The Dread of Damned

CONTENT WARNING

The girl's eyes fluttered open, the world around her a blur of shadows and indistinct shapes. Her head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that seemed to radiate from the base of her skull and spread through her entire body. She blinked, trying to clear the fog from her mind, but it clung to her thoughts like a thick, suffocating blanket.

"What was this?" her mind churned, the question looping endlessly, a desperate attempt to make sense of her surroundings. "Where was she?"

The memories came in fragments, jagged and disjointed, like shards of glass cutting through the haze. She had been with her friend, laughing, talking, the world bright and normal. Then, after saying goodbye, everything had gone dark. The transition was abrupt as if someone had flipped a switch, plunging her into a void where time and space ceased to exist.

She remembered the darkness first—absolute, consuming, a suffocating blackness that pressed in on her from all sides. She had tried to move, to scream, but her body had been bound, her limbs heavy and unresponsive. The ropes—or were they chains?—had dug into her flesh, the pain a constant, gnawing presence. She had cried out, her voice raw and desperate, but no one had answered. The silence had been deafening, a void that swallowed her pleas and left her alone with her fear.

Slowly, agonizingly, she had given up. The fight had drained out of her, leaving her hollow and broken. She wasn't powerful, not like some of the others. She wasn't a Nocturnal. No, she was ordinary, barely superior to the normal vampires. Her strength was negligible, and her abilities were limited. She had tried to break free, to summon whatever power she had, but it had been useless. The binds had held, and she had been left to rot in the darkness.

Time had lost all meaning. It could have been hours, days, or even weeks—she had no way of knowing. The darkness had been her only companion, a relentless, unyielding presence that had driven her to the edge of madness. She had prayed for an end, for someone—anyone—to come and free her from this nightmare. And then, finally, someone had.

She remembered the sound of footsteps, the creak of a door, the faint glimmer of light that had pierced the darkness. Her heart had leaped with hope, her body trembling with the anticipation of freedom. But it had been short-lived. The next thing she remembered was being tied up again, the chains heavier this time, the darkness even more suffocating. It had been a cruel trick, a fleeting glimpse of hope that had been snatched away before she could even grasp it.

The despair had been overwhelming. Why was this happening to her? She had once been untouchable, her family's name a shield that had protected her from harm. But that had been before the fall, before her family had been torn apart, their power and influence reduced to ashes. Now, she was nothing—a pawn in someone else's game, her fate resting in hands she couldn't even see.

Her eyes slowly regained their focus, but the room remained shrouded in darkness. She could make out shapes, indistinct and shadowy, but nothing concrete. And then she saw it—a figure on the bed in front of her. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling, barely more than a whisper. The words felt heavy on her tongue, each one a struggle to form. "Why am I here?"

There was no immediate response, only the sound of her own breathing, ragged and uneven. And then, from the shadows, a voice—cold, amused, and dripping with malice.

"See, she doesn't even recognize you anymore."

The words sent a chill down her spine, their meaning unclear but undeniably sinister. She didn't have the energy to think, to piece together the fragments of her shattered mind. All she could do was watch as the figure on the bed moved.

There were two of them, she realized—one sitting in the lap of the other. The one on top shifted, crawling forward with a deliberate slowness that made her skin crawl. The sound of metal clinking filled the air, a harsh, discordant noise that grated on her nerves.

The figure was a woman, or at least she thought it was. The shape was feminine, the thick curves unmistakable even in the dim light. But there was something off, something wrong. The way she moved was unnatural, almost feral as she crawled to the edge of the bed. 

The silver chains glinted faintly in the oppressive darkness, their cold, metallic sheen the only source of light in the room. For a vampire, darkness was usually a comfort, a companion that wrapped around her like a second skin. But this darkness was different—it was alive, pulsing with malevolent energy that seemed to choke her senses. It wasn't just the absence of light; it was a force, a presence that pressed down on her, blocking her vision, her thoughts, and her very well. It was as if the shadows themselves were bending to someone else's command, twisting and shifting to keep her blind and disoriented.

The figure on the bed moved again, and this time the girl saw her. The woman—if she could even be called that—was unlike anyone she had ever seen. Her body was thick, her curves exaggerated to the point of grotesqueness. She moved with a strange, almost animalistic grace, her limbs unfolding as she leaped from the bed and landed on the ground with a heavy thud. A clinking sound followed her movements, harsh and discordant in the suffocating silence.

