Chapter Text
Edwin’s feet pound against the grimy concrete beneath him, silent as he can make them. He isn’t running, not this time, but his hurried walk carries an urgency to it, nevertheless. He hasn’t heard a giggle in some time, and he doesn’t expect to for some time to come, but the habit of silence is a hard one to break. It isn’t a reprieve. (It never is. Besides, there are other things than his tormentor in these halls.) Sometimes the beast likes to let him bleed out, let him be slowly drained of energy. And then, when Edwin is languishing on the floor, barely conscious, it will return and eat him slowly, part by part, until he finally dies from the pain or further loss of blood.
Currently he is without his right hand, the appendage torn off at the wrist. A tourniquet torn from his own shirt and tied with his teeth had been enough to significantly slow but not stem the bleeding – the amputation is too jagged for that. Bits of flesh not fully severed dangle even now, sometimes joining the trail of Edwin’s blood on the ground. It seems twisted, that first aid would work so well in Hell, but it makes a twisted sort of sense too: the aid is never enough to save him, only enough to prolong his suffering. Even now he is slightly dazed from blood loss.
He knows better than to attempt an escape while he is so damaged – that is not the source of his urgency. He will be too slow and unlikely to add to his mental map, and too easily tracked with the blood trailing behind him. No, Edwin’s only hope now is to find a corner of the Dollhouse that is narrow and cluttered, somewhere he can tuck himself into until the wound does him in and he is reborn. Somewhere the creature cannot reach, large and unwieldy as it is. Somewhere where his suffering will not disappear but will not be added to.
Technically, there is another option. Technically, Edwin could remove the tourniquet and hasten his death here, in the open. Suicide may be a sin, but he is already in Hell – what difference would one additional sin make? Still, in the unfathomable stretch of time that Edwin has roamed the halls of the Dollhouse, he has only gone that route a scant handful of times. He would like to be able to say it is his own strength of character that prevents him from taking the easy way out; some inner toughness he’d lacked in life and shows only now in death. A determination to power through.
But this is Hell and Edwin a damned soul. He cannot be kind to himself, even in his own thoughts, the one safe haven he has left to him. The truth is simply that the beast’s rage seems all the stronger after Edwin spoils one of its games. True, hiding away will enrage it as well, especially if he is successful enough that it cannot reach him, but not so much as slitting his own throat had, that one time he’d been without feet and too full of despair to even make an attempt at crawling. (It’d been lucky, then, that he’d landed near a femur that had cracked violently in half at some point, sharp enough to tear flesh.)
The side of his right foot comes down on bone. It is a rounded thing, whole and unbroken; the flesh of Edwin’s foot does not tear. But it is more than enough to displace him, wounded and dizzy as he is. He stumbles. He makes to reach out for the wall to steady himself, lips slamming shut to muffle any sounds that would otherwise leave him. The twitch of his shoulder, the signal of nerves down his arm, sends fire racing to his brain that stops the movement in its tracks. He bites down on his lip to muffle a cry of pain and thanks his lucky stars. Fortune is on his side for once.
If the pain of moving his arm at all wasn’t so great he would have placed the torn flesh of his wrist against the wall thinking he still had a hand – and he doesn’t think he could remain silent if the open wound had touched the worn concrete. It is difficult enough as it is to remain silent with his arm feeling like it is on fire as he struggles to regain his footing.
By the time Edwin manages to straighten he is panting hard, vision blurrier than before thanks to the tears trickling down his cheeks. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and Edwin lets himself be sorry for a second of it, lets the tears silently fall and contemplates simply curling up here and now, in this narrow hallway.
The thought – tempting as it may be – is out of the question. As much as he hurts now, the future that would await him were he to do so would be a thousand times worse. He strides off before the tears even dry up, holding his right elbow close to his body without allowing the severed wrist to bump against anything. His steps are slower than before, between the pain and dizziness and tears dampening his vision – on top of the dim, ghastly lighting of the hall – but no less determined.
He rounds a corner, thinking he remembers a room in this vicinity – and comes to an abrupt halt. For a moment, he cannot contemplate the sight before him: it is too fantastical, too horrendous.
