Eternal Malediction (RE)

The footage begins unsteadily, with a faint static hum.

A slight shake that was subtle but constant, showing it was a person holding it. Not enough to blur the image, but just enough to remind whoever is watching that this is being held and not mounted.

The frame struggles to focus on the light, then the shape of a man came into the frame from the light. He was strapped to a chair. Not a hospital chair, nor a proper surgical unit. Something closer to a dentist’s chair, but stripped of comfort, stripped of cleanliness. Metal arms with leather restraints that were on too tight.

His wrists were bound down harshly enough that the skin around them had reddened and irritated with signs that it had already started to bruise. His forearms twitch violently as he tries to pull free.

It didn’t work; the restraints don’t budge. His breathing is uneven, sharp and panicked. His tight shirt rises too fast, too shallow. Every now and then, his body jerks instinctively.

The room around him was almost entirely dark, with no visible walls or any sense of scale, with only a single overhead light; it was harsh and surgical, so it left no shadows anywhere except on the sides of the chairs. It cut straight down onto him like a spotlight; everything beyond the circle of light was swallowed by the darkness beyond it.

Then... A voice that is calm and controlled emerged from behind the light, from within the darkness. ”... Is that thing rolling?”

The kind of voice that doesn’t need to be loud to dominate the room, and the camera dips for a moment instinctively. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

The person behind the camera replied, ”Yeah.” The reply was done quickly, quietly and carefully.

Not casual but controlled in an unusual way, the tone of someone who knows exactly who they’re speaking to and doesn’t want to provoke anything unnecessary.

Footsteps echoed slowly.

A figure emerges from the darkness behind the chair, not fully visible. The light doesn’t reach his face, not properly. It catches edges. A jawline. The faint outline of a mouth.

He’s wearing a clean piece of clinical clothing which is slightly out of place, clothing so sterile in a room that isn’t.

He steps closer.

”Angle it down.”

The camera obeys immediately, and the frame lowers as it is centred on the restrained man’s torso, with his chest rising faster now.

The man in clinical clothing circles him slowly in an unhurried fashion, observing and studying what was strapped in front of him.

Like this is routine. Like this is familiar. He stops at the man’s side and grips his arm.

Tight. A bit too tight. The restrained man winces as the skin compresses under his fingers, forcing the veins upward, with one in particular standing out along the surface that is tense and pronounced.

The cephalic vein.

He then groans and struggles harder to get out of the straps... it changes nothing.

The man in clinical clothing takes off one of his gloves, revealing a thumb with a massive nail, uncut but trimmed; however, it is still very sharp to the touch, and he makes a small, precise, clean cut; he doesn’t rush it. The nail slowly draws across the vein. The skin splitting apart, blood wells immediately, dark and thick, pushing through the incision before beginning to spill over.

The restrained man’s body jerks violently.

A broken sound escapes him, half groan, half scream, caught somewhere in his throat that couldn’t come out due to the rag in his mouth. The man with the long nail doesn’t react; he turns around and instead brings a test tube into frame and positions it carefully to collect it drop by drop.

It was controlled.

Until it was filled to the brim. Only then does he release his grip from the arm. The blood continues to spill, slower now, uncontrolled without the pressure.

He lifts the test tube and holds it up toward the light.

The red glow. The translucence. It was a spectacle to behold.

It was Silent and then, without hesitation... The man drinks it. All of it, in a single gulp.

The camera trembles just slightly more than before, and now you can hear the cameraman’s breathing getting louder and deeper.

A single line of blood escapes the corner of his mouth, trickling downward.

His breathing changes, now slower and deeper, as if he’s savouring something. He tilts his head back, further and further... until it stops.

His eyes catch the light. A dark hue of red is slowly spreading throughout his dark pupil while his breathing grows louder and he rolls his neck. A sharp click with another sharp click.

Then...

His hand plunges into the open wound on the man’s arm, fingers digging into torn flesh. The restrained man screams now. Fully. No restraint left in it.

His entire body thrashes against the bindings, muscles straining, veins rising across his neck. He was trying to scream but couldn’t as his mouth was stuffed with a cloth. He had tears falling from his eyes.

Useless.

The man pulls away and tears the wound open further; blood floods over his hand, thick and uncontrolled now.

He withdraws it, with blood dripping.

Then... He flicks it outward, and the blood scatters. It should have hit the floor, should have hit the chair, should have hit the camera... But it doesn’t. It stops mid-air.

Dozens of droplets.

Suspended. Perfectly still.

The camera jolts backwards slightly; instinctively, the droplets remain where they are, unmoving. The man with the uncut nail watches them.

His breathing is now steady and controlled once again.

Behind the camera, a voice, now quieter than before. ”...Brother... do we really need to do this?”

A pause. ”What?”

Not anger. A smile. Not fully visible but heard. ”Life... is a privilege given to the wrong people.”

He reaches forward and grabs the restrained man by the hair, forcing his head upward. Toward the suspended blood.

”Look.”

The droplets begin to shift, changing as their surfaces ripple. Distorting, the blood drops into floating images, faint at first but then getting clearer.

Fragments of memory. The acts of the man in the chair. The moments he lived through. Violence he caused. The cruelty he imposed on others.

Things the man in the chair doesn’t want to see. Things he wishes not to recognise.

His eyes widen.

Not from pain this time but from understanding. From recognition. From guilt. The man holding him leans closer with his voice low and slow.

”Every drop tells a story.”

A slight tilt of his head against the trapped man’s ear. ”And yours... is filth.”

His grip tightens, and he shakes his head hard. ”Tell me...”

”...Why should something like you be allowed to keep living?”

He removes the cloth from the man in the chair’s mouth, and he tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

Just broken breath. The suspended blood trembles slightly, and the images sharpen.

Closer and more undeniable.

The man in clinical clothing watches him. Waiting. Not for an answer but for confirmation.

The man, stands behind the man strapped in the chair, and holds a knife to the neck, and as he was about to...

The screen cuts.

Abruptly, there was no transition and not even a fade.

Just... DARKNESS.