[No response. Doppio's voice calls from the other side of the room; to Diavolo, it might as well be coming from another time and place entirely. There is no room for Doppio in the memory that engulfs him now. By then he was already gone — bled out on the Colosseum ground, his voice and his presence severed from Diavolo from then into eternity.
In that moment, he thought he could stand it. There was no trial he had not triumphed over; he would not stumble and fail now. He would prevail over the traitors who dared to seek him out, he would prove once more that he stood at his rightfully-earned place in the world, a pinnacle surpassing all—
(...48 to 54 hours since his death...)
He should have known something was wrong then. He should have understood. It all blurred together, unreal and hazy, like a distant dream. It couldn't be real. It couldn't be him. Some other body and some other mind trapped in this hellish nightmare. Not him, never him.
The werewolf-girl on the screen says something; it's drowned out by the memory, vivid and excruciating and consuming him whole. He couldn't move then, only his eyes. He spoke — he thinks — he remembers the desperation in his voice as he asked her for answers. He remembers cold silence in response, and cold steel plunging into his chest, and the blood that flowed forth, the shock of pain, the screams spilling from his lips —
The body on screen is deathly silent. No gasps, no screams, no pleading protests — nothing but an empty shell. The werewolf shows no emotion as she slices away, just as that doctor did. All is routine.
Not like him. The man isn't like him. So why, then, does he curl in on himself reflexively, as though anything he witnessed matters, as though the butchering of a corpse is comparable to what he suffered? Why does he feel a jolt of sympathy, a jolt of pain, pressing his fingers against his abdomen. There's nothing there, no scar to prove it ever happened, but he knows what was done to him, knows what he saw as his gaze drifted downward towards a body flayed wide open. Pieces of him taken out, scrutinized and remarked upon. Everything he was — everything he accomplished — all reduced to this. Flesh and bone, dissected and analyzed and left to rot away.
(...his identity is unknown...)
Did it ever end? Is he still trapped in that hell? If he is awake, if he is real, if he is still himself ... then why doesn't it stop? Why does he still live it? Why does he still suffer?]
no subject
In that moment, he thought he could stand it. There was no trial he had not triumphed over; he would not stumble and fail now. He would prevail over the traitors who dared to seek him out, he would prove once more that he stood at his rightfully-earned place in the world, a pinnacle surpassing all—
(...48 to 54 hours since his death...)
He should have known something was wrong then. He should have understood. It all blurred together, unreal and hazy, like a distant dream. It couldn't be real. It couldn't be him. Some other body and some other mind trapped in this hellish nightmare. Not him, never him.
The werewolf-girl on the screen says something; it's drowned out by the memory, vivid and excruciating and consuming him whole. He couldn't move then, only his eyes. He spoke — he thinks — he remembers the desperation in his voice as he asked her for answers. He remembers cold silence in response, and cold steel plunging into his chest, and the blood that flowed forth, the shock of pain, the screams spilling from his lips —
The body on screen is deathly silent. No gasps, no screams, no pleading protests — nothing but an empty shell. The werewolf shows no emotion as she slices away, just as that doctor did. All is routine.
Not like him. The man isn't like him. So why, then, does he curl in on himself reflexively, as though anything he witnessed matters, as though the butchering of a corpse is comparable to what he suffered? Why does he feel a jolt of sympathy, a jolt of pain, pressing his fingers against his abdomen. There's nothing there, no scar to prove it ever happened, but he knows what was done to him, knows what he saw as his gaze drifted downward towards a body flayed wide open. Pieces of him taken out, scrutinized and remarked upon. Everything he was — everything he accomplished — all reduced to this. Flesh and bone, dissected and analyzed and left to rot away.
(...his identity is unknown...)
Did it ever end? Is he still trapped in that hell? If he is awake, if he is real, if he is still himself ... then why doesn't it stop? Why does he still live it? Why does he still suffer?]