Sa’al, the first demon who had owned him, the only demon who has not tortured him in this place, stands before him, in the halls of the Dollhouse. His appearance is the same as Edwin remembers but it no longer seems gruesome. Much has changed since Sa’al had grown tired of Edwin’s crying, crammed in a too-small cage and tucked away out of sight as he’d been. Perhaps not for Sa’al, but for Edwin…
He blinks, dread tightening his throat. Sa’al had not tortured him, but he had not cared for Edwin either, despite his apology for dragging him to Hell. They’d chatted for a bit those first few days, actually. Sa’al had been interested in how Earth had changed since his last visit and Edwin had been desperate not to anger his captor. He’d tried his hand at pleading in the meantime, and Sa’al had quickly grown tired of that and his despair. He’d traded Edwin off to another demon without a second thought.
The thought that Sa’al might have come back for him fills Edwin with mixed emotions. On one hand, Sa’al’s cramped cage, with barely enough room for Edwin to move his limbs, seems like a luxury compared to the constant torture of the Dollhouse. On the other hand, he is so close. He is almost certain that it is not just false hope this time. If he can just get to the top of those stairs past Limbo, if he can just make it further than only a few steps upward… Surely the way out of Hell must be upward, surely the Christian notion of Hell existing below must be true to some extent.
Here in the Dollhouse, he has freedom of movement. Freedom to be chased and hunted down like a fox before a foxhound but freedom, nevertheless. He would not have that, with Sa’al, and so his breath catches in his throat. His entire right arm aches as his feet come to a stop. The act of biting his lip to muffle the sounds of pain that might otherwise escape him at such an interruption of momentum is rote and barely registers to him.
He sucks in a silent breath through his nose, eyes wide – and only then realizes that Sa’al is not alone.
“There you are,” Sa’al says, with his usual casual, devil-may-care attitude. “I hope you appreciate the effort it took to do this for you.”
It is not the creature that owns Edwin’s soul at Sa’al’s side. No, by all appearances it is nothing more or less than another human soul. Another boy, perhaps the age Edwin had been when he’d died (still is, in this unageing Hell). The boy is a strange sight, with his bronzed skin and strange haircut – trimmed at the sides, longer on the top. He is in black trousers and an undershirt that is without sleeves and nothing else. His feet are as bare as Edwin’s. He cowers behind Sa’al a little at the moment, one of Sa’al’s hands on his wrist, held behind the demon. His eyes are wide, confused and tormented.
He is not the first human soul Edwin has met in Hell. He has done his fair share of exploring in his efforts to escape, after all. Edwin is not a demon though. He does not have an innate ability to read souls, to calculate their mettle, their age, their fears. Nevertheless, even without the manner of dress and haircut, Edwin would be able to peg this soul as fresh to Hell. There is something naïve and unbroken in the way he stares, in the fright in his eyes.
Edwin can think of nothing to say. His throat is dry. He sways where he stands; almost unconsciously his left hand reaches out to squeeze his right forearm. The surge in pain that follows is enough to clear his mind. (It hurts so much, and Edwin wants to weep, wants to curl up and give himself a day off.) He clears his throat – quietly, softly, just enough to wet his lips; it has been so long since he’s spoken words beyond pleas – still uncertain of what to say.
Sa’al, as usual, does not care what Edwin does. He is already speaking again. He drags the boy in front of him by the grip that he has on the boy’s wrist. The boy’s bare feet stumble on the grimy floor but Sa’al’s grip is unbreakable and keeps him upright. There is a wince of pain on the boy’s face, but he has the good sense to keep quiet about it – not that it matters at this point, at the volume Sa’al is speaking.
“Here,” he says. “Found a playmate for you. That school of yours seems determined to breed idiots. Apparently, rumors about what happened to you have spread.” Sa’al seems deeply exasperated with this. “I took the others, you know how it goes, but I’ve got no need of this one. Consider it a better apology.”
Sa’al says it as if this is a gift he is handing to Edwin, a human soul to keep him company.
