For Pixie - Descent Into Madness (First Published 2014)

 

DESCENT INTO MADNESS

By William Powell

“You cannot achieve success without the risk of failure. And I learned a long time ago you cannot achieve success if you fear failure. If you're not afraid to fail, man you have a chance to succeed. But you're never gonna’ get there unless you risk it, all the way.”

- Paul Heyman

DEAN MOXLEY

Even a blind man can see what awaits me.

Nothing. Oblivion. I am blind now, but I see my end. I begged for it. When no one else was there to listen, I prayed for it. Every day I woke up, I was a little more dead. I’m dead now, but it still won’t end. Have you ever lost hold of everything you ever held onto? Have you ever wished that today was the last day you would ever close your eyes? Please let me fall into that abyss. Sweet nothingness.

No! Not again. Please let me sleep, please. Nothing comes out though. My eyes sting from the salt. Tears, sweat, I can’t tell. All I know is pain. This is what despair looks like… God, that hurts so much! It feels like I’m hit with a hammer straight between the eyes. I remember now… a hood. There was a hood! Over my head!

Everything is blurry; sensory overload. My eyes need to remember how to see again. How long has it been? I don’t know and can’t tell. How do you measure time when you’re dead. I mean, what is time when you’re dead? No sunrise, no sunset. No music, no television, no art. No sex, no companionship, no compassion. Just solitude and pain.

They say that blindness is being cut off from the world. The world now assaults me. First, I see him. He looks different today. I see a face, a nose, two lips and eyes… eyes that stare straight through me. It’s weird. I am used to him, but just his outline, blotting out the white line shone in my face. I am used to his fists raining down on me like a thunderstorm, beating me, hurting me, breaking me.

This is what fear looks like; me, staring at Vincent Williams. Vincent… Williams? Surely, Lucifer, Satan, the Devil himself. The guards just take a pleasure in hurting people; yes, I know when they hit me; I feel every blow. But with Vincent, it’s different. It’s agonizing, it’s unbearable… it’s purposeful. I don’t just feel my anguish, I feel his.

So, this is what money looks like? I catch myself noticing my surroundings. Leather interior, tinted windows, the kind of ride you only see in old cinema now. This is what real money buys you, not the scraps that we’re forced to fight for to survive. What the hell is this? Some last, wait, first act of mercy before they put an end to me?

We slow to a halt. I only notice my hands bound behind my back when I’m shoved through the car door. Shit! Pain shoots through me as my face smacks the pebbled driveway. I regain my vision and try to roll to my knees. Now I feel the small stones cutting into and indenting my side, my thighs and my shins as I struggle. I’m yanked hard to my feet, feeling my skin being ripped on the beautiful surface.

My feet struggle too. They are swollen, torn and naked like the rest of me. Clothes are the privilege of the free! The free? The irony… more like the subservient, the downtrodden, the hopeless, the spineless… the masses. I stood up and said here I am. I was counted. I was the rebellion, a beacon, an idea. Now I am dead.

This is what defeat looks like. They’re not big on dignity around here. I stumble where my legs have grown weak from endless standing. My limbs no longer feel like they’re my own. The standing cells… reserved for the Dictator’s special guests. A frigid, concrete square, a chain from the ceiling to keep your arms suspended ceaselessly above your head, your feet fixed to the ground. I can’t walk, but they don’t carry me.

Even the memory’s painful. My head snaps back as being caught by a phantom blow. It’s in your mind, Moxley. I need to get it together. It’s like brainwashing though. I can feel my shoulders tearing in their sockets where my body sags after the beatings. Wanting to collapse, but I can’t, hanging like a carcass waiting to be cut by the butchers. I can taste the iron from my own blood after my fall.

As I said, they’re not big on dignity here. I can smell myself… sweat, blood and excrement… all mine. Toilets are the privilege of the free. I wasn’t even worth a hole in the ground. The first time they brought Vincent in to beat me, it was so savage that I pissed myself. I have no pride left. Nothing. I want to die. It is all that is left I crave.

Save me.

Deliver me.

Kill me.

VINCENT WILLIAMS

It has been 87 days since I have killed anybody. For 87 days, my soul has been clean. No bloodshed spilled by hand, and no lives ended. That being said, every time I visit the prison cell of Dean Moxley, that sudden urge reappears – the urge to kill.

