Bedtime Story: Why You Wouldn't Last In A Medieval Dungeon

This 1.5-hour sleep story helps you fall asleep fast and rest deeply, perfect for anyone seeking an atmospheric bedtime story, gentle sleep meditation, or a relaxing historical sleep track.

What if you rested in the quiet depths of a medieval castle, far beneath the bustling kingdom above? This immersive second-person narration places you in a surprisingly peaceful dungeon keep. Here, you find profound solitude and safety within thick, ancient stone walls. Experience the tranquil stillness of resting on a soft cot of fresh hay, wrapped tightly in warm wool. Watch a single beam of silver moonlight filter through a high, arched window, casting a gentle glow across the cool stone floor.

Transcript

Hey guys, Tonight we begin with the cold, Rotting, And pitch black world of medieval dungeons. Those underground pits where justice was optional and torture was a pastime. Hollywood might show chains and shadows, But the reality, It was worse. You wouldn't last the night. Between the filth, The rats, The screaming. And whatever that was dripping on your back. Survival wasn't likely. Now get cozy, Let the day melt away, And we'll drift back together into the quiet corners of the past. You wake up to the sound of dripping, Not a poetic drip, No calming cave ambiance, No gentle water trickling across ancient stone. This is a fat wet plop echoing just enough to make you realize you're in a space far too enclosed for comfort. The darkness is total. Not evening dark, Not candle out dark. This is coffin dark, Blacker than closed eyes. You try to blink. But the world doesn't change. It's not your vision. It's the place. You move to sit up and instantly regret it. Your back screams, Your arms resist, And you hear the unmistakable clink of metal. Chains, Actual chains, Around your wrists, Anchored high, Pulling your shoulders into a shape they were never meant to hold. You shift and feel the cold stone wall behind you. Your clothes, Or what's left of them, Are soaked. You're lying in something. To guess what. The smell offers a short list anyway, Blood, Urine, Old meat, And something sour that clings to your nose like guilt. Mold maybe. Maybe worse. There's a rat nearby. You can't see it, But you hear it scurrying in the dark, Claws tapping across stone, Nose twitching. It pauses, Sniffs, Then scurries again. You're not food yet, But you're on the menu, Probably as a backup snack. You try to remember how you got here. You were in the village, Right? Or a market? There was something about taxes. Or maybe the Lord's nephew had a thing for your sister, And you said the wrong thing at the wrong time. The specifics don't matter now. In medieval justice, Being poor, Loud, Or unlucky was a punishable offense. Welcome to the consequences. Your head throbs. There's a lump at your temple and something crusted in your hair. You touch it gently and flinch. Blood, Maybe. You can't see it, But your fingertips confirm what your skull already suspects. Someone hit you hard. You were dumped here like rotting vegetables. Except vegetables don't scream, And you're pretty sure someone else did last night. You're not sure if they're still here. You shift again, And the chains rattle. The sound is deafening in the silence. You freeze. Wait. Nothing. No footsteps. No guards. Just the steady, Rhythmic dripping. Somewhere above you, Water leaks through the stone ceiling. Cold droplets hit your shoulder, Then your cheek. The wet spot on your clothes grows. You think it's water. You hope it's water. You make peace with the fact it probably isn't. Your cell is small. Not that you've seen it. You've just memorized its limits by feel. Stone walls on all four sides. Low ceiling. The smell is constant. No airflow down here. No breeze. No fresh anything. It's stale, Recycled misery. Every breath brings you closer to becoming part of it. You try to call out. Just a whisper. Hello? It echoes. Pathetic. Your voice sounds small and cracked. You try louder, But your throat catches. Dry. Unused. You cough. The sound bounces, Dies. No answer. You're alone. Or you're not. And whatever else is down here just doesn't care. Time doesn't move in places like this. There's no sun, No torches, No bell tower chiming the hour. You could have been here for an hour or a day or since before your ancestors invented clocks. The only measure of time is how many times your stomach growls and how long you've been suppressing the urge to panic. You think about standing up. Then remember your legs. They work. Of. But they're stiff, Like they've been locked in place for hours. You drag your knees under you, Wincing as your joints creak like old wood. You make it halfway upright before your back spasms and you slump back down. That's when you feel it. The chain at your ankle. Just long enough to let you shift, Not long enough to let you move. A whisper brushes your ear not real. Just your breath, Probably. Still, You don't move for a long time. Somewhere far off, A door creaks open. Not your door, But a door. Hinges scream. Heavy boots echo against stone. Someone's being dragged. Chains clatter. There's a muffled sob. Then a scream. Long. Raw. It slices the quiet in half and dies suddenly. Cut off. Like someone removed the air from the world. Then silence again. You curl in tighter. The chain pulls taut. You can't curl any further. Your arms are going numb. Your feet are wet. Something brushes your toe and you kick reflexively. You hit something soft. It squelches. You gag. There's something dead in your cell. Has been the whole time. You've been lying next to it, Or on it. You can't tell. The smell is no longer just part of the air. It's under your nails, In your mouth, Behind your eyes. It's you now. You breathe shallow count to 10. Start again. Try not to cry. You won't last the night. You know that. You're just hoping morning finds your body before the rats do. You're not a murderer. You're not a thief. You didn't burn down a monastery, Defile a saint's bones, Or poison a well. You didn't conspire against the king or insult God. All you did was owe a chicken. One chicken. A scrawny, Molting, Semi-egg-producing mess of feathers that wandered off during a storm and never came back. You explain this politely, Then again, Less politely. Then you were tied up, Slapped, And thrown face first into a pile of hay that smelled like it had dreams once. That was three days ago, Maybe four. You've lost track. Your concept of time now comes in rats, Drips, And distant screams. Justice, In your case, Is a generous term. Because in this world, Justice isn't about guilt or innocence. It's about power. The barren owns the land, The wheat, The road, The trees, The sky, And by extension, You. You are property that talks back. And when property steps out of line, When it forgets its place, It gets corrected. You still remember the way he looked at you. The barren. Rings on every finger. Wine-stained smile. Soft hands that have never touched a plow, But somehow feel entitled to everything born from one. His robe had gold embroidery. Real gold. He wore a sword for decoration, Not defense. His cheeks were red from wine, His eyes bored. You were just a momentary distraction. A peasant with a missing chicken. His steward suggested punishment, And the Baron barely blinked. Yes, Yes, Take him below. That was your trial. Now here you are, On the other side of the law, Which is to say, Under it. Deep under it, In a hole where fairness doesn't apply and explanations don't matter. You want to scream. I didn't do anything. But you've already tried that. It echoed back to you and sounded pathetic. The walls weren't listening. Neither were the rats. The guards, If you can call them that, Aren't concerned with truth. Their job is to apply discomfort until you either confess or die. Preferably both. Confessions make good reading material for the town clerk, And corpses make space for the next peasant with the audacity to speak. When they brought you in, They didn't ask questions. They didn't need to. The fact that you were there meant you were guilty of something. Maybe not a crime. But an attitude, A tone. The way you didn't bow low enough when the tax collector came by. The way you looked the steward in the eye instead of the ground. A personality defect, Maybe. Something undignified. Something ungrateful. You'd like to believe this is all a misunderstanding, That someone will come explain the situation. Maybe the neighbor who saw the chicken get swept away. Maybe your sister. Maybe