'd had a stupid argument, and he got annoyed with me about being too clingy or something. I never really wanted him to go; I wanted him to stay a little longer.

He had tried to laugh it off and not take what I said too seriously. "It's not like we are together," he would say. I was upset and insulted him. He would never know what upset me and just got annoyed. I was an idiot and wanted to hug him. My hand reached out and tried to offer one last cup of that expensive green drink before he left. I wanted us to get drunk enough for one more night together. He would get sore if I wanted more afterwards, but I did not care. Just one last time. I'd lie in bed dizzy from the green fairy and stare into his eyes.

What was the colour of his eyes, again?

As he'd lick my nipples, the memory would get so fuzzy. I could not remember the colour of those eyes.

All I could see when I tried to remember were the cloudy, sunken orbs lying shallow in his eye sockets. What had been taken from Mahki—his cold nose and curious tongue—stayed with me all this time, but the one thing I couldn't recall was left intact. I convinced myself it was for the best, but my judgement was what got me tied to a chair next to my friend's corpse.

"Mmmrh!" uttered a voice in the darkness.

I finally lifted my eyes to the source of the shuffling and murmurs. It was that accountant fella who disappeared a few days ago tied to a chair. That previously smug bastard was now a shell of his previously pompous self. His collared shirt was drenched in his sweat and tears, and his button nose had been altered black and blue.

A cloth cut into the sides of his mouth, gagging him, and carved welts into his cheeks. His remaining eye was bloodshot, and the other was a simple hollow socket crusted with dried blood. My heart pounded in my chest as I saw that pleading look in his sole eye. In spite of all the insults I had launched at him prior, he silently begged for my help.

I thought Loukas was being taken advantage of by these older men he kept inviting. I knew enough about those types. They were vile things. It was not hypocritical of me as I was young at heart, unlike all the other older men he was with. At least I was concerned about his "hobby."

But I was wrong. So very wrong . . .

"Y-You're awake," a familiar soft voice said, bringing me back.

Loukas stood before us with a lit candle in one hand and his usual nervous smile on his face. For once, those red eyes did not squint because of their home in the darkness. If I was tipsier, I would have thought they glowed.

"What the hell!" I spat at the man. "Is this some kind of joke?"

I wanted this to be some sick sort of prank. I did not care how improbable it was with the rotting corpses in the room with me and the man who went missing after his eye was plucked and packaged with a bow on top.

Loukas, he—murdered Makhi.

He killed him.

Loukas flinched at my shout and nervously smiled as the light flickered over his face. The hot wax dribbled over his fingers, and he did not so much as flinch when he approached me and let out a soft sigh. His face was flushed as he eyed me from top to bottom.

I did not like how he looked at me then; it turned the already horrific situation into a worsening nightmare. I kept my sharp glare on him and waited for his response as if he was not the one who tied me to a chair.

The young man muttered, "I'm sorry . . . I-I just—I just got scared. You were scared and were about to run, upset, and—"

"I wasn't!"

I would not have run away when I saw his secret. Where could I have even gone? To that vast marsh in the winter? That was still death. I was literally in the middle of nowhere. Running away was never an option for me.

"Liar!" the boy shouted, so unlike his previous tone, and I was the one taken aback. His narrow eyes were harsh, his teeth bared. "They always say that. Then they run and hate me. Same with you."

"But I didn't. What made you think I hated you?" I met his scowl with my own. Yes, I was a more suicidal man than I thought, but I did not care. "Come on, give me one example to show I hated you. Is Alex making you do this?"

Please, Loulou. Please say it's him, not you, who did this . . .

Loukas froze, and his eyes were on the floor. He was doing his usual thing, scrambling his thoughts and words into a sentence at a harder question. It was a habit I noticed about him. It was like his feelings were puzzle pieces scattered all over the floor, and he had to search for them every time he spoke.

"No! He's not. He . . . was the first one not to reject me." His voice was barely louder than a whisper. I was quiet as his stuttering lips continued. "The first time, I was fifteen. My teacher hated me, then . . . They fell down the stairs, and I—"

The memory flustered him, and the loathing overpowering his face still held a subtle look of longing.

"The n-next time, it was a gardener, and Uncle was . . . sick at the time, so he did not see—he hated me in that garden—they all never liked me. Just 'cause I should have died . . . They were right, but he was so nice until he wasn't." His hand clutched his hair roughly, practically tearing a chunk from his scalp. "I . . . They always do."

"And why would I?" I questioned.

Loukas pursed his lips. I turned to the other captive in the room. The gagged man's green eye held an odd spark of hope. Maybe he felt I could talk Loukas out of whatever he had planned to do to him.

However, that odd faraway look the young man held returned as he simply walked over to the tools at his disposal.

_______________
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