Though this urge isn’t one brought about by cruelty and malice, but instead compassion. Every single day, my hand is forced by my illustrious employer to hurt Moxley in new and creative ways. With each command, the punishment becomes more severe, more barbaric, and I come one step closer to throwing in the towel. Whilst there is only so much pain one man can endure, speaking of Moxley, there is only so much pain one man can inflict; I suppose in a lot of ways, we’re both at breaking point, though the poor soul isn’t in any position to do anything about it.

I’ve seen his mental health deteriorate at a rapid pace over the past six months. I don’t fear Moxley because he so weak from the lack of food, water, sleep and any other thing the human body needs to survive. However, I do fear any other person who would be on the receiving end of his madness. The dictator has managed to take what once an incredibly passionate individual, full of fire and desire, and reduced him to a shell of person. Moxley cowers in fear of me every time I enter his cell, expecting a severe beating each and every time.

He likely feels so utterly powerless, so helpless, with nary a friend or ally in sight. He likely views me as evil personified, but I know different. Should he ever be forced to look my boss in the eye, he would know that the Devil is very real – he rules England with no compassion and remorse to the lives he destroys, and kills anyone and everyone who dares oppose him.

As I enter Moxley’s own personal hell, I’m greeted by the familiar smell of piss, shit and Lord knows what else. I’ve become accustomed to it, but the first time I had to interrogate the man I nearly threw up. The smell is foul, but Moxley doesn’t seem to give a damn about it anymore. Thinking about it, he doesn’t seem to give a damn about pretty much anything anymore. He likely just wants the suffering to end.

“Dean, this is Vincent,” I begin, and the captive raises his head to look at me, “Do you feel like talking today?”

He studies me for a moment, and I can’t quite figure out the look on his face. It’s not emotionless, but it’s certainly frightening – a look of pure and utter acceptance. Something has snapped in his mind, that much I knew, but he’s refused to speak to me for 6 days now. Perhaps he’s become a prisoner in his own mind and blocked the rest of the world out. Perhaps not.

Just as I go to leave, satisfied I won’t receive an answer, I hear Dean mumble two little words that prove to me his will is crushed, and he welcomes the end.

“Kill me.”

I look at him, helpless and sorrow fills my heart. It’s a kill or be killed world we live in, a scary predicament where my employer has the final say on everything. If Moxley had begged for death his first day here, I may have been able to sort something out, but now… well, now the aptly-named Dictator wants him kept alive, and to suffer. This isn’t a situation like Daniel, a leftover from an attack gone wrong, this is a supposed leader of the Rebellion, or so he claimed. I can’t just kill him.

“We’ve had this discussion once before, Dean. Do you remember?”

I can see him retreat back into the deep reaches of his mind, and his face becomes one full of regret and sadness. 

He remembers.

DEAN MOXLEY

I’m alive. They came and took me in the middle of the night, and now here I am sitting in a padded cell, strapped to a chair. My heart is racing, I’m sweating profusely, and all I can think about is getting my hands on the bastards who have kidnapped me and snapping their necks.

My panic is well-founded. I’ve heard all about the Dictator’s set-up in London, and this is no different. I just don’t understand... somebody must have sold me out, surely? There’s no way they would find the main base of operations and just take me but spare the others surely? Why go to all the expense to kill the Rebellion leader and not just destroy the entire Rebellion in one fell swoop?

A million questions and zero answers. I can hear footsteps approaching the door, and I just pray the answer I get is a positive one.

The door slides open, and I feel my heart stop beating for just a split second.

I know that face. It’s a cold, calculating face. It’s a face of little to no emotion. It’s a face of a killer.

Standing before me is Vincent Williams – right hand man to the Dictator, and the man responsible for the slaughter of countless Rebellion members over the years.

I spit at Vincent, but it just misses his face and hits the wall behind him. He doesn’t pay it any attention, and instead pulls up a chair opposite me. He doesn’t take his eyes off me for one second, not that I could do much – being strapped to a chair pretty limits my mobility, even if the voice inside my head is screaming for me to kill this monster right now.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Vincent asks, and I struggle to break free of the restraints to no avail. The fear and panic from earlier have all but disappeared, replaced with aggression, rage and a thirst for vengeance.

Vincent doesn’t bat an eye-lid, and just sits there, watching me. He’s likely trying to test my mettle, my patience, but I’m too smart for his game.