Edwin knows better than to believe the demon is truly sorry for what happened to him. There is some part of Sa’al, he does honestly believe, that finds human sacrifices tedious and empathizes – however much a demon can – with the victims. However, Sa’al also seems to remain to be of the opinion that Hell ‘isn’t that bad’. He is calling this boy a playmate for Edwin, as if they are still schoolchildren out in the yard, as if he is not condemning this boy to an eternity of horrible deaths at the hands of a creature that not even the nightmares on Earth could dream up.
Edwin has met other souls in Hell. He has resigned himself to the fact that they cannot help him – and he cannot help them. The souls in the rooms that seem dedicated to the seven sins – gluttony and lust and avarice and the like – are lost to those sins, insensate, aware of little but the torment they have been assigned. They have tried to drag him down with them when he moves too slowly, and even succeeded from time to time, which is part of the reason Edwin refrains from escaping if he is already seriously injured, but they do not converse with him. The souls in Limbo are not so much insensate as they are frozen; they cannot converse with him either.
Other souls are rarer, but Edwin has gone the wrong direction plenty of times. He has stumbled upon other damned souls that are able to speak from time to time. Some of them have managed to speak to him. Some of them seemed grateful for the chance to converse. Some of them had begged and pleaded for Edwin, seemingly free-roaming Edwin, to take him with them.
But Edwin cannot help them. He cannot. He has learned that the hard way. (Selfish desire sometimes makes it so that he does not even want to. He has enough on his hands, saving himself.)
And now… now Sa’al wants to gift this boy to him, this freshly damned soul, likely condemned by the same ritual that had condemned Edwin, if he is understanding the demon correctly. This boy will be here with Edwin, will likely have the same free reign.
The explanation does not help Edwin’s mixed feelings any. Does he turn down the gift, and send the boy to the relative safety – and permanency – of Sa’al’s cage? Does he accept the gift, and condemn the boy to the creature and its tortures in the Dollhouse – but also the possibility of escape, were he able to keep up with Edwin?
He sways again on his feet, even with the fingers of his left hand still clutching tightly to his right forearm, and he is not entirely sure it is the blood loss that has weakened him.
But it does not matter what he wants, and he knows it. It never matters what he wants, here in Hell. Not with Sa’al, and not otherwise.
So he does not beg Sa’al to take the boy back, and he does not thank Sa’al for the gift, and he does not look the boy in the face and attempt to inform him of his new reality.
“Has the trade already been made?” he asks instead. His voice croaks as it comes out. It is tight with pain. His blood drips to the floor by his side. The only consolation this moment holds is that the skittering, giggling, cackling sounds the creature makes are not within earshot at the moment.
Sa’al shoves again at the boy, finally releasing his hold as the boy skitters to a stop between the two of them. He seems afraid to straighten up fully and doesn’t seem to know where to put his gaze. (Edwin would tell him to keep them on Sa’al, were he willing to give instruction with Sa’al still there; the anticipation of watching a demon prepare its tortures is not nearly so bad as not knowing what tortures a demon would decide to use.)
“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Sa’al says, by way of an answer.
It is only long practice that holds Edwin’s tongue. There is much he could say to Sa’al and none of it would be worth it. Not here.
Sa’al, surprisingly, does not immediately leave with the transaction completed. He simply stares at Edwin for a moment longer, head tilted as if studying him.
“You’ve changed,” he says simply, after a moment.
Edwin does not know what to say to that either. He knows it is not his appearance Sa’al is referring to: it is the lack of begging, the absence of pleading, the drought of tears. He is well aware he has been fundamentally altered by his time in Hell. He is not the timid, soft boy he once was. Hell has hardened him, sharpened his edges, eroded his trust. He scarcely remembers who he was on Earth; he has been this thing he’s become in Hell for far longer.
