The Antichrist

He wakes up to light.

He blinks furiously as his eyes flood with tears. He has gotten used to the darkness that even with the candle’s light so meager, it takes him a few heavy blinking to adjust.

The first thing he notices is the candle at the center of the room.

Then he notices them.

A few feet away from him, there is a child chained to one of the stakes. A little boy with short black hair and pale skin that shines in the dark like illuminated paper lanterns. He wears a pristine white robe that leaves his tiny pale feet uncovered.

He stares ahead, allowing Richard’s gaze to linger for a few more seconds. It doesn’t last long. As if he senses Richard’s gaze, he turns his head towards him and meets his eyes.

The little boy’s gaze takes his breath away- he has large round black eyes that silently but meaningfully probes. Richard immediately feels as if he’s being x-rayed. The boy’s stare silently judges. Silently… observes.

It almost feels… creepy.

That is… until the little boy grins at him.

Richard is caught off guard, causing him to abruptly avert his stare. His heartbeat suddenly increases, robbing him off the last of his breath. He stares at his hands, which are trembling. He shakes his head and turns away from the little boy, his attention focusing on the other occupant of the room.

He finds himself staring at striking twin brown orbs.

The pair of eyes that meets his belongs to a young woman whose striking features are evident even though the owner herself looks lifeless. Her long brown hair hangs limp around her shoulders like swing-less tan curtains. She wears the same white robe that Richard and the boy wear, but hers is long enough to cover her feet.

The woman’s gaze doesn’t waver. Richard finds himself unable to retract his.

“Ah. Attraction is fatal.”

Both of them turn towards the little boy, who’s alternately looking at the two of them, the grin ever present on his face.

Richard clears his throat. “Who are you?” he asks, directing his question to both of the new occupants in the room.

The young woman stares back at him, but doesn’t say anything. The young boy sends him a chilling smile that freezes his insides.

“Of course you don’t know,” the boy responds, his tone obviously mocking; an antithesis to how young he is. He speaks like a grownup man who has witnessed unspeakable things that even Richard hasn’t experienced.

But what do I know? Richard finds himself asking. I don’t even… remember what I know.

He woke up with nothing but the memory of his name.

“Because you are not supposed to,” responds the boy, making Richard twist his head towards him.

“How did you-” Did you just read my mind?

The smile on the boy’s fall as if it hasn’t been there in the first place.

“You don’t need your memories here, Richard,” he says tonelessly.

Richard wants to respond with another question; to ask how the hell the little boy knows his name. And what the hell he means by his words. But for some reason, he finds himself silenced by that gaze.

The boy looks away from him and goes back to staring ahead.

Richard follows his gaze.

It’s when he realizes that the boy is staring at the door.

Waiting. Anticipating.

For what, he doesn’t know.

The last thing he remembers before he once again succumbs to darkness, is a pair of brown eyes staring at him.

He dreams of nothing.

He wakes up to a door swinging open.

His head automatically faces the source of the sound, his sleepy eyes blinking away the last vestiges of sleep.

It’s another child. A girl. A somewhat bony girl with chin length disheveled hair. She is barefoot, her feet as pale as the feet of the little boy. Her face is covered by the curtain of hair, her bluish lips the only feature that can be seen.

She remains standing at the doorway with nothing but dimness behind her. No matter how hard Richard looks at it, he can’t see anything but black.

But he hears a voice. He hears a voice coming from the shadows behind the little girl.

It speaks fast, soft, almost incoherent. He sees the little girl nod slowly, bobbing her head up and down, her short, thick hair bouncing in front of her face.

The whispering stops. The little girl finally takes a step forward just as the door closes behind her.

Richard watches as the girl walks towards the center of the room, her pale feet walking on tiptoes, creating no noise.

She stops. And then turns, facing him first. Richard cannot see her eyes, but he knows she is staring at him. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the girl turns away from him and faces the little boy.

Richard follows her gaze. The little boy stares back at the girl, his eyes unmoving and never faltering. There is something that emerges in the already weird atmosphere in the room when the little boy meets the girl’s stare. But it’s cut as she turns away from him and finally faces the young woman, whose head is bowed.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Until the girl starts walking towards the young woman, her feet still almost not touching the floor. It seems as if she is afraid to make even the slightest noise.

She stands in front of the young woman and stares down at her for a few seconds. The young woman still doesn’t move.

There is that brief second when Richard feels as if the girl is smiling, but he cannot find out for sure because the girl’s back is on him. It’s a gut feel, which he thinks is true most especially when the girl plops down in front of the young woman.