“You have two options, Dean,” Vincent starts, leaning forward ever so slightly. “The first option is to tell me everything you know, and I can promise that your suffering will end here.”

“No fucking deal!” I shout, making my position really clear. Vincent doesn’t acknowledge my reply at all – no changed facial expression, no smile, no scowl, not even a raised eyebrow. He merely continues as if I hadn’t said a word.

“The second option is that I leave this room and inform my employer that you are unwilling to co-operate. Now, while this may not seem like much, I can promise you Dean that what you will have to endure will be even beyond my comprehension.”

I just scoff; I’m not scared of this asshole. The Rebellion will rise up and save me. Even if they don’t, it’s only a matter of time before I find a way out. There’s always an escape route.

Vincent leans back in his chair. “I take it from your reaction that you’re going with option two?”

“What do you think?” I laugh. My pent of frustration for Vincent, his employer and this entire situation is masking my fear and trepidation for the time being, and from what I can tell, he’s none the wiser.

“I can end your suffering.” He replies softly, trying to lull me into a false sense of security.

I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, really? How?”

This stone-cold killer shuffles in his chair, almost like he’s nervous?

“I can end your suffering, By ending your life. Right here, right now, before my employer has the chance to sink his teeth in. That being said, this is a one-time offer. Once he knows of your existence, I cannot help you.”

My loud, exaggerated and maybe slightly overbearing laughter gives Vincent the answer to his offer. He looks disappointed, gutted even.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I blurt out, and with that, Vincent stands up from his chair and heads towards the door. He doesn’t turn around once to acknowledge me again before exiting.

Thus, here I sit. All alone. The fear starts to return, and I feel my heart rate increasing once more.

I still have hope – at this point, hope is all I really have, along with my sanity and my pride.

Not to mention my will to survive.

Help will come. I just have to believe.

Hope.

VINCENT WILLIAMS

“I remember.” Moxley whispers, and if the man wasn’t so frail and defeated, I’m pretty sure he’d shed a tear.

“I thought you might. Though it might be hard for you to fathom Dean, but it pains me that you didn’t take the way out that I offered. I suppose in hindsight you wish you had, hmm?”

No answer. He’s starting to blank me out again.

“My employer has asked the pleasure of your company today, Dean. He wants to meet with you after all this time and make you an offer.”

He shows the smallest sign of life, and... is that a hint of a smile?

“Is he going to kill me?”

I let out a sigh. Poor bastard.

“I don’t know. What I do know is that this, much like my offer, will only be extended to you once.”

Dean looks down at his own body, and he looks so pained. He looks at the bruises, the scars, the dry blood, all of it. He must sense that the end is nigh. I can only hope for his sake that it is.

“Do I have a choice?” he asks with a slight hint of sarcasm.

Still some personality left it would appear – not completely broken shell. 

Close, though.

“Not if you want the suffering to end, no.”

He closes his eyes and doesn’t say anything for a minute or so. I can’t imagine what is going through his head, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to either. The man standing before me now named Dean Moxley has gone through about as much pain as any one human being can endure before being another body in the ground... and he still has meeting the Dictator to look forward to.

“What have I got to lose?” Moxley coughs, nodding. I don’t say another word, but merely nod back and take my leave.

This has been a long time coming. After all the violence, all the horror that man has had to endure, he’ll finally get what he’s always wished for since being captured – a face-to-face meeting with the man who has orchestrated all of this.

I just hope Moxley gets some sort of redemption before his time on this planet comes to an end.

Patience is a virtue, and usually, the outcome is worth the wait.

Except for Dean Moxley.

No resolution would ever be worth the wait the agony he has had to endure.

Little does he know, the worst is possibly yet to come.

DEAN MOXLEY

I’m spared from any further beatings for a month. The way I see it, the Dictator doesn’t want his personal guests looking like they’ve been through hell. Maybe it plays on his conscience. I doubt it.

My body aches. My face, my stomach, my arms, my legs, my feet, my hands, every fucking inch hurts. Being stuck in that cell for as long as I have, surrounded by nothing but darkness numbs the pain. I can still taste blood. No amount of toothpaste will get rid of that.

I’m taken from my cell at God knows what time, because without the Sun or a clock, time becomes totally meaningless. They give me a fancy suit to wear. I do as they say, but struggle putting it on. I’m just so weak, my body doesn’t work like it used to.

