CHAPTER FIVE(PAINFUL MEMORIES)
1095 Words
CHAPTER FIVE
It was today.
The one day of the year that tore him apart, no matter how strong he’d become.
Every smile he gave, every calm breath he managed to take….it was all a mask. Today stripped that mask away. Today reminded him of the blood, the fire, and the screams that stole everything he loved. The day his parents were murdered. The day the boy in him died and the man everyone feared was born.
Damian sat in the quiet of his dungeon, the only place he ever allowed himself to be human. The room smelled of metal and old pain. Torches flickered low on the walls, casting uneven shadows across the weapons that lined them. It wasn’t a place for mercy. It was a place for repentance.
He took off his shirt slowly. Then he tied his hands to the rope that hung from the ceiling. It was ritual now. A punishment he gave himself every year on this same date.
His chest rose and fell deeply. His eyes closed.
He wasn’t the feared leader right now. Not the man who had taken syndicates and destroyed families with one command. Right now, he was still that boy who watched his family die and couldn’t save them.
He muttered something under his breath….something like a prayer or a curse….and waited.
The door opened.
Stacy stepped in, quiet as always. She’d done this for fifteen years now, yet the sight still made her heart ache. He stood there half-naked, the muscles of his back tense, the rope cutting slightly into his wrists.
She hated this part of her job. She hated seeing him like this, but she also knew better than to question him. This was how Damian Moretti remembered his pain, how he promised himself he’d never forget where he came from.
On the table beside her, the whips were already laid out….three of them, lined neatly like soldiers waiting for war.
“You ready?” she whispered.
He didn’t reply. Just nodded once.
Stacy picked the first whip. Her hands trembled a little as she walked behind him. She didn’t want to do this, but she knew the rule. She was not allowed to stop until he said so.
She lifted the whip and brought it down hard.
A sharp crack split the air, followed by his voice.
“Ahhhhhh!”
The sound echoed through the dungeon, bouncing off the walls, piercing through her chest.
Again she lifted it. Again it fell.
The skin on his back tore slightly, blood tracing thin lines across his skin. But he didn’t ask her to stop.
He never did.
“Harder,” he said, voice hoarse, breaking between breaths.
She did.
Over and over. Each stroke louder, harder, deeper. Each one carrying the weight of his guilt. His back turned red, then crimson.
His screams grew quieter, but the pain in them deepened. His breathing became ragged. He wasn’t seeing the dungeon anymore. He was seeing the past……the house, the smoke, the bodies.
His mother’s voice. His father’s blood. His little brother crying in the corner before the gunshot ended it.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry.”
Stacy’s hand froze midair. She looked at his, sweat dripping down his back, tears mixing with blood and for a moment she wanted to stop. But she couldn’t. It wasn’t her place.
He had ordered her once, years ago, “If you ever stop before I say so, you’ll never serve me again.”
So she didn’t. She picked up the second whip and continued.
The sound tore through the mansion. Even the guards outside could hear it. No one moved. No one spoke. Every year they heard it. Every year, they stayed still until it was over.
By the fifth strike of the second whip, Damian fell to his knees, but his hands still hung tied. His body trembled violently.
“I’ll fix it,” he whispered. “I swear I’ll fix it. I’ll make it right.”
His words were like promises to ghosts that would never answer.
Blood ran down his sides. The pain was unbearable, but that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to feel every lash, every sting, because it was the only way he knew he was still human.
He screamed again, louder this time, until his voice broke completely. Then he went still and head bowed, breath shallow.
Stacy dropped the whip, her chest heaving. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t look at him anymore.
When she finally stepped out, the house was silent. Every maid, every guard, froze at the sight of her bloodstained hands. None dared ask questions.
Everyone in the mansion knew what day it was. Everyone except one.
******
Harriet had been upstairs when the first scream cut through the air.
She sat up instantly. Her heart pounded. For a second, she thought someone was being punished again. But then she heard it clearly, his voice.
Damian.
She rushed to the door, but no one was in sight. The hallways were quiet, yet that raw sound kept coming, shouting, pain, something breaking inside him.
“What’s going on?” she whispered.
A maid passing by stopped, hesitated, then leaned close.
“It’s the ritual,” she said softly. “Every year, on the twenty-second of February. The master… he punishes himself. For his parents.”
“Punishes himself?” Harriet repeated, confused.
The girl nodded nervously. “He says it’s the only way he can feel their pain, to remind himself he still owes them vengeance. Everyone stays away when it happens. Don’t go near him. Please.”
Harriet stood frozen for a moment, the air suddenly heavy around her.
The screams had stopped now, replaced by quiet sobs and echoes of memory. She didn’t understand why, but her chest ached. She hated that it did.
Why was she feeling this?
She shook her head quickly, forcing the emotion away. She wasn’t supposed to care. She wasn’t Harriet right now. She was Jasmine….the Phantom, Massimo’s weapon. She had one job: to find Damian’s weakness and destroy him from the inside.
And now she had it.
February 22. His pain. His guilt. His breaking point.
A slow smile crept across her lips.
“Perfect,” she whispered. “Next year… I’ll make sure he never survives it.”
But even as she turned away, that strange pull in her chest didn’t fade.
The sound of his screams lingered in her mind, raw and human, echoing like something that shouldn’t matter but somehow did.
- Writer