a sympathetic monk. But that hope fades with every minute. Down here, There are no advocates, No visitors, No witnesses. Just you, Your regrets, And the faint hope that your stomach might stop growling before it starts eating itself. The man in the cell next to you doesn't talk. You've never seen him. But he groans sometimes, Whimpers. His chains rattle at odd hours and once you heard him singing. Not a happy song. Just a slurred, Broken thing, Like someone trying to remember what music felt like before pain took its place. You want to ask him what he did. But you already know the answer Nothing. Or at least nothing that deserved this. Maybe he fished in the wrong river. Maybe his wife talked too much at market. Maybe his son owed a favor to the wrong knight and vanished. No one ends up here because they're evil. They end up here because they're unlucky. The dungeon doesn't care about innocents. It cares about bodies. Warm ones, Preferably. They scream better. Bleed Better. And when the guards get bored, They need something to poke, Something to press, Something to dangle by the wrists until it forgets what daylight felt like. You try to remember your last day of freedom, The sun. The bread. The way your back ached from honest labor instead of shackles. It already feels like a dream. A pleasant hallucination you'll never get back to. The air was warmer up there. It didn't claw its way into your lungs. It didn't smell like rot and rat piss. You think about the Baron again, Probably feasting now, Dripping meat and wine down his chin, Laughing at some crude joke. Forgotten you. Maybe you were just Thursday's entertainment. A name scrawled in chalk on a list and wiped away before dessert. That's the worst part. Not the chains. Not the cold. Not even the fear. It's the sheer, Crushing insignificance of it all. You didn't steal. You didn't kill. You didn't rebel. You just miscounted your livestock. And now you're here, Starving in the dark, Waiting for a torturer who doesn't need a reason, Just a routine. There's a bucket of tools with your name on it, And you're starting to wonder how many toes you can lose before walking becomes optional. You won't get a trial. You won't get a verdict. You'll get a confession, Written by someone else, Signed in your blood. And if you're lucky, They'll hang you after. If you're not, They'll forget. And you'll rot here. Quietly beneath a castle that no longer remembers your name. The floor breathes, Not metaphorically, Not in a poetic, Tragic way. It actually moves beneath you. Slowly. Warm in patches. Pulsing in others. You told yourself it was just the damp stone, Or your imagination, Or maybe the fever that's been quietly cooking your brain since the second hour. But no. It's alive. Or at least it's hosting things that are. You shift your weight, And something squishes. You freeze. Whatever it was is now coating your hip, Your elbow, Maybe your ribs. It seeps through the shredded cloth you still generously call a shirt. You want to move. You really do. But you also don't want to disturb whatever ecosystem you've accidentally become part of. You've been here long enough to know the dungeon floor isn't just where you sleep. It's where you merge. Slowly. Cell by cell. There's mold, So much mold, In colors you can't name and textures you regret touching. It grows freely, Enthusiastically, As if this place were a sacred greenhouse for microbial nightmares. You tried brushing it off once, Early on. Your fingers came back slimy. The patch just reappeared the next day, Fluffier, Bolder, Like it had taken the gesture personally. Then there are the maggots. You don't know where they come from, Probably the ceiling, Possibly the other inmates, Maybe even the walls. They appear in clusters, Squirming like animated rice, Tucked into the crevices between stone tiles and the folds of whatever rotten straw still clings to your bedding. Not that you have bedding. You have what used to be straw and now functions as a sort of damp mulch that occasionally twitches. You The rats are bolder. You've named three of them. Not out of affection. Just necessity. If you know their names, You can pretend they're not random. One is missing an eye. One drags a back leg like it owes him money. One is probably pregnant. She glares at you every time she passes like she's considering subletting part of your cell. You once tried to shoo her. She hissed. You apologized. At night, They come closer. They sniff your toes, Your scabs, The spots where your skin has started to break open from lying too long in one place. You swatted at one once. It bit you. Not hard. Just enough to remind you who's lower on the food chain. You haven't tried again. Everything is wet. Not in a refreshing way. Not like morning dew on a hillside. This is dungeon wet. This is standing water that refuses to go anywhere. It collects in the dips in the floor. It seeps up through cracks. It drips from somewhere above that you can't see and wouldn't want to. Your feet haven't been dry in days. Maybe weeks. You've stopped counting. Your skin is peeling. Your nails are soft. You're growing fungus in places you didn't know could grow things. Congratulations. You're a science experiment. The smell is worse. It's not one smell, It's layers. Decay, Mildew, Rusted iron, Old waste, And something sharp and sweet that makes you dizzy if you breathe too deep. You have. You learned your lesson. Shallow breaths now, Through the mouth. Even that's a gamble. Once, In a moment of optimism, You tried to clean your space. You used a rag from your shirt and a corner of the wall. You managed to scrape away some gunk, Reveal a little stone beneath the filth. You felt proud, Human. Then a beetle the size of your thumb crawled out of the crack and stared at you like you'd violated a lease agreement. You stopped. Sometimes you think you hear the floor talking, Not in words, In bubbles, In groans, Like the stone is shifting, Exhaling, Like it's digesting. Maybe it is. You wouldn't be surprised if the dungeon itself was alive. After all, You feed it. You bleed on it. You sleep on it. You cry into it. What else does it need? Your back is covered in sores. You try not to think about them. One of them burst last night when you rolled over. The fluid soaked into your tunic, Which means it soaked into the floor, Which means it's probably being shared now. You wonder if that's how infection spreads down here, Through the ground, Through shared misery. You're part of something, A biome, A living organism. Weeping, Crawling community of rot. The guards never step inside. They stay at the threshold. They toss food in, If you're lucky. A crust of bread. A ladle of gray water. They never cross into the damp zone. You used to wonder why. Now you know. The floor claims things. Boots, Balance, Soles. You don't sleep anymore. Not really. You drift. Between itches and bites and cramps and the creeping realization that your body is betraying you in slow motion. When you do drift off, It's never long. Something always wakes you. A rat. A dream. A shift in the breathing floor beneath you. You are not resting, You are fermenting. You used to think rock bottom was a metaphor. Something people said when their life fell apart. But this is it. This is the literal bottom. Cold stone, Festering warmth, And the quiet, Endless hum of things that are far too alive for comfort. You lie still. Knowing you're already infected. And you hope, Foolishly, That it kills you before something else does. The footsteps are the first sign. Slow, Deliberate, Louder than they need to be. Not because the guard is in a hurry. But because he knows you can hear him. You're supposed to. It's part of the ritual. The build-up. Fear is the appetizer. The pain comes later. You press your back against the slime-coated wall, As if that will help. As if pressing yourself into a pile of mold and rat urine will somehow make you invisible. It doesn't. The footsteps keep coming. Closer now. With that lazy rhythm of someone who has nowhere else to be. You hear keys, Metal scraping metal, A lock grinding. Then the door creaks open like it's in a stage play written by a sadist. Torchlight spills into your cell. It blinds you. You haven't seen real light in days, Maybe longer. It burns your eyes. The silhouette standing in the doorway is massive. Not muscular, Just heavy. Like a bag of wet meat stuffed into a guard's uniform. His boots squelch when he steps inside. Even he can't avoid the living filth that carpets your floor. He doesn't speak, Just