Unbidden, Edwin’s eyes flicker to the boy. Hell has not yet worn away at him. Staring at him, Edwin despairs. He despairs that this boy is about to suffer, and he despairs of his own reaction to that future. There have been so many souls in Hell that Edwin has been unable to help, himself among them, but staring at this boy, this offering, this perverse attempt at a gift…
Edwin resolves that this boy will not be among them. It damns him twice over, he knows, his desire to help this boy, the cost that will entail, but Edwin cannot… He will not let Hell have all of him.
When he looks back up, meets Sa’al’s gaze again, the demon gives him a nod. As if Edwin has earned his respect by hardening under Hell’s tortures. The thought turns Edwin’s stomach; Sa’al or not, the respect of a demon must damn him thrice over. Not for the first time he considers that no mistake was made, that Hell is where he belongs. Then Sa’al disappears (finally), and he sees the boy again and he knows that it does not matter.
It is not true – a technicality, he is here on a technicality, and he cannot let himself forget that like he has forgotten so much else – but it would not matter if it was. This boy certainly does not belong here, and Edwin is going to get him out. He is going to get the both of them out – and he is certainly going to die trying.
Charles is having the absolute worst day of his existence. It is, he thinks somewhat hysterically, the biggest understatement that could ever be conceived of, because he is in Hell! Because he has to clarify existence instead of life because he is dead! Because he saw a bunch of his mates playing a stupid prank on another kid and decided to step in and got sacrificed to a demon – who had looked at him, rolled its eyes, and said “Not again,” in a voice that really didn’t fit.
Luckily, he’d had plenty of time to hyperventilate and ask questions after Sa’al – the demon’s name, apparently – had disintegrated his body and dragged him off to Hell! (Like, the actual Christian Hell! Because that is real! Because Charles was sacrificed to a demon! He’s in Hell!!!) So he knows he’s only here on a technicality. He knows that doesn’t matter and he’s going to get tortured anyway. He knows he’s dead. He knows that this is the second time this has happened at St. Hilarion’s and that Sa’al was also the demon last time and that all those rumors about the basement were actually true.
He also knows that Sa’al wants nothing to do with him and had apparently traded his soul (his soul! Because those are real too!) to another demon, and that demon currently owns the soul of the last boy who was sacrificed at St. Hilarion’s. (What the actual fuck?! Charles had known St. Hilarion’s was a posh nightmare, and had only been worse historically, but what the actual fuck?!! Demon sacrifices! Who did that!)
Staring at said boy, Charles realizes that’s about the extent of his knowledge and boy does that mean he is fucked, because this is Hell, and it looks it. He doesn’t remember much of what Sa’al’s lair or home or room or whatever had looked like. It’s been a wild few hours. Sue him if his memory’s a little fuzzy. But this… this is Hell, for sure.
The hallway is all concrete, floor and walls and ceiling. It’s dimly lit, and most of the light has a green sort of tint to it. Everything is dirty, and scattered detritus lies throughout the hall. Charles caught sight of a discarded doll and an actual human skull before deciding to pointedly avert his gaze. The only problem with that, he realizes as Sa’al talks over his head, is that there are only two other things to look at: the demon, and the other sacrificed boy.
He really should be paying attention to what Sa’al is saying, probably, but the other boy looks horrendous, and Charles really is not saying that to be mean. He’s pretty sure the other boy is a white kid, pale and skinny and as tall as he is, but between the dim off-color lighting and the grime and blood covering the other boy it is hard to tell. His hair is dark and disheveled, and Charles is only focusing on that because he really doesn’t want to focus on everything else about the boy.
Everything else being the old-timey underclothes he’s wearing which are streaked with dirt and sweat and blood. Everything else being the way his shirt is torn ‘round the bottom. Everything else is the way that torn strip of shirt seems to be tied down ‘round his right bicep. Everything else is the fact that his fucking hand is gone, and worse than that the wound is jagged and awful and still dripping blood.
So, Charles isn’t looking at that, because if he looks at that he’s going to puke, and he really doesn’t want to puke right now. It’s been a stressful enough time without the taste of bile on his tongue.
