The Delight of Drowning in the Abyss

As I sit in my decrepit, dimly lit chamber, surrounded by the stench of rot and the whispers of the damned, I am reminded of the exquisite torture I once inflicted upon a young priest. His cries of despair still echo in my mind, a symphony of suffering that I relish to this day. The memory of his pleading eyes, the desperation in his voice, it’s a feast for my soul. I recall the way his body contorted in agony, the way his lungs struggled to extract the last vestiges of air from his ravaged lungs. It was a masterpiece, a work of art that I will never tire of. The art of torture, the dance of death, it’s a delicate ballet that I have mastered over the centuries.

But, I digress. The young priest was just one of many, a mere pawn in my game of psychological manipulation. I have a particular fondness for the clergy, their piety and conviction make them so much more… pliable. The way they tremble with fear, the way they beg for mercy, it’s music to my ears. And, of course, the ultimate satisfaction of watching them succumb to the abyss, their souls consumed by the very darkness they once sought to vanquish. It’s a beautiful thing, a true work of art. And, I must say, it’s a skill that I have honed to perfection over the centuries.

As I sit here, surrounded by the trappings of my dark craft, I am reminded of the true nature of my art. It’s not just about the physical pain, the torture and the suffering. No, it’s about the psychological manipulation, the slow, deliberate destruction of the mind. It’s about reducing my victims to a state of abject terror, of making them beg for mercy, of making them surrender to the abyss. And, in that moment, I am the master, the one who holds the power, the one who dictates the terms of their suffering. It’s a heady feeling, one that I never tire of, one that I will continue to indulge in for eternity.