reaches for you. You try to crawl away. The chain catches your ankle. You fall flat, Cheek pressed against the cold stone, Shoulder twisted, Something sharp digging into your ribs. You scream, Not because of the pain, But because you already know where this is going. And you are not ready. He grabs your arm, Hauls you up like you weigh nothing, And drags you into the corridor. You don't resist. Not because you're brave. You just learned in chapter one that fighting back makes it worse. Much worse. The corridor smells like smoke and sweat and old metal. It's lined with tools, Not hanging neatly on pegs, Not labeled or polished, Just scattered, Dumped in buckets, Smeared with something that looks like rust and probably isn't, A blade, A spike, A bar with a crank, Things that don't have names in your vocabulary, Just shapes and implied outcomes. You pass a table. It's stained. Deeply. Permanently. Someone once tried to scrub it clean. They gave up. Now, It's just a mural of failure. Dried blood in starburst patterns. Bone fragments lodged in the wood. A tooth, Still perfectly intact. Sitting in a crack, Like it's waiting for the mouth it used to belong to. They tie you down. Wrists. Ankles. Neck. The leather straps are cracked and stiff. Too many regrets to ever be soft again. You can't move. That's the point. Movement makes it messier. They like clean lines. Another guard enters. This one is grinning, Not because he enjoys it, Though he probably does, But because this is the only time anyone listens to him. In the real world, He's nothing. Down here, He's God. And today, Your His Sermon. He holds up a thumbscrew, Shows it to you like a magician about to reveal a trick. You already know the trick. It's simple. He puts your thumb inside. He turns the crank. The metal presses in. Slowly. Meticulously. Bones don't snap right away. They compress. They shatter like stale bread. It takes time. That's the performance. You beg. Not because you think it will work. Just because you're out of options. You say you're sorry. You say you'll do anything. You admit to things you didn't do. You lie. You try to make your pain interesting. But this isn't about answers. It never was. They start with one hand, Thumb, And forefinger. The crank squeaks. You feel pressure, Then heat. Then something pops, Not loudly, Just a soft, Wet crunch. The kind of sound you never forget, Even if you somehow survive. You scream. Of course you do. You scream until your voice is a rasp, Until your throat bleeds from the inside, Until you sound less like a person and more like a broken hinge. They stop. Not because they're done. Just pacing themselves. Next comes the pear. It looks almost elegant. A shiny metal bulb with a twist handle and delicate flanges. But it's a lie. The pear doesn't belong in fruit baskets. It belongs inside people. Mouth, Rectum, Vagina. Dealer's choice. It goes in small. Then opens. Wide. Until something tears. Until something bleeds. Until something stops working. They don't even ask where it should go. They just pick. You try to shut your mind off. Try to leave your body like it's a bad room in a worse inn. But it keeps dragging you back. Every nerve firing. Every tendon screaming. Every part of you desperately wishing to be anywhere but here. You pass out. Not for long. They don't allow that. Cold water. A slap. A hot iron near your face. You wake up wishing you hadn't. The pain is waiting. Patient. Consistent. Reliable. It hasn't gone anywhere. Eventually, They stop. Maybe they got bored. Maybe someone else screamed louder. Maybe they need a break. Doesn't matter. They untie you and drop you on the stone like a sack of spoiled meat. You crawl back to your cell. Or maybe they drag you. It's all a blur now. Torch Light. Laughter. The clank of tools being cleaned for the next performance. You lie back on the breathing floor, Fingers bent wrong, Joints swollen, Something inside you leaking that shouldn't be. And you realize this wasn't punishment, It was orientation. The first course in a long, Slow banquet. Torture isn't the end here. It's just the beginning. You're starving. Not the kind of hungry you used to complain about after skipping breakfast. Not the I-could-eat-a-horse kind you joked about at the tavern. Number, This is deeper, Hungrier. It's your bones creaking every time you move. It's your stomach folding in on itself, Chewing through the last scraps of dignity you thought you still had. It's hunger as a religion, Devouring, All-consuming, Holy in its single-mindedness. You try not to think about food. That makes it worse. But your body doesn't listen. It reminds you. With images. A heel of bread, Crusty and warm. An onion roasted over fire. Even the taste of thin cabbage soup, The peasant's luxury, Haunts your tongue like a memory of a lover you'll never see again. You lick your lips. There's nothing there but dust and dried blood. Your cellmate, If he's still alive, Hasn't moved in hours. He groaned once earlier, A wet, Gurgling sound, And then went silent. You've started counting the sounds in your head. Not because it helps, But because silence feels like death. And you're not quite ready for that. Not yet. Not until after dinner. Right. That's generous. At some point, There's no pattern, No time, Just eventually, A guard appears at the door. He doesn't look at you. Just opens the hatch and tosses something inside. It lands with a thud that echoes across the stone like a slap. You crawl to it on elbows and knees. You don't have the strength to walk You barely have the strength to care. It's bread. Or something bread-adjacent. A lump of crust with a texture somewhere between tree bark and sun-dried leather. You reach for it but pause. It's moving. Slowly. Subtly. Wiggling. Just enough to make you question whether the hallucinations have started early today. You poke it, A maggot falls out. You watch it squirm on the stone. Then two more tumble out from the underside, Wriggling like rice in heat. One disappears into the straw. The others stay close to the crust like loyal guardians. You hesitate. You consider your options. Option 1. Try not to chew too hard. Try not to think about the soft crunch. Try not to gag when something bursts. Option 2. Don't eat it. Sit quietly. Let the hunger evolve. Let your body start chewing its own insides. Let the dizziness take you to a dream where you're feasting on illusions. Then wake up to the reality of your own fingers in your mouth. You eat it. You tell yourself you'll just eat the clean part. There is no clean part. You tell yourself you'll eat around the movement. That's impossible. It's already inside. You stop thinking. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Chew. Swallow. Tears leak from your eyes. Not because of the taste, But because part of you just died. The part that used to care. When it's done, You wipe your face with a sleeve that smells like everything you never want to smell again. You sit back, Wait for the nausea. It comes quickly. But you've trained yourself not to throw up. That's wasteful. You learned that on day two. The hunger fades. Not gone, Just muted. Like a bear retreating into the woods to wait. It'll be back. Soon. Hungrier. Meaner. You look at your hands. They're thinner than they were, Veins like ropes, Skin tight against bone, Fingernails cracked and blackened. One is missing. You don't remember how. You think the rat took it. You glance over at your cellmate again. He's still not moving. He might be sleeping. He might be dead. You don't ask. You don't want to know. Because if he is dead, That's another option. One you don't want to think about yet. But it's there. A backup plan. A horrible, Last resort, Never say it out loud plan. You press your back against the wall, Slowly. The stones are cold, Always cold. You close your eyes and try to remember what warmth feels like. Not fire. Warmth. A full belly. A blanket. A face smiling at you from across a table. You remember a meal. Vividly. Roasted turnips with butter. Stolen from the Lord's kitchen. You ate them in the woods with your sister. Laughing at nothing. Crumbs on your chin. You told her it was the best meal you'd ever had? You were probably right. That memory is all that's left now. The butter. The warm. Her voice. Your stomach growls again. It doesn't care about memories. You try to sleep, But your body twitches. The hunger has rewired your nerves. You dream of food, But it turns to ash in your mouth. Or worse. Something moves. Something wriggles. You wake up chewing your sleeve. You spit