As the woman crawled forward, the girl's eyes were drawn to her breasts, unnaturally large and pendulous, almost dragging against the ground as she moved. The nipples were pierced with heavy rings, the metal glinting dully in the faint light. They were the source of the clinking sound, the noise growing louder with each movement. The woman's body was a patchwork of scars and marks, her skin pale and almost translucent, like the underbelly of a creature that had never seen the sun. Her hair was wild, a tangled mess that framed a face that was both beautiful and horrifying, her eyes glowing with a faint, unnatural light.

The girl's breath caught in her throat as the woman reached her, her movements too fast, too sudden to follow. Before she could react, the woman's hand shot out, gripping her face with a strength that was almost crushing. Her fingers were cold, the touch sending a shiver down the girl's spine. She tried to pull away, but the chains held her in place, their weight pressing down on her, making it impossible to move.

"Do you not remember me?" the woman asked, her voice cracked and broken, like the sound of a doll that had been left out in the rain for too long. It was a voice that hadn't been used in a long time, each word forced out with effort, the tone wavering and uneven.

The girl shook her head, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of the situation. The woman's face was close now, so close that the girl could see the fine lines and scars that marred her skin, the faint glow of her eyes, and the way her lips curled into a broken smile that was more of a grimace. There was something familiar about her, something that tugged at the edges of the girl's memory, but she couldn't place it. The darkness, the chains, the fear—it all clouded her thoughts, making it impossible to think clearly.

The woman's grip tightened, her nails digging into the girl's skin, drawing a faint trickle of blood. The girl winced, but she didn't cry out. She couldn't. The fear had paralyzed her, leaving her unable to do anything but stare into the woman's eyes, searching for something, anything that might explain what was happening

The voice cut through the tension like a blade, smooth and commanding, yet laced with a cruel amusement that made the girl's skin crawl. "Now, now, you should not scare our new pet like this," it said, the tone almost chiding as if the woman's actions were nothing more than a playful misstep. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication, and the girl felt a fresh wave of dread wash over her.

The second figure moved, stepping out of the shadows with a deliberate slowness that only heightened the girl's fear. She couldn't see them clearly—the darkness still clung to the room like a living thing—but she could feel their presence, a cold, oppressive force that seemed to suck the air from the room. The figure's footsteps were soft, almost inaudible, but each one echoed in her mind, a steady drumbeat of impending doom.

"She will need time to get used to this," the figure continued their voice calm, almost soothing, but with an undercurrent of menace that made the girl's stomach churn. The words were not meant to comfort her; they were a reminder that her suffering was only beginning, that this was just the first step in a process she couldn't yet comprehend.

The woman who had gripped her face moments earlier reacted instantly to the voice, her body coiling back like a snake retreating into the shadows. She dropped to all fours, her movements fluid and submissive, her head lowering as she crawled toward the figure in the darkness. The rings clinked softly, the sound almost rhythmic, as if they were part of some macabre dance.

The girl's eyes followed the woman, her vision slowly adjusting to the dim light. She could see her more clearly now, and the sight made her blood run cold. The woman's body was a grotesque tapestry of scars and marks, her skin marred by patches of new and old flesh as if she had been repeatedly torn apart and stitched back together. Her thick asscheeks parted slightly as she crawled, revealing a marred asshole, the skin around it raw and uneven, a patchwork of healed wounds and fresh cuts. It was a sight that spoke of unimaginable pain and degradation, a testament to the horrors she had endured.

The girl's breath hitched, her mind recoiling from the image. Just what had happened in this place? What kind of hell had she been dragged into? The woman's body told a story of suffering, of being broken and remade, of being used and discarded like a toy. And now, it seemed, she was next.

The figure in the darkness reached out, their hand resting on the woman's head in an almost affectionate gesture, if not for the context. The woman leaned into the touch, her body trembling with a mixture of fear and something else—something the girl couldn't quite place. It was as if the woman had been conditioned to crave even the smallest shred of approval, no matter the cost.

"Good girl," the figure murmured, their voice soft but laced with a chilling authority. The woman whimpered softly, the sound almost pitiful, and the girl felt a pang of sympathy despite her terror. This woman, whoever she was, had been reduced to nothing more than a broken shell, a plaything for whoever held the power in this nightmare.