Feeling Like a God
My body is covered with a thin layer of sweat. My chest quickly rises and falls. And my breathing is still a tat hollow from the memory torture I just endured. But despite that, I sit straight and stare right into the flaming golden eyes of my Father and smirk.
After years of being stuck here, my care of, well, anything, has melted away like snow in the summer sun. I don't care if I live or die. Or if the world would combust, killing everyone and everything in it.
I lost all care.
During the first few years of being locked up here, I hoped to walk out of here someday. I hoped to feel the sun on my skin again. I hoped my sister would come to save me from this place.
I prayed, and prayed, and prayed to the Mother and Nine Gods she has birthed. I prayed to them for help — to save me. But all my prayers were left unanswered. And with that, all my hope had died. I went out like a candle.
Gone.
Years went by, and still, here I am. Locked up deep in the dungeons of a castle that used to be home to brave and mighty Kings and Queens. Rulers that were worthy of that title.
I lift my gaze away from the door and back to meet the golden eyes belonging to my Father.
For five hundred years. For five hundred years, he sits on his throne, petting his pet beast, Polly. He doesn't care about the Kingdom. He doesn't care about the people living in it. It leaves him cold. He only cares about the chaos and the fear he causes. Those things make him stronger. Those things make him feel powerful.
Those things make him feel like a God.
"Your pet is still waiting, King," I continue mocking.
Father grumbles some cusses not meant for children's ears underneath his breath. He rises from his throne-like chair and walks to the locked door on my left. Swiftly he unlocks the door. I cringe at the high-pitched squeak.
"What now?" Father asks, annoyed. He stares impatiently at the female on the other side of the door. Her long chestnut brown hair hangs in bouncy waves over her narrow shoulders. The two pitch-black, curling horns are decorated with strings of jewels and pearls. The female is wearing a low-cut, Bordeaux-red dress that clings to her figure perfectly—accentuating her beautiful curves and hiding the iron prosthesis below her left knee. She has her immense pitch-black, batlike wings shut on her back, and her silver eyes stare right at me.
She flashes me a hungry smile, licking her glossy red lips, causing her to uncover her fangs. I squirm a bit in the seat I'm strapped to.
I would be lying if I say I didn't enjoy the view.
Father, however, is not fond of the fact that he got interrupted at his 'special time' with me, and noticing from his angry frown and clenched fist, he's highly annoyed, if not pissed off, at the fact that the attention of the succubus is on me.
Father's large hand finds his way around Gaia's throat, slamming her against the stone wall. Something that only turns Gaia on, noticing from the earthy and musty fumes that now fill the air.
"What do you want, Gaia?" Father cocks his head sideways as he stares right into her eyes. "You know how much I want to be left alone with my little girl at this time of day. So," he continues, "let me repeat myself before I let Polly feast on your corpse. What do you want?"
"It is about Polly, My King," Gaia chokes out. Father releases his grip around her throat and stares at her with glossy eyes and an intensely focused expression. An expression I know he always uses as he practices his mind control ability.
"What about her?" he asks when he can't find a fast enough answer in the succubus' mind.
"She's dead."
Polly is dead?!
Oh, boy. I didn't see that one coming. Halleluja, praise the Mother and all the Nine Gods for that.
Father's head immediately shoots up. Before I can even blink, he has evoked a swirl of pure darkness. The darkness swirls around Gaia and lifts her from the ground by her throat. She groans and claws at the string wrapped around her throat that is suffocating her. Her movements start to slow down, and not long after, her eyes begin to drop.