Sa’al… leaves. He thinks. At some point. He really wasn’t tracking the conversation at all – it’s only the sight of the other boy striding toward him that brings him back to reality. Before he can say anything, question anything, the boy has let go of his hold on his own severed arm and grabbed onto Charles’ instead. (Wait, is severed the right word? Would it be amputated? Maybe severed would only be if he was holding the detached limb and why the fuck is Charles worried about his word choice right now!?)
His feet stumble on the concrete for a moment as the other boy starts to drag him along, but he catches himself readily enough. Most of the debris on the ground is swept away to the edges (he catches sight of a doll’s arm laying in the center of the floor and casts his gaze away from it, not that there’s anywhere more pleasant to look).
“Look,” he starts to say, desperate and sounding like it.
The other boy cuts him off. “There will be time for explanations later,” he says, low and careful and quiet. “For now, staying still will only get us caught.”
His voice is surprisingly pleasant, considering. Or maybe that’s why it’s surprisingly pleasant. Hearing another British accent – all posh and proper and human – instead of shrieks of pain or cries of fear or that creepy laughter he’d heard echoing through the halls earlier is refreshing. (Maybe Sa’al had sounded normal, but he hadn’t looked it. This boy looks like… well, like a boy. A tortured, wounded boy. That he sounds like one too is a relief.)
Charles swallows and lets himself be tugged along. “Caught by what?” he asks. His voice croaks, tight and high with fear.
The tugging on his arm tightens for a moment and he finds himself pulled forward with more force than before. It takes him a second to regain the rhythm of following the other boy he’d fallen into again.
“Quiet,” the boy scolds, still low, hushed himself, hissing the words out through gritted teeth. There is fear in his eyes, but Charles doesn’t think it probably compares to the fear in his own eyes.
He shuts his mouth at the scolding. Hell or not, he’s never liked being yelled at. This seems like an appropriate time to finally learn to shut his trap. He lets himself be led onward.
The other boy eventually finds a room amongst the seemingly endless hallways he leads them through. He has to let go of Charles’ wrist to open it, on account of the fact that where his other hand should be is a still bleeding stump. (Charles can’t stop glancing at it and can’t bring himself to stare at it either. He’s only seen it for seconds at a time. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sight of it.)
When the door is finally opened, the other boy ushers Charles in first and follows after him on silent footsteps, lightly closing the door behind him. The room they find themselves in has the same aesthetics as the hall: grimy concrete floor, greenish-lighting, dirty all around. There isn’t much else to see, so Charles turns back to the other boy just in time to see him sway slightly, blinking hard as he slumps back against the wall next to the door.
Charles reaches for him without thought but doesn’t make contact. He’s too far away for one. For another – and this is really stupid and selfish – the boy is filthy, and covered in blood, and the thought of touching even his shoulder sends a shudder through Charles’ mind. It doesn’t stop him from caring though. “Woah,” he says, “you alright?”
It’s a stupid question. Of course the boy isn’t alright. His hand’s gone.
(Charles is in Hell. He’s in actual, literal, Hell, with another sacrificed soul and everything here is filthy and awful and heartbreaking and he would really like to be able to have a breakdown now, please!)
The other boy straightens off the wall in an instant. “Hush!” he snaps out, still quiet himself, and, oh, okay, alright, Charles is starting to put the pieces together. Something about this place means they need to stay quiet, mustn’t it?
He pulls his hands back to his sides. “Sorry,” he mutters, quiet and contrite, even as he eyes the other boy worriedly. “But, I mean…” he gestures helplessly toward the boy’s missing hand.
The other boy does not react at all the way he should. He frowns and looks down at the empty space where his limb should be. With visible effort he uses his remaining hand to lift his forearm and angle the wound so that he can get a good look at it. He winces at what he sees but not, it seems, because of the wound itself, and more so the dripping blood, Charles figures, based on the way his gaze immediately moves from the wound to the floor. It’s fucked up. Everything about the situation is fucked up. Hell isn’t the fire and brimstone he was preached to about, but the torture thing still seems very much on the table. Is Charles going to be like that one day, uncaring about the mutilation of his own limbs?
