The Hell
was sixteen years old when he was first killed; when he stood on Matthew's chest, his best friend, blood spurted from all over their bodies so that it was an exhausting and even battle between them until Matthew at last gave way to victory.
Jaden breathed out, feeling the fires of hell all around him.
His palm shook over the sheath of his sword, recalling that nightmare that steals sleep from his eyes: the moment he was kneeling on Matthew's chest, raising his rusty dagger, reluctant to take his soul, his eyeballs shaking turbulently and his chest rising and falling at an exhausting pace, and Matthew grabbed his trembling palm and led him towards his chest containing the dagger. Empty not to retreat, not to coerce and relieve him from his hell, but to kill him and prove to everyone that he will no longer be the prey.
On that day, everyone around him was waiting, waiting for him to retreat in order to pounce on them, the mighty king's monsters, who made a vow to himself to turn his life into hell from the moment he was born and did the most heinous things.