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He felt like he was upside down, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Something woke him up. A noise, far away in the dark, and the nauseating feeling of being rolled back and forth. He tried to reach out and get a sense of where he was, but his arms wouldn’t move. Nor his legs. He was paralyzed and he was relatively certain he was underwater, yet he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. The fantasy of the torture room was already forgotten. He spent decades crafting it; visualizing every inch of the room, every ridge on every knife and hook, every sound the bitch made as he inflicted every kind of pain he could imagine. Those years spent meticulously building his palace washed away in a few seconds of jarring wakefulness.
The darkness was oppressive and absolute, but he figured out where he was. He was in the box. That much he was able to piece together as the memories slowly crept to the front of his mind. The box was a punishment for some perceived crime or slight against the farce that passed as a vampire political body. It was the same backbiting, elitist shite he dealt with his entire life, both before and after becoming a vampire. It was a necessary evil and he understood its purpose, but that didn’t make it any less of a pain in his arse when it popped up behind him to deliver a surprise bumming.
Salome. One of the many bitches on his list of bitches he’d like to put down. Salome and, of course, Victoria, who had put him in the box. The memories were solidifying and gathering form. Victoria was the one who got away. The one who went to Salome and the one who ended his game.
Somewhere far in the distance a glow was building, like a sunrise, though he knew better. They were opening the box.