The dim light of Rody’s apartment flickered as he stared at the newspaper, the bold headline emblazoned across the front page: *”Renowned Chef Vincent Charbonneau Survives Restaurant Fire, Hospitalized in Critical Condition.”* His eyes narrowed, the words sinking into him like venom. Vincent Charbonneau, the man who had tormented him, who had stripped him of his sanity piece by piece, had survived the fire Rody had set to erase him from existence.
Rody’s hands shook as he gripped the paper tighter, his knuckles turning white. How was it possible? He had watched as the flames consumed the restaurant, as the smoke billowed into the night sky. He had convinced himself that Vincent was gone, burned away along with the horrors of La Gueule De Saturne. But now, the man who had haunted his nightmares was still alive, clinging to life in a hospital bed.
The article detailed Vincent’s condition: severe burns covered most of his body, rendering him unrecognizable. His once sharp features were now marred by scars, his smooth skin replaced with a patchwork of grafts and wounds. The fire had ravaged his throat, leaving him unable to speak, and his mind, once sharp and calculating, was now a blank slate-he had no memory of his past, no recollection of the atrocities he had committed.
A twisted smile tugged at Rody’s lips as he imagined Vincent’s confusion, his helplessness. The man who had once held all the power, who had manipulated and terrorized him, was now nothing more than a shell, lost and broken. It wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot. Vincent didn’t deserve the mercy of forgetting. He deserved to suffer, to know the pain he had caused, to feel the weight of his sins crushing him until his very last breath.
Rody knew what he had to do.
The hospital was a sterile maze of white walls and linoleum floors. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air, mingling with the soft hum of machinery and the distant murmur of voices. Rody made his way through the corridors, his heart pounding in his chest, a mixture of excitement and dread swirling within him. He had signed in as Vincent’s relative, a thin lie that the receptionist didn’t question-after all, who would visit a man as disfigured and forgotten as Vincent if not family?
He found Vincent’s room at the end of a long, quiet hallway. The door was slightly ajar, and Rody pushed it open, stepping inside with deliberate slowness. The room was dim, the only light coming from the muted glow of the machines that monitored Vincent’s vitals. Rody’s eyes fell on the figure lying in the bed, and his breath caught in his throat.
Vincent was barely recognizable. His once neatly groomed hair was now gone, replaced by bandages that wrapped around his head. His face, the face that Rody had once feared, was hidden beneath layers of gauze, only his eyes visible-dull, lifeless eyes that stared blankly at the ceiling. His body was a twisted, scarred mass beneath the hospital gown, the fire having taken everything from him.
Rody approached the bed, his footsteps silent on the cold floor. He stood over Vincent, looking down at the man who had once held him in thrall. Vincent’s eyes slowly moved to meet Rody’s, and for a moment, there was nothing but emptiness in that gaze. Then, a flicker of recognition, a glimmer of something that might have been fear, or perhaps confusion.
Vincent’s mouth moved, but no sound came out, just a strained, rasping breath. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out, to grasp at something, anything that would anchor him in this strange, painful reality.
Rody leaned in closer, his smile widening. “Do you know who I am, Vincent?” His voice was soft, almost gentle, but there was a cruel edge to it, a darkness that lingered beneath the surface.
Vincent’s eyes searched Rody’s face, his brows furrowing as if he was trying to remember, trying to place this stranger who stood before him. But there was nothing, only confusion and fear, and Rody reveled in it.
“No? You don’t remember?” Rody’s smile grew colder, more predatory. “That’s a shame. But don’t worry-I’m going to help you. I’m going to make sure you understand everything.”
Vincent’s breath hitched, a faint, whimpering sound escaping his damaged throat. His hand moved again, a feeble attempt to reach for Rody, but Rody stepped back, out of reach, watching with dark amusement as Vincent’s hand fell limply back onto the bed.
“You were a chef, Vincent,” Rody began, his voice low and steady, filled with a quiet malice. “A very successful one. People came from all over to eat your food. But you weren’t just a chef, were you? No, you were something else entirely. A monster.”
