Chapter 55 – The Feast of Pain
Bastille II had no night.
It had darkness.
Grim’s first full day blurred into a symphony of misery.
The routine was simple. Its cruelty? Precise.
At dawn — or what passed for it underground — the cell doors clanged open.
Grim stumbled out, herded into a line that reeked of piss and defeat.
"Morning meal": a tray of lukewarm sludge slapped into his hands. It smelled like rotting fat. Tasted worse. Grease dripped down the sides, pooling on his boots.
He swallowed it dry.
Water? A leaking pipe down the corridor. Prisoners fought like animals.
Grim didn’t.
He waited.
Watched.
Drank only when the strong grew tired.
Then: labor.
Chains around his wrists. Dragged to the maintenance pits.
The floor? Jagged. Designed to carve flesh.
His task? Haul rusted metal sheets.
His palms split.
His feet bled.
Slip once, and a guard’s rifle met his ribs.
He slipped thrice.
No pause.
No pity.
Just boots, curses, and more blood.
Lunch mirrored breakfast. Only colder. Slimier.
He chewed through it, like habit could kill the taste.
Afternoon was "recreation."
They threw him into the pit. A circle of inmates and guards above, hungry for violence.
Across from him — the Cell 17 bully. Grinning.
There were no rules.
First blow: jaw.
Second: gut.
Third: temple.
Down he went.
They kicked until he stopped reacting.
Then they dragged him back, leaving blood like breadcrumbs.
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By evening, his body was a mural of bruises.
His hands? Raw meat.
A tooth? Gone.
Sleep? A rumor.
The cold gnawed. The stink of rot became breath itself.
Howls rose from far-off cells — not beasts. Men breaking.
Grim lay curled on concrete.
Every breath was a betrayal.
His ribs throbbed. Fingers twitched.
He didn't sleep.
Didn’t scream.
Just stared upward.
Into the void.
Dreaming of nothing.
Because he deserved worse.
And took it.
Silently.
Hours later.
Synthetic lights flickered.
Boots clanged.
Cell 17’s door screeched open.
"Prisoner 4441."
Two guards. One under each arm.
They lifted Grim like scrap.
No resistance.
No protest.
He deserved worse.
The halls smelled sweeter than rot — which was worse.
They led him to a larger door.
The Warden’s Office.
Lavish. Disgustingly so. Leather chairs. A fireplace. Paintings of serenity.
A joke.
At the desk — the Warden.
A face too clean.
A smile too calm.
"Sit, boy," he said. Voice like oil.
Grim sat. Wordless.
The Warden opened a cabinet.
Pulled out a rusted tray.
Tools.
A scalpel.
A hammer.
Pliers.
He took the pliers. Walked over like it was teatime.
Kneeling, he grabbed Grim’s hand.
No trembling.
Grim was already past that.
The pinky.
Pliers gripped the nail.
The scalpel slid underneath.
Metal split flesh.
Pain flashed — but Grim didn’t flinch.
The Warden chuckled.
“Brave,” he murmured. “Or stupid.”
The nail tore free.
Blood bloomed.
Tears welled.
Not fear.
Just nerves.
One down.
Nine to go.
Next: the blade.
The scalpel kissed his soles.
Shallow cuts first.
Then deeper.
Veins opened like maps.
Grim bit his tongue.
Blood leaked from his mouth.
“You know,” the Warden said, “most men cry for their mothers by now.”
Grim didn’t blink.
Didn’t break.
Which made it worse.
The Warden ordered the next phase.
Bugs.
A jar. A pour.
They crawled over his wounds.
Biting. Boring in.
Grim twitched.
One tremor.
The only betrayal.
The Warden smiled.
Sat back.
Watched.
Time blurred.
Hours. Minutes. Centuries.
Eventually, the Warden waved.
The guards returned.
Dragged Grim through the stink, back to Cell 17.
The door shut.
The bully looked over.
Saw him.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t dare.
Something colder than respect passed between them.
Grim collapsed.
Breathing shallow.
Staring at nothing.
Then —
Footsteps.
The Cellblock Z guard. Same clipboard.
But something in him had shifted.
He looked down.
Didn’t look away.
“Someone’s here to meet you,” he said.
Grim didn’t respond.
Just existed.
The chapter ends.
The nightmare doesn’t.
