Scrape. Scrape.
The sound of grinding metal and loud banging wake you up from your uncomfortable sleep, but the bed you laid down to rest on is not the same bed you awake in. Looking down at the cold floor below you, you see the soft blankets are replaced with rust and blood, making it feel almost like sandpaper. "Whose blood is it?" is the first thing that comes rushing to the front of your mind. You check yourself for any injuries, but none are apparent. At least there’s one thing comforting about this place.
You stand now to take a look around, hoping you’ll find a way out of this room, but instead find the source of the blood. Surrounding you are people, caught in terrible traps. One is caught in a cage with no floor, bound in the air by multiple spikes, similar to an iron maiden, but none of the spikes have pierced any vitals. The only signal he’s still alive is the silent weeping. Screaming for help is far beyond this man’s ability now; he screamed his voice away days ago. Tears are the only comfort he has now.
You look away, only to see yet another tragic victim. This one is a female, though no longer alive. The kill seems fresh, however. How you can tell this isn’t clear to you yet. Easier to tell is how she died. She was placed on seemingly one bed of nails, though this was no magic trick. It probably took less than a minute for her body to slide down the length of the nails. This was not meant to kill her, but what happened next was. The bed of nails separated and pulled apart, driven by loud and rusty gears. The nails tore and dug deeper into her body, not wanting to let go, until eventually they caught bone and tore her abdomen open. Her intestines spilled over, and still lay on the cold floor below. Blood and tears stained her face, still frozen in agony due to rigor mortis.
"Why? Why are these people here? Why have they been locked up like this and left to die?" You don’t question why you yourself are here. It doesn’t feel wrong; in fact, this place comforts you to some degree. This large room filled with victims both alive and dead feels like home. You wander around aimlessly, paying no heed to the few capable of calling out to you, begging to be let free. Begging for mercy. "Mercy from what?" you question in your head. "I was not the one who put you here." This brings you to ponder why they were put here. "What could they have done to deserve this?" Though this may sound like sympathy on paper, it is not. You firmly believe this is where they belong.
After walking for what seemed like years, you finally find yourself at an interesting place. Isolated from the tortured men and women is an antique-looking mirror. The metal framing it is the only metal to escape the rust of time and blood of man. You raise your hand to the mirror, touching it delicately, as if it would fracture into pieces if you weren’t careful. Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you find your wardrobe to be different than the one you’re seemingly wearing. On you is what you thought you normally went to bed in, but the mirror tells a different tale. The details of this outfit are blurry, and covered in far too much blood and flesh to be made out properly.
In your confusion, the mirror image speaks to you in a soft tone, as if these words are meant for your ears only.
“It’s alright. I did this for you. I did what you couldn’t do. You were weak. That’s why you needed me. Someone to punish them for their sins. Soon, it will all be over. There’s only one more person left… then it will all be over. I promise. Just one more.”
The mirror image gazes down by their feet. Following your instinct, you follow their gaze to your own feet. Lying on the floor is a knife, one used on previous victims. Impulse has you bending down to pick it up.
“Just… one… more…”
Credited to Vetis