Vincent’s eyes widened slightly, the fear in them growing as Rody’s words washed over him. He shook his head weakly, as if denying something he didn’t fully understand, but Rody didn’t stop. He had waited too long for this, for the chance to make Vincent suffer the way he had.
“You see, you liked to hurt people,” Rody continued, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “You liked to play with them, to break them down until they were nothing. You ruined lives, Vincent. You ruined *my* life.”
Vincent’s eyes were wild now, darting around the room as if searching for an escape, but there was none. He was trapped, just as Rody had been trapped in the web of Vincent’s cruelty, and now it was Rody’s turn to pull the strings.
“You don’t remember any of this, do you?” Rody’s voice softened, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “That’s too bad. But that’s okay. I’ll remind you. Every day, I’ll remind you of who you were. I’ll make sure you know just how much you deserve to suffer.”
Vincent’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with the effort of trying to speak, to plead, but no sound emerged. He was helpless, trapped in a body that no longer obeyed him, at the mercy of a man he didn’t even remember.
Rody pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed, his eyes never leaving Vincent’s. “I’ll be here every day, Vincent,” he whispered, his voice cold and unyielding. “And every day, I’ll tell you more. I’ll make sure you never forget what you’ve done. I’ll make sure you feel every ounce of pain you’ve caused.”
Vincent’s eyes were wet with tears now, the only sign of the overwhelming terror that gripped him. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but listen as Rody’s voice filled the room with words that cut deeper than any knife.
The days passed, and true to his word, Rody returned to the hospital every day. He would sit by Vincent’s bedside, recounting the horrors Vincent had inflicted, describing in vivid detail the twisted games Vincent had played, the lives he had destroyed. He painted a picture of a monster, a demon who had reveled in the suffering of others, and he watched with sadistic satisfaction as Vincent’s fear and confusion grew with each passing day.
But Rody didn’t stop there. He began to toy with Vincent, to test the limits of his broken mind. He would bring in small objects-things that might trigger a memory, a flash of recognition. A knife, a chef’s hat, a piece of raw meat. He would hold them up for Vincent to see, watching as the man’s eyes widened in terror, as his breath quickened, as he tried desperately to remember, to make sense of the fragmented images that flickered through his damaged brain.
Rody would laugh, a cold, cruel sound that echoed in the sterile room. “Does that look familiar, Vincent? Does it remind you of anything? Or maybe it just scares you, hmm? Are you scared of what you used to be?”
Vincent would try to shake his head, try to look away, but Rody wouldn’t let him. He would force Vincent to look, to confront the remnants of his past, to face the darkness that still lingered in his soul. And every time, Rody’s heart would swell with a sick sense of triumph, knowing that he was breaking Vincent down, piece by piece, just as Vincent had done to him.
But as the weeks turned into months, something began to change. Rody found that the satisfaction he had once felt was starting to fade, replaced by a hollow emptiness that gnawed at him. He had thought that making Vincent suffer would bring him peace, would ease the pain that had festered within him for so long. But instead, it was consuming him, eating away at his soul until there was nothing left but the same darkness that had driven Vincent.
Rody noticed that Vincent was changing too. The man who had once been so proud, so confident, was now a shadow of his former self. He no longer struggled when Rody spoke to him, no longer tried to escape the horrors Rody described. Instead, he just lay there, silent and broken, his eyes empty, his spirit crushed.
One day, as Rody sat beside Vincent’s bed, recounting yet another tale of Vincent’s cruelty, he noticed that Vincent wasn’t reacting at all. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and shallow, as if he had simply given up.
Rody’s words trailed off as he stared at Vincent, a strange unease settling in his chest. He had wanted this-he had wanted to break Vincent, to make him feel the pain and suffering that Rody had endured. But now that he was here, sitting beside the man who had once terrorized him, he felt… nothing. No satisfaction, no joy. Just emptiness.
He reached out, almost without thinking, and touched Vincent’s hand. The skin was rough and scarred, a permanent reminder of the fire that had nearly claimed his life. Vincent didn’t react, didn’t pull away. He just lay there, motionless, as if he had finally resigned himself to his fate.
