Manicure

Daron lay sprawled on the frigid, stone floor, shivering by cold and pain, the dank air of the cell clung to his skin. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and with each inhale, a searing pain lanced through his fingertips—the raw remnants of Burge's work.

"Quite resilient, aren't we? Not that I mind." Burge's voice slithered through the gloom like oil over water, sickeningly cheerful.

He stood in the doorway, his silhouette bloated against the dim light from the corridor. Then, turning on his heel with a swish of his bloodied apron, he left, the heavy door groaning shut behind him.

The clang of metal echoed, reverberating off the walls until it settled into a hum in Daron's ears. Silence fell upon the room. The sound of Burge's footsteps grew fainter, until they disappeared completely.

Daron looked around the empty cell. Burge had left him half a loaf of moldy bread beside a plastic bottle of water for sustenance. The water inside the bottle was murky, clouded with particles. His stomach churned in revulsion, yet it was an offering from Burge he couldn't ignore.

Gritting his teeth, Daron shifted. He pushed himself up from the cold stone, each movement a battle against the stiffness in his joints and the fiery protest from his fingertips. The pain spiked as he stretched out a trembling hand, reaching for the bread with a grimace.

Fingers grazed the crust, stiff and fuzzy with green spots. Daron recoiled at first but steadied his resolve, grabbing the meager meal. The other hand fumbled for the bottle, his grip clumsy on the slick plastic. It slipped once, twice, before he secured it, the effort drawing a sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth.

The cap twisted off with a crackle, and Daron brought the opening to his lips—hesitation giving way to desperation. He tilted the bottle back, the murky water flowing down his throat, as he tried to avoid having to taste the liquid, without much success. It tasted foul, yes, but to his parched throat, it was a river in the desert. He drank deeply, ignoring the sting as remnants of the liquid dribbled down, touching the exposed flesh of his wounded fingers.

With the last of the water vanquished, Daron turned to the bread. The green fuzz stood out like unwelcome verdure against the dark cell floor. His stomach churned at the sight, but he steeled himself against the revulsion clawing at his insides.

"Survival first," he muttered, carefully wiping off what he could.

He tore a small piece, the mold flaking off under his fingers. Bringing it to his lips, he paused, closed his eyes, and allowed instinct to override disgust. He bit down. The bread was stale, the taste sour. Each bite was an act of defiance, a silent declaration that he was not yet broken, that his spirit, like the hardest steel, would bend but not shatter.

Disgusting, was the only thought coming to his mind.

The last crumb fell, and Daron lay back, panting softly. The bread settled like a stone within him, yet it was sustenance nonetheless. He flexed his fingers, wincing as he brought them before his eyes. They were a mess—bloody and torn.

He put his hands back on the ground, the cold stone sending a shiver through his already trembling body. As he touched a shadow created by the light above, a strange sensation coursed through him like an electric jolt. Something happened.

From the ragged flesh where once nails had been, there emerged a startling contrast. A similar substance like the one that mended his wounds made its way, new growths, dark as midnight, grew slowly in the place his fingernails once were. Daron watched with fascination.

The sting of pain receded with each new millimeter, replaced by the familiar cold numbness he was getting used to. Daron's breath hitched as the last of the black nails solidified, a stark contrast against his pale, bloodied skin.

"That was… unexpected." he said to himself, happy he had one less thing to worry about, those pesky missing fingernails did hurt a lot.

Daron clenched his newly whole fists, an uncanny sense of vitality spread from the tips of his fingers. He extended his hand, watching the shine of the light play off the unnatural sheen of his new nails.

Daron traced the outline of his new nails with his teeth, testing their hardness. They were as tough as obsidian, unyielding and cold.

"They kinda look like nail polish" he thought to himself, unsure what to make of this realization.

He crawled back onto his makeshift bed, which consisted of a pile of straw that had been his resting place for the past few weeks. He crossed his legs, and with a last glimpse onto his nails, he closed his eyes.

***

Inhale. Exhale.

His lungs filled slowly. Each breath was a step deeper into the quiet sanctuary within himself, a place untouched by the cruel hands of the fat butcher.

Deeper and deeper, Daron's consciousness waned from the dank confines of his cell. The chill of the stone floor receded, replaced by the pleasant numbness. The scent of mold and despair that clung to the air began to dissolve, giving way to... nothingness. No smell, no taste, no feeling no thoughts.

Daron found himself standing on a black plane, his bare feet pressing against its cool, glassy surface. The texture was like that of a dark mirror, and with each heartbeat, a faint ripple emanated outward, distorting the reflection of a world not quite known.

He took a tentative step forward, then another, the glassy ground unyielding yet surreal in its responsiveness. His gaze wandered to the periphery of the plane, where the dark horizon met the glassy ground. An perfectly straight line seemed to slice through the void, too precise to be natural. His eyes tracked upward, taking in the altered skyscape: an ominous sun hung low, its light swallowed by the oppressive shadows it bled into the surroundings.

The air itself felt charged, heavy with a power that prickled against Daron's skin. An undercurrent of magic pulsed through this realm.

As he stood alone on that endless mirror, Daron thought about the changes he and the void had undergone. From a formless existence to what felt like a reflection of his body, from a dark unfamiliar place to an almost serene sanctuary. The void didn't feel like his enemy anymore, instead he found solace in this place.

As he pondered, he noticed another new change.

Before him, part of the emptiness coalesced into form—a shadow within shadows. The figure loomed, its edges unfixed and bleeding out as if made of dark smoke writhing in a nonexistent wind. The smoke grew bigger, whirling together, towering over Daron like a spire of darkness.

The creature remained motionless, yet it seemed to expand and contract endlessly.

"And who are you? Speak," Daron demanded, more to hear something—anything—than out of any true expectation of a reply.

And then it came, the voice, resonating with the same tone that visited him during his previous expeditions through the void.