He sees the young woman’s shoulder stiffen. She knows.

At first nothing happens. The girl just stares at the young woman in front of him.

Then… then the tapping begins.

It starts with soft, slow drumming of the fingers. The little girl begins tapping the wooden floor, her fingers creating a tune to a toneless, mystery song.

The young woman begins to twitch, small twitches that are unrecognizable at first.

And then the tapping becomes faster, louder. Akin to a restless chase against time and the shadows.

The twitching becomes noticeable. The shoulders of the young woman begin to jolt, joining the reckless tapping on the floor in front of her.

Richard feels the sudden desire to cross the room and stop the girl from doing what she’s doing. It is clearly… staring to affect the young woman.

The drumming becomes louder and… somewhat irregular. It goes from soft to loud to louder to softer. It does from fast to fastest, slow to slower. With every twitch coming from the young woman, the girl changes the rhythm of the horrible music she’s trying to play.

The urge to kick the girl becomes stronger. But Richard knows he cannot do anything. He is chained to the pole. And for some reason, he cannot say anything even though he wants to. There is something stopping him from meddling, but he is unaware of what it is.

Richard feels helpless.

The tapping finally becomes an ode to a climactic bridge. The noise starts to grit on his mind, temporarily distracting him as it begins to drill in his own head. He can sense a migraine coming, but he refuses to look away from the young woman and the girl.

The tapping stops. And then in starts again. It stops. And then starts again.

Richard feels his breath leave him as the young woman finally and slowly lifts her head, revealing the face that is once gloriously hidden in the safety of her knees.

What he sees paralyzes him.

That face. That hauntingly beautiful face. It’s… no more.

That face that once belonged to a human now wears the mask of a demon. He doesn’t know this face. A face of a stranger. While bearing the same beautiful features as the young woman who entered the room a few nights ago, this is not hers.

This is not her.

Her eyes are fierce. Hollow. Dark. Her pale lips are bleeding, caused by the intense biting of her lips. The crimson drops flow freely down her chin, marking the wooden floor under her.

She trembles, as if there’s an immense build-up of underlying tension inside her, ready to be unleashed.

The girl pays no heed, as if she doesn’t see, hear, or feel. She continues to tap the floor with her fingers, the sound becoming louder and urgent; and then back to slow and soft. The pattern repeats like a cycle that never ends.

Taunting. Mocking.

The young woman continues to shake. By now, her knuckles are bleeding with how hard her fingernails are pressing against them.

Richard’s eyes never leave the her, the sudden urge to

Richard does not expect what happens next.

The young woman stills, bowing her head as if defeated.

And then she breaks down.

She lifts her head and screams, screams so loud that the room is shattered by the shrill noise coming from her, drilling through Richard’s soul like an obstinate instrument of destruction. Her eyes are bloody, angry, ready to pop out from their sockets as she screams her agony in front of the girl’s face.

But no, her mouth never opens. No sound comes out from those lips. She remains as tight-lipped as ever. But the pain, the conflicted emotions scream so loud she doesn’t need a voice to deliver her message.

The girl remains unaffected. Her actions continue, as if she’s programmed to do the insistent tapping on the floor all she likes.

Without preamble, the young woman grabs the girl’s wrist tightly. Faster than the blink of an eye, the young woman has the girl’s fingers positioned near her mouth.

She meets Richard’s eyes briefly, but there is nothing in those depths other than the desire to end… the desire to finish… the desire to… inflict judgment.

With a final expression that looks like a growl, the young woman opens her mouth and—

… bites the little girl’s fingers off one by one.

Richard watches, with his body frozen and his mouth hanging open, as the young woman tears off each finger with her bared teeth. She works fast, her mouth and teeth in constant motion as she feasts on the pale flesh now marked by the vibrant color of crimson.

The little girl starts laughing, the sound a mixture of pain and mockery.

The young woman becomes more feral. She pulls the girl into her lap and starts gnawing on her neck.

For the next agonizing seconds, he hears nothing but the sound of tearing flesh and dripping blood; and the softening laugh coming from the girl in the young woman’s arms.

The voice fades the same time as the mangled body falls on the floor, finger-less and with head almost severed from her body.

The girl is dead, pieces of her flesh and skin lying on the floor in front of the young woman.

Richard throws up, the pungent stench joining the horrid stink of blood.