The guards push me into the lift and up we go to the penthouse. The double doors open and I’m ushered inside. My eyes can hardly believe it. This is how it’s supposed to be! The little things! Chairs, a table, carpet on the floor... how I’ve missed you all so. Being stuck in a cell for the longest of times surrounded by your own excrement will make you long for anything that you once knew, no matter how insignificant.

My brain hurts. A headache from the lack of food most likely. It takes all over my power to not black out, but the guards don’t give a damn. I’m pushed forward to the empty dining table, and strapped to the chair. My hands are free, but handcuffed, so I can’t do any harm to their leader. 

The assistants bring out trays of presumably food, albeit covered so I can’t see what it is this asshole is tucking into. The heads of his victims, perhaps? Who knows. All I do know is that the smell is overpowering – when you’re force fed the kind of shit not even a pig would tuck into, even the most basic of meals is an improvement.

Except I don’t want to be fed. I want to simply be allowed to die.

I notice there isn’t a knife in sight on the table in front of me. Somebody did their homework, obviously.

The oh so familiar sound of footsteps ring in my ears from the right of me, and my body seizes up, my natural reaction to expect Vincent and another severe beat down that will leave me in unimaginable pain. I haven’t the energy or passion to try and turn to see who it is joining me, but the room is so poorly lit and my eye-sight is still adjusting to being out of my cell that I can’t see shit either way.

A well-dressed man sits down opposite me, but I can’t make out any distinguishable features. He asks me how I am, but the question is so loaded for someone in my position that I find myself unable to answer. I’ve been through hell, and now I want to be free of pain and die. I want to die, and I want to die as soon as possible. I no longer fear death like I once did. Now I would cherish to be put out of my misery, like a sick dog or horse that’s broken its leg.

The man introduces himself as the leader of England, and the man known in most circles simply as the Dictator.

My body language screams defeated; I’m slouched in my chair somewhat, with no energy and no drive to even make myself look presentable. I just want the Grim Reaper to come and end it all.

My eyes however, they scream revenge. This man has been the source of all of my problems. Every. Single. One. And yet, with him now sitting opposite me, a mere metre away if that, I do not feel the sudden urge to break out of this chair and tear him limb from limb.

Seeing everything that he has – the penthouse, people to control and do his bidding, a whole country at his disposal... I almost envy him. He has everything I wished I could have had when I was leading the Rebellion. Hell, even before the war took place, I used to dream of such power.

Now my dreams are of my own sweet death, and how I cry out in anguish when I wake up every morning to find myself still amongst the living. Not my turn, not yet.

He makes a plate of food for me and slides it over to me. I tuck in, but my throat is so raw and coarse that I can barely more than a few mouthfuls. He makes some crack about a doggy bag to take back to my cell, and laughs. My expression is just stoic.

The Dictator explains to me how he’s impressed with my will to survive. He couldn’t be more wrong, I just haven’t been lucky enough to perish yet from one of Vincent’s beatings, but I don’t bother to correct him. He tells me that while he would be happy to let me continue suffering until I’m an old man, he has a better proposal. This peaks my interest.

He wants me to work for him.

I’m floored. Despite not saying a word since his arrival, I’m rendered speechless.

Apparently, he has seen me go from the leader of the people who oppose him, to a man who wants nothing more but to die. He tells me that he has broken me completely, and stripped me of everything that made me Dean Moxley. My past experiences, my past beliefs and attitudes, all gone. 

I feel a lump in my throat – it’s true. I have no true identity anymore. I am a name, and nothing more.

I am Dean Moxley, but even I don’t know anymore about myself beyond that. Who am I?

Luckily, The Dictator is here to help me.

I’m told that while I no longer know who I am, The Dictator does. He wants to rebuild me from the ground up, and give me back my freedom. Killing me would be too easy it would seem.

“What’s going to happen?” I ask, and The Dictator smiles at me. A warm, generous smile which I know is just a facade but maybe he truly believes he is kind at heart. People as wicked as him usually do.

He wants me to feel like a man who has lost everything I had, but I can find redemption and a new lease on life by working as his eyes and ears. He wants me to become a member of his expanding line of elite soldiers who are a cut above the rest.

My past history with the police force is well known. Apparently, those skills can still be put to good use.

“How?” comes my second question. I’m to be paired with a number of men in the same predicament. Men who have gone through what I have, but have come out stronger and better for it. Our first task would be to take out those who threaten The Dictator most, but in an act of trust, we’d go unsupervised. He has complete faith in us.