it out. You lie there, Staring at the ceiling you can't see. The weight of your own body pressing into your bones like stone. The rats shuffle near your feet. You don't kick them away this time. If they want a bite, They'll take it. Let them. You already did. At first, The rats stayed away. Skittish things darting in and out of shadows, Their claws ticking against the stone like whispers. You watched them from a distance, If two feet could be called that, While you huddled in your corner, Still clinging to the idea that you were human and they were not. But something changed. Maybe it was the way your scent changed. Riper, Slower, Closer to death than life. Maybe it was the fact that you stopped swatting. Or maybe they just got tired of waiting. Either way, The rats have stopped being afraid. They come in pairs now, Sometimes threes. They move with purpose, Not panic. They approach your body the way a noble approaches a feast. Casually, Arrogantly, With confidence that the meal will not object. One of them, The limping one you've named Scratch, Always leads the way. He's missing fur along his spine. Looks like he's been burned or chewed or both. He doesn't blink when you make eye contact. He just watches, Like he's reading you. Measuring you Deciding how much longer to wait. You try to kick him. Your leg jerks an inch. The chain clinks. Scratch doesn't move. He knows. They all know. You're not a threat. You're an offering. It happens while you're drifting. Not sleeping. Just caught between a dream and the dull ache of awareness. You feel something at your foot. A soft weight. The pressure of tiny paws. You open your eyes and there it is, On your ankle, Sniffing, Prodding, Exploring. You twitch instinctively. It doesn't run. It glances up, Twitches its nose, And continues. You stay still. Not by choice, Just by inability. Your limbs are heavy. Your back is fire. Your fingers no longer answer commands. You feel like your body is made of wet parchment, Thin, Tearable, Already halfway gone. The rat reaches your calf. There's a sore there, A crusted scab from some earlier scrape or bite or torture that didn't finish properly. You feel its nose touch it. Than its teeth. A pinch. Than pressure. Than tearing. You scream, Or try to. It comes out hoarse, Cracked, Like a whisper carried on sand. The rat doesn't flinch. It pulls harder. A chunk comes free. You feel the warmth. Than the sting. Than the numbness. It's eating you. Not metaphorically. Not as some grand symbol of your descent. Literally. Right now. Piece by piece. You try to sit up. Your arms fail. You try to roll. The chain says no. You reach for the rat and swat weakly. Your hand brushes its fur It moves just out of reach. Not running. Just repositioning. Like a surgeon adjusting his tools. Another joins, Then a third. They circle. A nip. You can't fight them all. You can't fight one. You curl in tighter, But it's no use. Your body is open for business. And the rats are ready to invest. You try to remember if this happened to someone else. Some story you heard. A villager dragged away by rats. A criminal stripped to bone in the sewers. You always thought those were myths, Or at least exaggerations. Something told to scare children. Turns out the truth is worse. Because when it's your body, Your flesh, Your nerves screaming, It's not myth. It's lunch. Scratch moves toward your hand. You keep it tucked under your side, Pretending that makes it safe. It doesn't. He sniffs your fingers, Pauses, Then bites your thumb. Not hard. Not to maim. Just a test. A taste test. You flinch, Finally managing to yank your hand back. The movement drains you. Sweat beads on your neck. Your stomach turns you feel dizzy. The air smells like iron and filth. You hear the rats whispering in squeaks, Planning, Coordinating. Or maybe that's just the fever talking. There are sounds in the corridor, A scream, A laugh, A clang. None of it matters here. Here, It's just you and the rats, The real guards of this place, The ones who don't forget, Who don't forgive, Who don't get bored. One rat is crawling across your chest now. You let it. You've stopped resisting. Not out of peace, But because you've run out of fight. It noses at your collarbone, Finds a patch of open skin, Begins to nibble. You feel the scrape of teeth. You shiver. Congratulations! You're no longer the prisoner. You're the pantry. You close your eyes. Not because you're tired, But because if you have to watch this happen, You might go mad. Not that it matters. The line between sanity and whatever this is has already dissolved into the damp stones beneath you. Somewhere deep in your mind, You wonder how long it will take, How many nights they'll need, How much of you will be left by morning. You hope absurdly that they're quick. You've heard worse stories than this. You just never imagined you'd be one. You drink it before you know what it is. Your body moves without permission, On instinct, On desperation, On a thirst that's been clawing at your throat for what feels like years. You've gone so long without water that the sound of a drip hitting stone becomes a siren song, A promise, A betrayal. You crawl toward the puddle, Slowly, Joints stiff, Lips cracked, Tongue swollen. Your hands stick to the floor as you move, Like your skin has begun to fuse with the filth. You don't care. You hear the drip. You see the shimmer. You smell nothing. Your nose stopped working days ago. But your mouth waters. If it can even still produce anything but dust. The puddle isn't large, Just a palm-sized pool nestled in the curve of a stone groove, Like the floor is holding onto it for someone special. You don't hesitate. You dip your face low and slurp, Animal-like, Too weak to be ashamed. It's not water. The taste hits you first, Metallic, Sharp, Like licking a blade. Then the smell catches up, Not clean, Not fresh. It's copper. And rot. Something wrong. Something warm. You gag. But you swallow. You were too thirsty not to. Your stomach tightens. Your throat burns. You spit but it's too late. Your mouth is coated. Your tongue stained. The taste lingers like a curse. You stare at the puddle. It doesn't ripple. It just sits there, Dark and glistening. Reflecting nothing. You look up. The ceiling above is low and uneven, A web of ancient stone and leaking seams. There's no pipe, No gutter, No rainwater trickling in from the world outside. Just a blackened stain that creeps along the cracks like a forgotten wound. And a drip. Every few seconds. Plop. Right into the puddle. You watch it land. Dark. Thick. Not clear. Not water. You back away. Slowly. Shaking. Your stomach gurgles in protest, Unsure if it wants more or if it's about to revolt. You try to convince yourself it was just dirty water. That your mind is playing tricks, That the dungeon exaggerates things, Smells, Colors, Fear. But deep down you know. You tasted it. It was blood. Not fresh. Not warm. But not old enough to forget what it was. The flavor is impossible to mistake. You've bitten your own tongue enough times in here to know exactly what blood tastes like. This was the same. Only worse. Like it had come through something rotten on its way down. You feel it now. In your gut. Thick and sloshing. The kind of liquid your body wasn't meant to absorb. You try not to think about where it came from. Who it came from. But your mind unhelpfully supplies theories. The cell above yours? Maybe someone's dying up there, Or already dead. Maybe they're bleeding through the cracks. A slow leak of agony and neglect. Or maybe it's runoff from the torture room. A spillover from the day's entertainment. A slop shoot for the excess. Or maybe the stones themselves bleed. Maybe this place has absorbed so much suffering that it's begun to exhale it. The dungeon isn't just walls and locks. It's a living thing now. It sweats. It bleeds. It feeds. You huddle in your corner, Arms wrapped tight around your legs, Rocking gently. Not for comfort, But to keep yourself conscious. You feel your pulse in your ears. Your breath comes shallow. Your mouth still tastes like rust. You think about thirst, About how quickly the line between need and horror disappears. A day ago, You'd have gagged at the thought. Blood in your mouth. Not yours. But now. . . You'd drink it again. You know that. You hate it, But you know. Thirst doesn't care about dignity. It scrapes you clean, Reduces you, Leaves only the primitive, The crawling thing inside your chest that wants to survive at any cost. You try to spit again. Dry. Nothing left. The puddle sits where you left it. Replenishing. One drop at a time. You know you'll drink it again. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not right away. But the time will come. The drip will call you back. Your mouth will ache. Your head will pound. Your body will drag itself across the floor, Desperate for something. Anything to drink. And it'll be waiting. Dark metallic. Familiar. The rats know not to drink it. They sniff and turn away. But you're not a rat. You're worse now. You know what it is, And you'll still crawl to it. That's what thirst does. That's what this place does. It breaks the part of you that says no, One drop at a time. You're not alone anymore. You weren't alone before, Technically. He was here already, Slumped in the corner, Half-wrapped in shadow, And a blanket of flies. But back then, There was still a chance. A groan now and then. A twitch. The occasional gasp like he was fighting to stay. You both were. Now he's still. Fully. Utterly. And he's not going anywhere. He died three. Or was it four days ago? Time here is sludge. But you remember the final sound, A breath that didn't come back, A wet, Rattling cough, Followed by a silence that was somehow heavier than his moaning ever was. After that, Nothing. Not from him. Not from anyone. Nobody came. No guard. No priest. No man with a cart. He just stayed. He still is. Lying in the same shape he collapsed in, Legs curled like he meant to sit up one last time, Head cocked against the stone wall like he's eavesdropping on death. His eyes are open. Wide. Try. Focused on something beyond you. Or maybe on you. It's hard to tell. You try not to look, But he's in your line of sight. Always. You shift left. He's there. You roll right. Still there. His mouth is open, Too. Mid-scream. Mid-breath. Mid-warning. He died with something to say and now it's frozen on his face forever. At first, You told yourself they'd come for him. There's protocol. Even in hell holes. Even for the forgotten. But the door stayed closed. The guards don't care. You've seen them walk past, Glance inside, Shrug. One of them laughed, Said, Guess you got the quiet one now. He's not quiet though. Not really. He doesn't move. But he makes himself known. The smell arrived on day two. It's inescapable. Thick. Sweet. Rancid, It presses against your throat like a hand. Your stomach clenches every time you inhale, But there's nowhere else for your breath to come from. You tried covering your nose with fabric. Pointless. The cloth smells worse. Then came the sounds. Not from him, Of course. From inside him. Burbling. Shifting. Things moving that shouldn't. A rat disappeared into his tunic last night, Crawled right in like it was a burrow. You didn't see it come back out You wonder what he was like. Before. You barely spoke. He was already fading when you arrived, Muttering nonsense, Scratching his leg raw, Rocking back and forth like he was winding down. You tried once to ask his name. He just blinked. Or maybe that was a spasm. You never got an answer. Now he's watching, Always. His body might be collapsing inward. Skin bloating, Mouth stiffening. But his gaze is fixed. Like he's waiting. For you. For your turn. Sometimes you catch yourself whispering to him, Not words, Just noise. A way to fill the space. A sound to remind yourself you're not already where he is. You don't know why you do it. He doesn't answer. But it feels worse when the silence stretches too long. You've started to see things Out of the corner of your eye, His hand twitches, His head tilts. You blink, And he's still again. Dead again. But for that split second, You swear he moved. That he's faking. Or maybe death is just slower here. Like everything else. You had a dream last night. You were lying next to him, Not in the cell, In a bed. A real bed, With sheets. His hand was on yours. His eyes were closed. Then he turned and smiled, And his teeth fell out one by one. You woke up screaming into your sleeve. You try not to sleep now. Sleep brings dreams. Dreams bring him. He's changing. Decomposing. You don't need a scholar to tell you that. The skin's different. Looser. Slipping in some places. His shirt is stained dark from whatever is leaking out of him. His jaw is unhinged a little more each day. It clicks when the rats crawl over it. You've stopped shooing them. You don't have the strength. And maybe deep down. You're hoping they'll finish him. Clean him up. Make him disappear, But they don't. They're delicate with him, Like they know, Like they're waiting to. The worst part isn't the smell. Or the bugs. Or the sounds. It's the comparison. Because you're not that different now. You caught your reflection once in a puddle that wasn't blood. Your cheeks are sunken. Your skin has gone that same waxy gray. Your hands tremble. Your mouth hangs open when you're not paying attention. Just like his. You're not roommates anymore. You're mirror images. Two different stages of the same process. He died last week. You die slower more gradually. But you're both heading in the same direction. And he just got there first. And every time you wake up stiff and sore, Limbs cold and vision blurry, You glance over and see him, Still waiting. Mouth open. Eyes locked. Like he knows. Like he's just biding his time until you lie down beside him for good. He died five, Maybe six days ago. Long enough for the smell to settle into your lungs. Short enough for the warmth of his last breath to still haunt the air. You didn't hear him die. It wasn't dramatic. No screams. No thrashing. Just one moment he was coughing in the corner, And the next, Still. You'd noticed he'd stopped blinking first, Just sat there with his head tilted like he was listening to something. Then he started to slump, Slow, Sinking into himself, Like his body had finally gotten the message that escape wasn't coming. You watched for an hour before you let yourself believe it. Even then you waited. People in this place jerk suddenly sometimes. Sometimes for hours after they've stopped being people. He slumped in the corner now, Same spot, Same position. Legs folded beneath him, Back crooked like he leaned too far and forgot how to straighten. One hand lies flat on the stone. The others curled around nothing. His mouth is open, Not wide, Just enough to make you wonder if he died mid-sentence, Mid-breath, Or mid-beg. His eyes are open too, Dry and unblinking, Staring. At first you try to avoid looking. It felt wrong. Like you were intruding. But you can't help it. He's in your eye line no matter where you sit. And you've started to notice little things. How his pupils haven't changed. How his lips are cracking at the corners. How his jaw has slackened more each day. He hasn't been removed. No one's come. No guard. No cart. No grunt with a shovel. They just left him. Like trash. Like compost. Like he's already part of the floor now. And maybe he is. You think the stone beneath him has gone darker. Wetter. A slow absorption. Like the dungeon is drawing him in. The rats noticed first. Two of them started circling his feet by the second night, Not eating, Just investigating. One crawled over his thigh, Paused, Then left. You expected more. A feeding frenzy. But it's like they know something. Like he's not quite ready or they're waiting for you to look away. You sleep facing the wall now You don't sleep well The dreams are worse when you turn your back to him. In them, He moves. Sometimes he stands. Sometimes he whispers. Once, He crawled over and took your hand in his. Cold, Cracked, Familiar. You woke up and your fingers were stiff. You'd been gripping something. You don't know what. You've tried to talk to him. Once, Maybe twice. Not a conversation, Just a word or two. Sorry or You still in there? He never answers, But you keep expecting him to. The silence after you speak is too loud, Like he's choosing not to respond. His smell has changed. At first it was just rot. Meaty and sour. Now there's something sweeter. Sickly. You breathe through your mouth, But it still coats your tongue You think it's in your skin now You're rotting by association. You tried covering him once, Ripped a piece of your shirt and laid it over his face. It stayed for half a day. Then it slipped. Or something moved it. You left it after that. Let him stare. Sometimes you think he blinks. Not often. Just in the edge of your vision. A flicker. A twitch. A tiny movement you can never prove. Once, You swear his head tilted. Just a little. Just enough to keep you from sleeping again. You've started to imagine what he looked