Pushing down the dread that rises in him at the thought, he hopes not. He very much hopes not. He likes his hands. Likes having two of them. He very much does not want to lose either of them. Or both. This is Hell. Losing both is probably an option.
“It will hold,” the boy mutters to him.
If that’s meant to be reassuring, it very much is not. Or, rather, the words aren’t. Because Charles is this close to panicking, but this boy very much is not, and it is somewhat calming, to be faced with the other boy’s unflappable nature in a situation where he knows his own panic will only bring trouble and Charles really has to stop referring to this kid as ‘the other boy’ in his own thoughts. Pity the rumors at St. Hilarion’s had never included anyone’s names.
“I’m Charles,” he blurts out, thankfully remembering to keep his words as quiet as he can. Hard to blurt out a whisper, but he manages. “Did you really go to St. Hilarion’s?”
The other boy slowly lowers his arm back to his side as he meets Charles’ gaze. His eyes are scrutinizing. “There isn’t time, unfortunately,” he says, hushed, “for a full explanation. So, in short order: my name is Edwin Payne, yes, I too was sacrificed to Sa’al by my classmates at St. Hilarion’s, and both of our souls have been traded to the creature that resides here. Unlike Sa’al, the creature has no qualms about torturing souls and prefers to chase its prey. It will be following the trail I have left behind. Hide here. I will lead it off.”
“Wait!” Charles cries out, still hushed, as the other boy – Edwin, his name is Edwin – turns to go. He reaches out and latches onto Edwin’s undamaged arm like a lifeline, all thoughts about avoiding contact forgotten. He wants, desperately, to beg Edwin not to leave him here. He wants to ask the twenty-million questions bubbling up inside him. He wants to very much not be in Hell. “What if it catches you?” he asks instead.
Edwin does not answer for a very long second or two, simply stares back at Charles. When he does speak, Charles gets the impression that he is both lying to him and telling the truth. “Do not fret,” he says. “I will return for you. I promise.”
Despite the dread in his gut, Charles is reassured. Reluctantly he lets go. Edwin doesn’t look back as he disappears out the door. With the other boy gone – the other human soul – Charles tucks himself into a corner and curls up around his knees. Finally giving in to the inevitable breakdown, Charles remembers only enough of his wits to do so silently.
There is no time to consider the boy – Charles – waiting for him in an unremarkable side room of the Dollhouse as Edwin strides forth. Sa’al’s interruption has cost him precious time; the blood loss is close to taking hold of him. It would be very easy to fold his legs beneath him now and wait for the end. But he must put some distance between him and Charles, and he cannot give the creature an easy death. Not now, not if he wants to serve as a proper distraction. He can only hope that a proper chase – screaming, crying, begging at the end, perhaps – will satiate the creature enough that it will not immediately turn to Charles during the time it takes for him to be reborn and find the room again.
With such thoughts in mind, Edwin musters what feels like the last of his strength and turns his long stride into a loping jog. (It feels like it, but it is not the last of his strength. The last of his physical strength, perhaps, the last this body has to give, but there will be other bodies. There must be. He is not giving in, no matter that the effort of escaping Hell has been doubled by his new companion’s presence.) He does not deliberately make noise because this must seem like a proper chase and not like he is baiting the thing, but he does make less effort to muffle his footfalls as he runs.
He also does not give much thought to the direction he is running, which is not so much deliberate as it is a result of the mental fog that comes in the later stages of blood loss. He manages enough thought to ensure he is not doubling back towards Charles and otherwise remains mindless. It is better to be mindless, when he knows he will be caught. (This seems among the most deliberate of all his deaths here, beyond learning that suicide only angered the creature, but it is not the first time he has been drastically injured and longed for the clarity a new body would grant him.)
When the creature finds him this time it does not grace him with those haunting giggles or dreadful cackled laughter. It does not shriek gratingly to announce its presence or mimic his cries of fear. He already knows he is being hunted; this time the fear of which corner it is hiding around seems to be more significant than the echoes of it trailing tauntingly close behind him. Edwin turns a corner and, despite his conviction to shed this body for a new one, cannot stop his feet from skidding to a stop at the sight of the beast. Half it’s legs are resting on the wall, it’s body askew as numerous haunting eyes stare him down.