“Catherine. Her name is Catherine,” the little boy says softly. Richard almost forgets that there is another presence in this room. He turns towards the boy as he wipes the drool from his mouth.

The boy’s face remains neutral, as if he hasn’t been affected with what just happened. His eyes are on Richard, unreadable.

Catherine. He slowly turns his head towards the young woman.

Her whole body is trembling as she rocks herself back and forth in her heels, her face hidden on her folded knees.

She is crying, her shoulders stiff yet shaking. But there is no sound coming from her mouth. As if she’s prevented from even expressing her agony.

“Catherine,” he calls softly, feeling the familiar weakness starting to envelop his body.

The young woman stops rocking on her heels and looks up.

Richard succumbs to darkness. The last thing he witnesses is a pair of conflicted brown eyes staring straight at him.

He dreams of a crimson sky.

He wakes up to stillness.

Richard lifts his head up and sees a strange sight.

In front of him, at the center of the room, there is a group of hooded figures huddled in a circle.

He furrows his brows in confusion. Who are these people?

He gets his answers a couple of seconds later when the circle widens, allowing him to see what they have been surrounding like protective barriers.

At the center of the circle stands the little boy who’s been one of his companies in the past few nights. He is with a figure wearing a mask that only reveals his mouth, Roman nose, and dark eyes.

It’s a large man, a very large man. He is wearing what seems like animal skin wrapped around his waist. There is a cloak on his shoulders made from the same animal skin.

But that is not the striking feature of the man.

Richard’s eyes fly towards the black horns protruding at the side of his head, its tips coiling like that of a ram’s. The horns glisten against the dimness of the room, the small flickers of light casting shadows upon their glory.

The horned man stares down at the little boy who stares up at him. It remains that way for the next few seconds.

That is until one of the hooded figures makes a move. A move that washes Richard with an unexplainable dread.

The hooded man suddenly pulls the little boy towards him and tears his robes off, exposing his pale young skin. The tattered robes are cast aside as he pushes the boy back to the center of the room.

The tallest one, the horned one, stands behind the boy. He removes his cape, placing it to the hands of the hooded man beside him, exposing his glistening naked glory.

One of the men pushes the boy down on all fours the same time as Richard’s breath leaves him.

He knows what will happen.

The little boy stares at him, his eyes never leaving him, as the horned man kneels behind the young boy and performs the filthy ritual.

The hooded figures surround the spectacle and start chanting a hymn, their voices blending perfectly for a song serving as a prelude to death.

Richard watches as the horned man mars a previous white with smears of black.

Richard refuses to look away even though his body screams for him to do so.

He doesn’t realize that he’s clutching at his chest, his fingernails digging deeply onto the patch of skin just above his heart.

It hurts. He doesn’t know why it hurts so bad. All he knows is that he wants to die. He feels so helpless, so useless, yet he doesn’t do anything.

He cannot do anything.

The little boy doesn’t scream, doesn’t cry. But Richard can see the agony, the protest, the start of the destruction of a once-intact soul.

The chanting becomes louder.

Richard can hear the boy’s soul break into several pieces. The spirit inside him that he once possesses is being shattered along with his fragile little body.

Catherine’s screams are the ones that allow him to tear his gaze off the ritual.

Her mouth is closed, but he can clearly hear her screaming inside his head as she too helplessly watches what’s happening in front of them.

She’s crying, obviously breaking. Tears run down her cheeks, creating a wet patch on the wooden floor beneath them. Even without a sound coming from her mouth, Richard knows how much of a pain she is currently in.

But she’s still beautiful. Even with all the remnants of blood and gore marring her skin, and with the fresh tears from her eyes, she is still beautiful.

Catherine is beautiful in insanity and hopelessness.

And then she meets his eyes.

He freezes, his insides churning into ice.

There is reproach in those eyes. Anger. Hatred. Loathing. As if it’s Richard’s fault that this is happening.

She is blaming him. Blaming him for a circumstance he has no control over.

He clutches harder on his chest, specks of blood now appearing on his white robe.

He averts his gaze. He cannot take the emotions in those fierce brown orbs.

He spends the next agonizing minutes staring at the mangled corpse and pieces of the little girl the previous night.

The chant stops.

Richard finally allows himself to look back at the center of the room.

The horned man stands up, satiated, and allows one of the other men to place his cloak on his shoulders. He stares down at the boy, the mask barring anyone to see his expression, before he turns his head and stares at Richard.

Richard freezes, holding his breath. But the horned man doesn’t do anything other than simply turning and leaving the room without a backward glance. The rest of the hooded figures follows him, disappearing on the blackness behind the door.