“Remember,” he finishes, “if you refuse, it’s back to the cell. You want to die so badly, fine. I can grant your wish. Nobody says I have to kill you slowly, however. I’ll put you out of your misery when you reach 100. Hell, if you wanted to die so badly, the second you’re up in the air on my private plane, feel free to jump out – but something tells me you’ll get a taste of freedom, and change your mind. The choice is yours.”

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I smile. Not a sarcastic smile, a genuine smile. He tells me I have a choice.

The way I see it, I never had a choice from the moment I was kidnapped. Everything that has happened to me has led me to this point.

A broken man, reborn.

“I’m in.”

VINCENT WILLIAMS

I open my eyes and whisper quietly to myself , “One day.”

It has been one day since I have killed anyone.

I am wracked with guilt once more. As always, I justify the slaying by telling myself that it was for the best – but I know this isn’t true.

How long can this go on? How long can I keep doing this? When will it end?

I update my notepad as I do every morning, a knot in my stomach as I scrap the previous page that filled my heart with the tiniest feeling of happiness knowing that I hadn’t taken another life in quite some time.

Back to square one, as they say.

I get showered and dressed for the day, but before leaving I find a notice stuck through the letter-box. Odd – I didn’t even think about going to bed until the early hours of the morning around 2 o’clock. I’d spent the better part of two hours trying to wash the blood off my hands.

I open the letter, and find myself reading aloud.

“Vincent,

I felt it was my duty to inform you that you will no longer be required to execute Mission 405 today. The plan to take previously long-held captives and offer them their freedom with the condition that they now work for me has proven successful. Seth Black, Roman Fatu and Dean Moxley have been dispatched to execute Mission 405 in your place. Should any problems arise, I will ensure you are informed and given instructions on how to proceed.

Also, you may like to know that your reports regarding those three individuals proved most useful. With me being such a big believer in second chances, I decided to trust these three with the plan without any supervision for the time being. They know the penalty for defiance and failure, but in case my message wasn’t clear enough, I sent a very clear example to all three. 

Taking into account the three reports compiled by yourself, I took away the three things Seth, Roman and Dean care for most. With Seth being a musician in his former life, I chopped off the fingers on his right hand to ensure he can no longer play any instruments. Knowing Roman had prided himself in being able to see the best in everyone except me when reporting for the national newspapers, I decided to tear out his left eye. As for Dean, knowing his way a voice of the Rebellion for the longest time, I cut out a portion of his tongue. He still retains the ability to speak, but his mouth is now scarred up much like the rest of his body.

Thank you again for your continued co-operation, and with your services no longer being required for the upcoming mission, feel free to take the week off. You have earned it.”

There are no words.

I tear up the page into a million pieces.

There is no end to this madness.

It has been one day since I’ve killed anybody...

No.

It has been one day since I’ve killed an innocent.

As God as my witness, one day I will proudly proclaim that I have killed my employer – and on that day, the world will rejoice.

One day.

DEAN MOXLEY

I never had a choice, not really.

Either turn down The Dictator, and suffer for the rest of my life.

Or take my chances as a man reborn, under his control but alive. Not only alive, but free.

Like I said, I never really had a choice. Besides, I’m the perfect candidate for such a mission.

We’ve been told we’re on our way to tie up loose ends for the boss. Take care of those who are starting to rise up against him, but aren’t clever enough to hide in the shadows like I once did as a member of the Rebellion.

More fool them. 

Death waits for no man – and seeing as I’ve been given a second chance at life, I figure it’s only fair that I start racking up the body count. If I can’t be given my wish of death, then I may as well bring death to those who deserve it.

There is no hesitation, no reluctance, no guilt. 

Life dealt me a bad hand for quite some time, but it’s only made me stronger. Better.

The other two, Seth and Roman, they look at me like I’m crazy.

I’m not. 

Honestly.

My eyes are open.

I’ve survived my descent into madness, and come out a survivor.

Whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. Right now, I feel invincible.

On top of the world.

As for those who we’ve been instructed to hunt down and murder?

Hell is coming to collect. Months, years of pent up, uninhibited rage will soon rain down upon them.

There is only one thing left for them to do.

Run.

For when justice comes calling, it means only one thing.

Death is on its way.

THE END