He swallows down the fear. He swallows down the shout of alarm. He swallows down the slowly numbing pain shooting up his right arm. He remembers Charles.
He cannot make this too easy.
Edwin turns and starts running back the direction he’d come from. It is not difficult. Pure terror carries his footsteps. Now the dolls shriek and cackle at him as the thing gives chase. Despite his conviction, despite the pain, despite the fuzziness of his mental faculties at the moment, Edwin does not want to die. He never truly does, when the moment comes, no matter how much he may wish for it at other times.
He runs and the thing chases and it is something that has happened too many times already.
He is tired and he hurts as he runs, cannot even swing his right arm alongside him as he usually does without sending stabbing pain shooting through him. He doesn’t bother to stop the tears from bubbling up. A sob escapes his throat. Sometimes, sometimes, if he is not already injured, Edwin can stand or sit or curl up into a very still ball and not make a sound, not a whimper, not a cry, not a whisper, and the beast will pass him by. It will clatter on past him without so much as a look in his direction. Edwin does not even know if it can really see, if hearing is the sense that it relies on most or if this is just one of the rules of its games and it is willing to let Edwin play along.
It doesn’t matter this time. He is injured. The chase has begun. There is only one way this ends, now.
The blood loss catches him before the creature does. He stumbles and falls to his knees. Fortune is with him again, as much fortune as one can have in Hell. He lands on his left knee first, joint cracking hard against the concrete, and his left shoulder follows it to the ground. He is spared the agony of his right shoulder or what is left of his right wrist hitting anything once more, manages to turn and curl onto his left side for a moment.
He does try to get up, does try and remember Charles and the reason he’d chosen to run rather than hide. But he does little more than get to his knees, right wrist cradled protectively to his chest, before the creature catches hold of him.
It grabs his right ankle and tugs. Edwin is not fortunate a third time. His knees are pulled out from under him and he falls forward onto the pavement below. His severed wrist makes contact with the ground. A scream erupts from Edwin’s mouth without his consent even as his left hand plants on the ground firm enough to prevent him from breaking his nose. The pain causes him to white out for a moment, vision going. Blinking returns the sight of the ground in front of him only a second before the creature strikes again.
There is another tugging at his right ankle, different this time. A clamped sensation just above the joint. A hard press – Edwin screams again as his ankle is bitten off. He collapses fully onto the floor, only just managing to roll onto his left side as he sobs.
Charles, he thinks to himself. He holds onto the name, the memory of the other boy’s face, lets it consume him. He thinks of nothing else but Charles. Charles is the only thing that matters now. This isn’t for nothing. For the first time, Edwin’s death will mean something. He holds onto that, with everything he has.
With another ragged scream, Edwin reaches out with his left hand and drags himself forward. The beast is busy chewing on his severed foot and knows he will not get far anyway. Edwin can feel the blood leaking from his torn shin. He cannot see very well, and it is not just the tears that blur his sight.
Charles, he thinks again, desperately, and wonders for a moment why. Who is Charles again? It doesn’t matter. He drags himself further, and up, up, up, until he is braced shakily on his left hand and left knee. He barely has the presence of mind to keep his right wrist from dragging on the ground. His right knee does not want to take any weight. He forces it to, forces himself to shuffle forward, right knee, left knee, left hand, and again, right knee, left knee, left hand.
He manages three repetitions before his strength gives out. The creature, still gnawing on his foot, giggles behind him. It is a distant, faint sound, nevermind their proximity. Edwin is no longer cognizant enough to realize that the blood loss is doing him in. Even terror and pain are fading from his reach. Death, he knows, is imminent. He hopes… there’d been something he’d been doing, hadn’t there been? Something he’d meant to achieve. He hopes he’d managed it.
The beast looms over him. His blood is splattered over the mandibles in front of his face. They latch onto Edwin’s tourniquet-bound right bicep. There is a pinch – there is agony, bright, blinding, brilliant agony – and Edwin dies.