The room is left in silence.

Richard turns his head to the boy.

The little boy is quiet as he slowly sits up. He looks around for a bit until his eyes catch sight of his tattered robes. He reaches for it and puts it on even though it’s in bits and pieces.

Richard feels his heart break at the sight. He wants nothing but to give the boy warmth. He must be cold with nothing on. He wants to tear off that filthy cloth on the boy and replace it with his. He doesn’t want to see that tattered, dirty fabric hugging the once innocent boy’s body. He wants to—he wants to--

The boy stands up and walks with a heavy limp towards Catherine, who finally stops crying. Richard flinches as he sees the blood dripping down the boy’s thighs.

The little boy reaches Catherine. For a few seconds, he stands in front of her, staring at her eyes. Catherine slowly lifts her hand in an attempt for what looks like an embrace.

The boy willingly surrenders to it, allowing Catherine to envelop his body in the bony warmth of her arms. She closes her eyes as she tenderly cradles him in her arms.

The boy clings tightly to her, like a son seeking for the love and security in his mother’s arms.

They remind Richard of The Pieta. Of the loving Mary holding the dead boy of her son in her arms.

Pain drives towards his chest.

“Hey,” he calls softly, causing the boy to turn his head towards him.

No other word left Richard’s mouth, and he only hopes the boy can read the regret and apology in his eyes.

The boy can, his next words revealing that he sees the conflicting emotions in Richard’s eyes.

“I know,” the boy says quietly as Catherine continues to stroke his hair. “But you still didn’t do anything. You watched them do it to me.”

You didn’t do anything. You watched them do it to me.

The words echo on his mind as the boy looks away.

Richard feels his heart disintegrate into dust. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the wetness dripping on his cheeks.

He wants to reach out to the boy, envelop him in his arms and protect him, just like what Catherine is now doing.

But from what? His traitorous mind asks him. I am too late. I never even tried helping him. I never even… why did I…

He feels his eyes closed. But before that, he chances another look at the pair in front of him.

The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is Catherine’s face.

She is smiling. But the smile is not mocking, never taunting.

The smile is sad, grieving.

As if she can feel what he is feeling.

Richard suddenly feels the need of wanting to hold the two of them in his arms. Of wanting to feel the heat that their warmth can provide to his cold soul.

He stays still instead. Not succumbing to the first desire his heart feels for a long time.

He dreams of burning.

He wakes up to a feeling of uneasiness.

He lifts his head and meets Catherine’s eyes from across him. She is once again staring at him. Her face is neutral, all traces of anger and sadness gone from them.

But Richard instantly notices that something else is present in her eyes.

Worry.

This particular emotion prompts him to look around the room, dread immediately swallowing him. He is not ready for another scenario similar to what happened to the little boy.

The little boy!

He is not in Catherine’s arms anymore. He turns towards the other side of the room and sighs in relief as he sees the little boy there, looking clean and wearing a new robe.

He looks unperturbed too, his expression back to the usual one he wears since he’s been put inside the room with Richard.

However, his eyes are on the direction of the door, which prompts Richard to follow his gaze.

He blinks. And blinks some more. There is another person in there.

A woman.

She wears a bridal gown of black, a thick veil the color of shadows draped on her head, thinly covering her face.

But even through it, he can see her facial features. She is stunning. Her face is devoid of face paint, but the natural redness of her cheeks and the pink shimmer of her small lips are ever present. Her skin is pale, milky white, almost translucent, which speaks of delicateness. It’s as if a simple touch will break her.

The three of them watch, in silence, as the bride begins to march slowly. It’s only then that they notice that she is walking towards a red carpet.

And towards a light at the end of it.

This time, the light on the room relies on the light at the end of the carpet. An opening that is composed of nothing but light.

The black bride’s gait is slow and her posture regal. She holds the bouquet of black roses in front of her with dignity. She marches slowly but deliberately towards the light, taking her time with her delicate steps.

She wears nothing on her feet. But instead of it revealing a sudden vulnerability, it speaks of her strength.

Nothing will faze her. Nothing can faze her.

That is until she trips and falls on her feet.

The light suddenly flickers out, enveloping the room in total darkness.

Screams. Richard hears screams. The sound grits on his head, threatening to crack it open.

The light flickers back on. And the sight that meets him renders him immobile.

The bride. The bride is still there. But she is sprawled on the floor with a naked man hovering over her, holding an ax.