Rody felt a lump rise in his throat, an unfamiliar emotion clawing at him. This wasn’t what he had imagined. He had expected Vincent to fight back, to resist, to be the monster that he remembered. But Vincent wasn’t a monster anymore. He was just a man-a broken, defeated man who had lost everything.
Rody withdrew his hand quickly, a wave of anger surging through him. He didn’t want to feel sorry for Vincent. He didn’t want to pity him. But the anger that had fueled him for so long was slipping away, replaced by something else, something he didn’t want to acknowledge.
Days passed, and Rody continued his visits, but the sadism that had once driven him was gone. He no longer taunted Vincent, no longer recounted the horrors of the past. Instead, he sat in silence, watching Vincent’s chest rise and fall with each labored breath. He hated this-hated the way his resolve was crumbling, the way he was starting to see Vincent as more than just the embodiment of his nightmares.
One day, as he sat beside the bed, Rody noticed that Vincent was awake, his eyes open but unfocused. Rody hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to say something, to break the silence that had settled between them, but the words wouldn’t come. What could he possibly say to the man who had ruined his life, who had made him into the hollow shell he had become?
Vincent’s gaze slowly shifted to Rody, and for a moment, their eyes met. There was no recognition in Vincent’s eyes, no trace of the man who had once been so cold and calculating. Instead, there was only a deep, unspoken sadness, a quiet plea for something Rody couldn’t quite grasp.
Rody’s throat tightened, and he looked away, unable to bear the weight of that gaze. He had come here to make Vincent suffer, to take revenge on the man who had destroyed him. But now, all he felt was a crushing sense of guilt, as if he had become the very thing he had despised.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. Vincent’s eyes followed him, a flicker of something-fear, confusion, desperation-crossing his face.
“I can’t… I can’t do this anymore,” Rody muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned and walked to the door, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle.
But before he could leave, he heard a sound-a faint, rasping noise, like the scratch of sandpaper against wood. Rody froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, he turned back to Vincent.
Vincent’s mouth was moving, his lips forming silent words, his eyes pleading. He was trying to speak, trying to say something, but his damaged throat couldn’t produce the sounds. The effort seemed to exhaust him, and he sank back against the pillow, his eyes still locked on Rody’s.
For a long moment, Rody just stood there, staring at Vincent, torn between the anger that had once consumed him and the strange, hollow empathy that now gnawed at his insides. Then, against every instinct, he walked back to the bed.
He leaned in close, his ear near Vincent’s lips, trying to make out the faintest whisper of sound. It was almost impossible to decipher, but Rody caught the faintest hint of something-a name. His name.
Rody’s breath caught in his throat. He pulled back, looking at Vincent with wide eyes. Vincent was still watching him, his gaze filled with that same quiet desperation, and Rody realized that he wasn’t looking at a monster. He was looking at a man-a man who was lost, broken, and terrified.
Rody sank back into the chair, his hands trembling as he pressed them against his knees. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to reconcile the emotions that were warring within him. He had wanted revenge, had wanted to make Vincent suffer, but now that he was here, all he could feel was a deep, aching sadness.
Vincent had once been powerful, terrifying, a man who had held Rody’s life in his hands. But now, he was nothing more than a shadow, a man who had lost everything, even his own identity. Rody had come here to punish Vincent, to make him pay for the horrors he had inflicted, but instead, he had found himself facing a truth he hadn’t been prepared for.
Vincent wasn’t the only one who had been broken by the fire.
Rody reached out and took Vincent’s hand, squeezing it gently. Vincent’s eyes fluttered closed, a single tear slipping down his scarred cheek. Rody watched, his heart heavy with a pain he didn’t fully understand.
He had come here to make Vincent suffer, but now, all he wanted was to find a way to heal, for both of them. He didn’t know if that was possible, didn’t know if the wounds they had inflicted on each other could ever be healed. But as he sat there, holding Vincent’s hand in the silence of the hospital room, Rody knew one thing for certain:
He couldn’t hate Vincent anymore.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the first step toward something better.
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