like before. Before the sores, The sagging skin, The pale crust around his nose. Was he tall? Did he have a family? Did he scream when they brought him in? Or did he go quiet like you did? You'll never know. But your mind builds a version of him anyway. Gives him a name. A job. A laugh. Something to make him real. Because if he was real, Then maybe you still are too. But the truth is. . . He's more you than you want to admit. He's just ahead of schedule. A few skipped meals, A few infections, A bad night with the torturer, And you're in his corner, Slumped, Open-mouthed, Staring. You keep checking your fingers for swelling, Your toes for cold spots, Watching for the signs he had before he stopped moving, The peeling skin, The shallow breath, The way he started mumbling to no one. You listen for those sounds in yourself now. You're not scared of death anymore. You're scared of dying like that. Quiet. Alone. Unnoticed. You glance over. He's still staring. Like he knows. Like he's waiting. Like he's just holding your place in the corner. Night doesn't fall in the dungeon. It sinks. Like a body tied to a stone. You don't notice it at first. There's no window to mark the sun. No moonlight to cast shadows. Time bleeds here. But your body knows. The air changes. The cold grows teeth. The stone starts sweating and something inside you says, It's happening again. Midnight probably. Or close enough. You're curled against the wall, Knees pulled in, Bones grinding against stone. Every inch of you aches. Your shirt is damp with filth and your own breath, And your fingers won't uncurl no matter how much you will them to. You stopped shivering two days ago. Now you just twitch. You think it can't get darker. You're wrong. The first sign is the leak. A slow drip from the ceiling you forgot was even up there. It starts faint. One plop. Then another. Then a thin stream, Warm and sudden, Lands squarely on your face. You jolt. Not from fear. Reflex. Your body thought it was a spider. Or maybe it hoped. You wipe your face and sniff your fingers. It smells like mildew and iron. You don't want to guess where it's coming from. A broken pipe? A bleeding body? Condensation mixed with regret? You shuffle to the side. The leak follows. You shift again. Another drip lands, This time behind your ear. It feels intentional. Then come the rats, Not the bold, Curious ones you've learned to tolerate. These are louder, Frenzied. You hear them screeching in the corridor, Claws skittering like a thousand tapping spoons on stone. They're not walking, They're running, Fleeing. You tense, Muscles stiff and useless. The cell suddenly feels too small, Too open, Too exposed. Whatever's coming, Even the rats want no part of it. They dart past your cell, Ignoring the crusts you left out, Ignoring you. That's what scares you most. They've stopped seeing you as food. Now you're just collateral. Than it starts. The Knocking Not from the door, Not from the corridor, From below. A slow, Deep thud. Like a fist against hollow stone. Than another, Rhythmic, Deliberate, Like something is moving beneath the dungeon floor, Pacing in a circle, Dragging something heavy with it. Or maybe it's digging. Upper. You press your hand against the stone beneath you. It vibrates, Just a little. Just enough. You try to tell yourself it's the fever, Or maybe the hunger hallucinations again. But no, You've hallucinated before. Hallucinations don't make dust fall from the ceiling. The dead man in the corner doesn't move, But you feel like he's listening too. Like he's suddenly more aware than you are. Like the knock is meant for both of you. You hold your breath. Thud. Thud. Silence. Then from somewhere far beyond the wall, A groan. Not human, Not quite. It scrapes against your spine like a blade. You bite your tongue to stay quiet. You don't know why. It already knows you're here. You wish you could cover your ears, But your hands are busy gripping the ground. Not to brace yourself, But to anchor. You feel like the floor might drop out, Like the cell might open downward and reveal something older than stone waiting beneath. More water drips from above. Faster now. Pattering against your back, Your hair, Your open mouth when you gasp too suddenly. You wipe it off and find something dark on your fingers. It's not water. It's too thick. To red. You don't scream. You've learned that lesson. Screams only tell it where you are. A breeze blows through the crack beneath your door. Cold. Wrong. It smells like decay and old fire. Not fresh air. Not hope. Change. Then silence again. No more rats. No more knocks. Just the sound of your breath. Shallow, Thin. Scared. You wait. Minutes pass. Or hours. The puddle at your feet grows. The air curdles. Your legs cramp. Your eyes start to close. And just when you think it's safe to exhale, Something shifts in the wall. A stone grinds. Not much. Just a fraction of an inch. But you hear it. Something moved. Inside. You stare at the spot willing it to be your imagination. But it's not. You know it. The dungeon has many levels. You've heard the screams come from deeper places. You just never thought they'd come up. You curl in tighter. You press your head against your knees You whisper something, Not a prayer. Just a sound. A human sound. Something to prove to the dark that you still exist. And the ceiling drips and the floor vibrates. And the silence grows teeth. It starts with a shiver, Not a full body shake, Just a little twitch in your shoulder, Like your muscles are getting bored. Then your neck joins in. Your jaw clenches. Your teeth start to click against each other like stones in a sack. You think it's just the cold. The dungeon's always cold. But this? This is different. Then comes the sweat, Hot, Sour, Relentless. You're freezing, But your skin thinks you're burning alive. Your shirt sticks to your back like wet parchment. Your hair clings to your scalp in clumps. You wipe your forehead, And your hand comes away drenched. You blink. The cell tilts sideways. You're sick. Not sore throat, Stay in bed sick. Not two days of broth and a blanket sick. This is medieval sick. Which means you're already halfway dead. You try to remember how it started. Was it the rat bite? The moldy bread? The puddle that definitely wasn't water. Doesn't matter. There's no doctor. No nurse. No one to ask what's wrong. You could scream all night and maybe, Maybe, A guard would check to see if you've died yet. And if you haven't. He'll slam the hat shut and walk away. They don't clean up the sick. They wait for the corpse. Your stomach rolls. Something inside you twists. Tightens. Then releases. You lean forward and vomit. Hard. It splashes across the stone. Thick. Red. You stare at it, Trying to figure out what part of you just came out. Blood. Not much at first. Just a streak. Then more. Foamy. Stringy. Metallic. Your throat burns like you drank hot coals. Your chest contracts again and more comes up. Your body's rejecting itself. You crawl away from the mess, But your limbs don't work right. You slump against the wall and the stone steals your heat like it's owed. Your skin itches. Your hands tremble. Your vision pulses. Bright, Dark, Bright again. You hear buzzing. No flies, Just in your head, A swarm of invisible wasps drilling into your temples. You press your hands against your skull, Trying to hold it together. You fail. A sound escapes your mouth. Part moan, Part growl. Animal. Useless. Your skin hurts. Everywhere. Your back is boiling. You lift your shirt and see red welts blooming across your ribs. Some are blisters. One has already burst. Pus leaks slowly down your side like melted wax. You press it. Bad idea. The pain rockets through you like lightning, And you wretch again. Nothing comes out, Just air and blood and that empty scream you can't swallow anymore. You're shaking now, All over. Your feet twitch uncontrollably. Your fingers claw at the ground. Your teeth chatter so hard you think they'll break. You used to have a name, A story, A past. Now you're just this. A fever in the shape of a man. There's movement outside the cell. Footsteps. You look up. Hope Flares. Brief. Stupid. Human. A shadow passes the door. It pauses. You cough, Loud, Wet, Desperate. The hatch slides open. A guard peers in. Bored, Blank-faced, He sees the blood, The vomit, The blistered skin. He sniffs, Winces, And closes the hatch without a word. That's it. You've been diagnosed. Terminal nuisance. You curl into yourself. There's no warmth, No blanket, No fire. Just the heat your own body is