If that can even be considered… a human. Its skin is black from head to toe, as obscure as the shadows behind the door that serve as a treasure trove for long kept dark secrets. The only indication that it’s a man is its sculpted body form.

They stare at each other, the bride looking up at the man from her position on the ground. The man looking down at her.

And then he swings his ax. And the first horrifying screams fill the room.

He effectively cuts her legs in two heavy swings, the cut precise, leaving no room for imperfection.

But it doesn’t end there.

Before Richard can even take another breath, the man reverses his ax, the butt, its thick end, facing the bride.

And then he swings it on her knees.

Another set of screams fill the air as the man pulverizes the bones in her knees. He doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left but bone dusts.

The screams turn into cries just as the brightness from the end of the carpet starts to dim by the second.

A pause. And then…

The bride screams, again, trying to move with only her thighs to act as the leverage to her actions.

She tries to crawl her way towards the light, her hair covering her view of her path and her fingers greatly clutching at the carpet, willing for it to help her reach her door to freedom.

Her mangled body twists awkwardly as she tries to reach the seemingly decreasing light from the end of the carpet.

She angles her body, the sound of her bones breaking as she desperately tries to reach for the light.

But the light fades… and it’s almost non-existent now.

And finally, the light disappears.

A desperate, broken cry echoes in the room, blanketing them with heart-wrenching shivers that can only be the effect of a destroyed hope.

The man in black vanishes along with the light.

The bride cries. Wails. Howls.

Suddenly, the ground shakes, causing the three other occupants of the room to hold onto their poles.

The bride continues to wail, ignoring the quake that threatens to destroy the room. She is still desperately crying for a seemingly lost love that will never come back.

And then it happens.

A few feet in front of the bride, the earth begins to crack. The ground starts to separate slowly, debris falling into nothingness until a hole is created.

Stillness. There is that brief moment of calm before the chaos begins again.

The bride, the hopeless, legless bride, starts to crawl.

Towards the hole.

Her actions are faster, her limbs suddenly moving like a spider’s desperate to catch a fly.

Her movements are desperate. As if she decides that the hole is another way out of this damned room.

They watch. They all watch as she reaches her destination. The bride crawls inside the hole, slithering her way in like a snake that finds its hole.

She wiggles urgently, impatiently, as if she cannot wait for the earth to gulp her whole.

She twists her body, angles it, until the earth seems to accept her attempt at invasion. The ground swallows her like a hungry predator that catches sight of its most apt victim until no part of her is visible.

The earth finally closes, ending the thick tautness that shattered the room. Leaving no trace of the agonizing scenario that just took place.

And then there’s silence, as they all stare at the closed earth.

Richard makes the first move. He turns his head towards his companions. His eyes land on the boy’s first.

The boy is smiling at him. And there is… that look of satisfaction in those eyes.

His gaze automatically moves towards Catherine. And hers tell a different story.

She looks… shocked.

Richard follows their gazes, wanting to see for himself what catches their attention, causing those expressions on their gazes.

His eyes widen in realization as he realizes their reason.

He is naked. From head to toe.

But that’s not it. It’s his hands. His fingers are grasping a familiar object that he witnessed on the hands of another just a few moments ago… he’s holding the ax.

Richard hands tremble as they lift them to inspect them. His arms down to his fingers- they are covered in blood. Specks of bone pieces dust his arms, marking the skin with abstract tattoos of demise.

He lifts his head, helplessly seeking for… something. Anything.

His eyes first land on the little boy. The little boy whose soul has been destroyed just last night. But his face reveals nothing. He is devoid of expression.

His eyes flicker towards Catherine.

At first, she simply stares at him. But slowly, he sees her arms raising until they’re outstretched towards him.

His heart beats. Echoing the desire he feels.

The desire to be held. The desire to be… comforted.

Catherine doesn’t say anything, but her eyes are enough for Richard. Her eyes, her glorious eyes that had captured him since the beginning tell him everything.

She wants to hold him.

Richard drops the ax on the floor and stands, dragging the chains tying him as he walks towards her.

He trips on the way, falling first face on the dirt. Right above the dirt that swallowed the bride.

He lifts his hand to reach her extended hands, but the dirt seems to be pinning him down. His limbs feel heavy and chained.

Catherine’s mouth remains close, but her eyes are screaming for him to try and reach her.

Richard pushes himself, trying to crawl further as he grits his teeth.

He blacks out before he can touch her.

That night, he dreams of being submerged in a lake of boiling blood.