Castlevania: Symphony of the Night Prologue
By Aujang Abadi
The steady sound of water unnerved him the most. Its constant repetitions… one drip, followed by another, and then another… although his mind rarely formed conscious thoughts, it was forever pervaded by an intense hatred for the dripping. He was always wet. Not soaked, and not damp, but wet. In an ironic way, it should have driven him insane. That is, if there weren't so many other factors racing to reach that goal.
He never knew whether his eyes were open or closed, unless they came. Alone, his world was nothing but emptiness, a black void that sucked the heat away from his body until he couldn't muster enough energy to shiver. He heard voices in the void, and occasional screams. He cherished the moments when he heard anything at all, besides the infernal dripping. Most of the time, he rocked back and forth, trying to keep warm. He did not know how long he'd been here; he didn't even know there was a concept called time, to measure how long he'd been there. It was all black, just like his prison, just like his thoughts. Just like his world.
Except when they came. They burst into his cell, and screamed as loud as he did. He tried to fight, but it was to no avail… they dragged him into their world of color, of light, and of warmth. He felt himself grow hard just thinking about it. Their world was filled with pillows, and softness… and oh, when the demons came, how he surrendered. They were so beautiful, and they wrapped themselves around him and sucked him of everything he had to give. Again, and again, and again, until his body screamed for relief and his soul wallowed in its own decadence. They were almost sanctified in their fierce desire. How he loathed himself, when he gratified them. The dichotomy was sickening, in these scattered moments of forsaken pleasure and utter slavery… and he hated them for it. He hated their lips; he hated their tongues; God help him, he hated their very corps. He knew this was killing him. And he knew he was powerless to resist.
Although his mind shied away from memories, he occasionally had epiphanies of sorts. They manifested themselves in his gut, as a raw explosion of instincts that soared through his bloodstream and flooded his senses. It was then that he roared his defiance, and threw himself against the walls of his prison. He remembered everything in those rare moments, but they were so very transient that within the span of a second he was clueless again, rebelling only for the sake of rebellion. The demons never knew from whence his endless vitality sprung. But they did not have the audacity to question their good fortune.
It was during one of these epiphanies that he began to chant. A wail of sorts, in all honesty, but it had a loose string of coherency. For a man whose sanity had long danced around his grasp, that was quite an accomplishment. The chanting soon grew into a prayer-a rather loud prayer-and echoed along the walls of the prison, smashing against the horrible emptiness over, and over, and over, until the godforsaken dripping was even consumed in its path.
When the demons came, they were enraged. Their prize possession, the very center of their carnal desires, had found a way to taint itself. For a while, they left him to his own screaming, but it had a power behind it that he could not possibly understand. It lied not in his words-most of it was gibberish anyhow. It was him… always him. He carried the accusation, the betrayal, and the judgment that they so ardently feared.
So they came to him, one last time, and feasted as they'd never feasted before. He threw his head back in disgust and screamed in ecstasy, shuddering as they ravaged his body. Then, when they had finished desecrating his womb of spent seeds, they hurled him back into the world from which they'd stripped him.
It was drizzling, when he returned to the world. He faltered, unable to see clearly, and quickly sank to his knees. A few moments passed before he was splayed over the mud, sinking into its merciful embrace. The rain caressed his gaunt frame, cooling his fevered flesh. His eyes closed, and his body relaxed, after eons of endless tension. He was asleep in seconds.
Behold Simon. The cursed Belmont.