producing as it dies from the inside out. You wonder how long it'll take. A day. You've seen others fade slower. Some scream the whole time. Some go silent and just. . . Melt. You're not sure which you'll be. You try to think of penicillin, Of medicine, Of soft beds and cool compresses, Of someone placing a hand on your forehead and whispering, You'll be okay. But that's fantasy. Fiction. Penicillin won't exist for another 600 years. And even if it did, You're not important enough to receive it. You're a peasant, A prisoner, A ghost in progress. Your breath grows shallow. You suck in air through clenched teeth. Every inhale burns. Every exhale leaves a rattle in your chest. The kind of sound you've heard before from other corners of the dungeon, Right before the coughing stops. Your cellmate is still in his corner. Watching. Mouth open. Eyes locked. Waiting. You wonder if he was sick too, If he bled like this, If he fought as hard, Or if he knew when to give in. You blink. The cell spins again. Your bones ache. Your skin pulses you want to sleep. Just for a minute. You close your eyes. And the dungeon leans closer. You don't have much, But you have ears. And in a dungeon like this, That makes you wealthy. You start to notice the voices first, Faint, Croaking, Not screams, Those you're used to, But quiet threads of conversation, Like someone whispering through a wet cloth. It's coming from the cells across the corridor, The ones with barred doors instead of stone walls. The luxury suites. You shuffle closer to the edge of your cell, Dragging your body like a sack of bad decisions. You lean your head against the wall and listen. The first voice is male, Gravelly, Measured, Like someone who once gave commands for a living. He's talking about land disputes, Grain tariffs, Border conflicts, Words that don't belong down here. You think maybe he's mad, But then the second voice cuts in. Female, Dry, Sharp, Mocking. She calls him Your Grace. The first time, You think it's a joke. But then he responds with silence, The kind that only comes from someone who expects to be obeyed. You've heard that silence before, From nobles passing through your village on horseback. You know the type. He is a duke, Or was, Until very recently, If his cough is anything to go by. Not old, Not young. Educated. Bitter. You piece it together in scraps over a few days. Betrayed by a cousin. Falsely accused. Land seized. Thrown in here to rot until the new regime is too entrenched to be questioned. The woman? She's not nobility. She doesn't talk like she's ever owned a chair. She laughs at the Duke when he starts strategizing about escape. Says it's charming that he still thinks there's a world beyond these walls. She claims to be a healer. Not a real one. Well, Maybe a real one. But that's the problem. Apparently, She made the mistake of curing a lord's daughter after the priest's blessing failed. Then she sneezed during the wrong service. Right near the altar. Right near the priest. One cold later, And now she's a witch. You believe her. Not because she sounds magical, But because she sounds like every sharp-tongued midwife your village ever warned you about. She doesn't believe in curses. But she believes in vengeance. She says it tastes better when served through a keyhole. You never see them. The cells are staggered, Built deliberately to prevent eye contact. But you hear them every night. Talking, Arguing. Remembering. The Duke recites poetry when he thinks she's asleep. She never is. She corrects him. Sometimes she sings. Not well. But with the kind of voice that knows it won't be silenced. You don't join in. You never speak. Not out loud. You just listen. They don't know you're there. Or if they do. They haven't acknowledged it. Maybe they think you're dead. Or maybe they just know better than to invite another ghost into the circle. Still, Their words creep under your skin. Stories of court intrigue, Failed revolts, Secret affairs, Backroom deals. You start to understand how fragile the world above really is. One bad harvest, One jealous noble, One wrong sneeze, And you're here. With the rats. With the fever. With history's mistakes. You learn things. Things you shouldn't. The Duke talks in code sometimes. Names you've never heard. Places you've never seen. He mentions a hidden passage beneath the chapel. A smuggler with a grudge. A guard who drinks too much. The witch laughs at him, Calls it fantasy. But you can hear it in her voice. She's hoping he's right. They trade memories like prisoners trade crusts. He tells her about marble floors and silk sheets. She tells him about herbs that can stop a heart with one sip. You file it all away. Not because you'll use it. Let's be honest, You're not getting out. But because it's something. A rhythm. A tether. A reminder that people still exist. Then one night it stops. No voices. No arguments. No poems. Just silence. You wait. Minutes. Hours. Nothing. You try to sleep. You can't. The quiet is too loud. The next night, Same thing. No gossip. No laughter. Just the sound of rats and your own breath. You consider calling out, Just to see, Just to know. But you don't. Because what if they don't answer? What if no one's left? Or worse, What if someone new is listening? So you stay quiet. And you wait. And you remember. Because in this place, Stories are the only thing that don't decay. Morning is a generous word. There's no sun here. No light. Just a shift in the rhythm of suffering. You only know it's morning because the guards start moving again. Boots thud heavier. Keys jangle louder. The moans from the other cells begin to rise in pitch. Fear has a schedule down here. And today it's punctual. The first sign is the scraping of the slot in the door. It opens. Just a little. Just enough for one bloodshot eye to scan the cell. You press yourself back against the wall and pray your shape disappears into the stone. You know it doesn't work. You've seen men try. Curled in corners, Hands raised like shields. The guards always find them. Today, The eye moves on. The slot slams shut. You breathe. Once. Short. Shallow. Then the keys come. They always sound the same. Mocking. Like the dungeon wants to remind you that freedom exists, Just not for you. You hear the first cell unlock, Three doors down, A shuffle, A scream. Not the tortured kind, The begging kind. That's how it always starts. A rush of promises, Bargains, Whimpers, Then a dragging sound. Than silence. The second door. Two down from you, Same ritual. Same result. Your cellmate never screamed. You wonder what they did to him that made him skip that part. You try not to think about what's waiting in the chamber. You've heard things. Everyone has. Rumors passed in whispers. Some tools have names. The pear. The heretic's fork. The Spanish tickler. None of them sound like they were designed for quick mercy. You know what's real, Though. You've heard the aftermath. Men come back different, If they come back at all. Some are missing fingers. Eyes. Most are missing themselves. They rock in the corner, Muttering. Some don't eat. Some don't speak. Some laugh, Suddenly and without cause. Those are the worst. You stop sleeping when your neighbor starts laughing at nothing in the dark. They reach the cell next to yours. You hear the keys pause. Then the door creaks open. A voice pleads. You know it. The young boy with the limp. His mother bribed the guard to let him deliver bread once. He dropped a loaf. It hit a noble's boot. That was enough. Now he's next. The guard grunts. Something heavy hits the ground, Then a thud, Then a dragging sound. The boy's voice fades down the corridor. He's not crying anymore. He's making small sounds, Like hiccups. But there's no rhythm. Just panic. You listen until the echoes vanish. Than nothing. Now it's your turn. Or it isn't. You wait. Your cell stays locked. You should be relieved. You should thank whatever God still listens down here. But you don't. Instead, You feel something worse. Disappointment. Not because you want pain. You're not that far gone. But because the waiting is its own kind of torture. Every footstep past your door, Every creak of iron, Every hour that drips by without closure, It chips away at you. You start thinking maybe it'd be better if they just opened the door and dragged you out. Maybe the fear would stop. Maybe the silence in your chest would turn into something sharp and real. You've seen men beg to be taken. After weeks of untouched isolation, They start whispering to the guards, Offering themselves. One less day of waiting. One less night curled around dread. At least if you're screaming, You know where you are. You know what part of hell you're in. You wonder if you'll be like that. If you'll stand up one morning, Press your face to the door and say, Pick me. But they don't. Not today. Today. You stay in your box. Listening. Imagining. Deteriorating. Someone returns. You hear the limp. It's the boy again, Or what's left of him. The guards drag him past your door and throw him into his cell like a sack of wet clothes. He groans once, Then nothing. You wonder how much they took. Not gold. Pieces of him. You wonder how much they'll take from you when it's your turn. Because it will be. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But the parade loops endlessly. Sooner or later, The guards will remember your face, Your name, Your file. Or they'll get bored and spin the keyring and stop it randomly. And it'll be your door. And then you'll scream. Or you won't. And you'll come back. Or you won't. And the cell will be a little quieter. And the boy next door will stop moaning. And your place in the daily parade will be filled by someone new, Someone fresh, Someone still praying that today isn't their day. Until it is. You don't notice the smell at first, Not yours anyway. The dungeon is a stew of filth from the start. Sweat, Mold, Blood, And something sour that no one's named but everyone's tasted. It clings to everything. Clothes, Hair, Tongues. You figured you were just part of the blend. But now it's different. Now you are the smell. It starts with the wound. The rat bite, Probably. Or maybe the spot where the guard's boots split your skin open two days ago. The scrape didn't look like much then, Just a red streak. Now it's black at the edges, Puffy, Wet. The skin starting to split, Slowly. Like it's giving up trying to stay whole There's a sweetness to it. Not the good kind. This is the kind that makes you gag the moment your fingers get near it. A kind of rot that doesn't belong to food. It belongs to you. It is you. You try to press the wound closed. Wrap a piece of your shirt around it. The fabric sticks. You peel it off. Purse strings stretch like glue. You swallow the nausea. There's nothing left to vomit anyway. Your fingernails are brown now. Not stained, Changed, Hardened. Curling inward at the tips. Your skin's starting to peel in sheets, Not dry, Just. . . Loose. Like it's tired of holding on. You caught your reflection once. A flicker in a puddle. It was brief. Just long enough to see the lines carved into your cheeks. The way your eyes don't look forward anymore. They sink. You've aged twenty years in a week. If you saw your face on the street, You'd cross to the other side. Your breath is the worst. You try not to exhale through your mouth. But your nose is too clogged to be useful now. When you talk. Which is rare, The sound comes out wet, Like there's something behind your tongue that wants out. You cough often. Deep, Full-body convulsions. Sometimes blood, Sometimes chunks. You don't know from where You stopped caring around the time you realized you couldn't tell which pain came from inside and which came from the outside the guards have noticed. They don't come near your cell anymore. Used to be they'd pass by, Spit, Maybe throw a crust. Now they walk faster when they see your door. One covered his nose last time. Another laughed and called you the Plague King. You weren't trying to earn a title, But you've got one now. Even the rats give you space. Not all. Some still nibble, But others circle wide, Sniff, And back away. You think that's the clearest sign something is truly wrong, When even vermin decide you're not a meal. They're just waiting for you to turn into one. You haven't bathed in months? You don't know. Time doesn't pass down here. It melts, Pools, Rots, Like everything else. You can't remember the last time water touched your skin, Not counting the puddles you collapsed into, Not counting the leaks from above that sometimes drip straight into your ear. Your clothes are stiff, Crunchy. You shift and flakes fall off your sleeves. Some are scabs. Some are mold. Some are things you've stopped identifying for the sake of sanity. You scratch sometimes without thinking. That's dangerous. The last time you did, A layer of skin slid off like wet bark. Beneath it was something gray. You didn't check again. No one said it, But you know what's happening. You're decomposing. Slowly. Prematurely. You're not dead, But your body is getting a head start. Your cellmate watches. Still slumped, Still rotting. But even he seems to judge you now. As if he knows you're catching up. You try to remember what clean felt like. A bath. A bar of soap. Cold water from a stream. The scratch of a fresh towel. But those memories feel stolen, Like someone else's story. Like you were never part of a world where bodies didn't smell like decay by default. The smell gets in your mouth now, Not just around you, In you. You taste it when you breathe, Like burnt onions and rot and something chemical. You wonder what your organs look like. What color your lungs are. How close they are to giving up. You haven't spoken in a while. Your throat's too raw. When you try, The sound that comes out isn't yours. It's cracked and low and gurgling. You've started mouthing words instead. Not that anyone listens. The walls don't talk back. And still. You're only three days in. That's what hits hardest. You feel like you've been here forever. That your body's been breaking down for years. But it hasn't. It's barely begun. Three days in. Three days, And your skin is sloughing off, Your breath could clear a village, And your wounds are already writing your obituary. There's no help, No care, No hope. Just a slow unraveling of your humanity, One stinking cell at a time. And somewhere beneath the stench of it all, You start to wonder, What will be left when the smell is all that remains? You hear the keys long before you see the boots. But these aren't torture boots. They're slower. Less decisive. These belong to the doctor. At least, That's what the guards call him. You're not sure if it's a title or a joke. His arrival is not an event. No one cheers. No one begs. You just listen as he makes his way down the corridor, Stopping every few cells, Offering grunts of diagnosis and doses of medieval optimism. You hear snippets, Words like humors and bile and balance. One prisoner screams after he leaves. Another vomits. A third falls silent. Eventually, He stops at your cell. The hatch creaks open. His smell hits first, Not rot like yours. Something chalky, Like dust and old sweat. You don't look up. Looking up makes you a patient. You've learned not to volunteer. Still, He enters. His shoes are soft-soled, But you hear every step. Your body flinches on instinct, Expecting iron or pain or laughter. Instead, You get breathing. Shallow. Wet. Than a sigh. Hmm, He says, As if you're a disappointing loaf of bread. You finally look. He's not dressed like a healer. He's dressed like a butcher who lost a bet. Stained robes, Sleeves fraying, Fingers yellowed. His face is half covered in a cloth that hasn't been washed since the last plague. He squints at you like he's trying to decide which part is still worth saving. He asks you nothing, Doesn't want your story, Doesn't care. Instead, He squats beside you and opens a leather pouch. It spills open like a bag of nightmares. Dull blades, Wooden sticks, A vial of something brown, A cloth that might have once been white, And the centerpiece, A jar of leeches. He holds it up like a prize. You flinch. Classic method, He says, Draw out the poison. You don't ask what poison. You know better. He unscrews the lid, Reaches in with bare fingers, And plucks out a fat, Twitching leech. He doesn't warn you, He just slaps it onto your neck. It sticks instantly. You feel the suction, Then the sting, Then the slow pull, Like something trying to drink your soul through a straw. Another one on your forearm, Another on your thigh, You're not even sure they're choosing the infected parts. It feels random, Like he's decorating a corpse. He pulls out a cloth and wipes your forehead. It's not clean. It leaves behind more than it takes. Then he mutters a few words under his breath. Something in Latin, Maybe. Or just gibberish. But then he pats your cheek and says, That should help. Help what? He doesn't explain. Just starts packing up. The leeches stay on. Apparently you're their home now. You muster the strength to croak. What? What else? He pauses.