Angel of Pain

I used to believe that loyalty and duty were virtues. They were words I clung to, ideals that guided me in my early days as a guard at the facility. I told myself I was just doing my job, keeping order in a world that seemed to be slipping into chaos. But it wasn’t until I descended into the lower levels of that accursed place that I realized the true nature of what I was guarding—and who I was protecting.

The facility, officially known as St. Dymphna Research Institute, sat hidden in the dense forests of Eastern Europe. On the surface, it looked like any other psychiatric hospital, complete with a white stone facade and iron gates. But beneath the earth, far from the eyes of the world, lay a labyrinth of tunnels, laboratories, and cells where unspeakable horrors took place. It was here that I learned the meaning of true evil.

My name is Heinrich Müller, and I was once a loyal soldier. Now, I am something else—a witness, a traitor, a man haunted by the memories of what I saw and what I did. I write this now, in the final hours of my life, to unburden my soul before I can no longer bear its weight.

It began on a night like any other. The facility was shrouded in fog, the air thick with the scent of pine and decay. My shift was quiet, uneventful, until I received the order to report to the lower levels. The message came directly from Dr. Friedrich Weiss, the head of the institute—a man whose cold, calculating demeanor had always unnerved me. He was a tall, gaunt figure with pale skin and eyes that glinted like shards of ice. He spoke in a voice that was both commanding and hollow, devoid of any warmth.

“Müller to sublevel 4,” he said over the intercom. “We need additional security.”

I didn’t question him. I simply obeyed, as I always had. The elevator ride down was long, the hum of the machinery the only sound. As I descended, the air grew colder, the walls narrowing around me like a tomb. I had been to Sublevel 2 before, where the high-risk patients were kept, but never to the lower levels. Rumors circulated among the guards about what lay beneath, but none of us knew for certain. Until that night.

When the elevator doors opened, I was greeted by a scene that would be forever etched into my mind. The corridor was dimly lit, the flickering fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the stench of chemicals and something else—something metallic and foul. I could hear the distant hum of machines, the soft whimpering of someone in pain.

Dr. Weiss was waiting for me just beyond the corridor, accompanied by two other guards. He gave me a curt nod, his expression unreadable.

“This way,” he said, turning on his heel and leading us down the corridor.

I followed in silence, my heart pounding in my chest. The walls were lined with steel doors, each marked with a number. As we walked, I caught glimpses of movement through the small, barred windows—pale faces, skeletal hands reaching out, eyes wide with terror. These were not patients; they were prisoners, and they were suffering.

We stopped at a door marked “Cell 47.” Dr. Weiss motioned for me to unlock it. I hesitated, feeling a knot of unease tighten in my stomach, but I did as I was told. The door creaked open, revealing a small, sterile room lit by a single overhead light. In the center of the room stood a metal examination table, and on it lay a man—no, not a man. Not anymore.

His body was a patchwork of scars, stitches, and burns. Tubes protruded from his arms and chest, connected to machines that beeped and whirred. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes—those eyes—were empty, void of life. He stared up at the ceiling, his lips moving silently as if praying for an end that would never come.

“This is Subject 47,” Dr. Weiss said, his voice clinical, detached. “He has proven remarkably resilient, even in the face of extreme stress. We’ve been testing his limits, seeing how much the human body can endure before it breaks.”

“What kind of tests?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

“Various forms of stimulation,” Weiss replied. “Heat, cold, electricity, chemical injections. We’ve also conducted surgical procedures to study the effects of pain on the nervous system.”

I felt bile rise in my throat. “And what’s the purpose of these…experiments?”

Weiss looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “To advance science, of course. To push the boundaries of human knowledge. Pain is just a tool, Müller—a means to an end.”

I wanted to protest, to shout that this was wrong, that this was madness, but the words died in my throat. I was a soldier, not a scientist. I had been trained to follow orders, not to question them. And yet, as I stood there, staring at the broken man on the table, I felt something inside me crack.

“This is inhumane,” I whispered, more to myself than to Weiss.

Weiss chuckled, a sound devoid of any real humor. “Inhumane? What does that even mean? Humanity is a construct, Müller. In this place, we are free from the constraints of morality, of ethics. We do what must be done.”

He turned to leave, but before he did, he gave me a final instruction. “Keep an eye on him. We’ll be conducting more tests in the morning.”

I watched him go, my mind reeling. The other guards followed, leaving me alone with the tortured soul on the table. For a long time, I just stood there, listening to the steady beep of the machines, the shallow rasp of the man’s breathing. Finally, I moved closer, unable to resist the pull of curiosity and pity.

“Can you hear me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

The man’s eyes flickered, a faint spark of recognition. He turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting mine. There was a plea in those eyes, a silent cry for mercy. I felt my resolve weaken, my loyalty to the facility crumbling.

“What have they done to you?” I asked, though I knew the answer all too well.

His lips moved, forming words that were little more than a rasp. “Help…me…”

I knew then what I had to do. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside me, turning fear into determination. I couldn’t save all the prisoners—I knew that much—but I could save this one. I could make a difference, however small.

I worked quickly, unhooking the tubes and wires, disabling the machines. He winced as I pulled the last of the needles from his skin, but he made no sound. When he was free, I helped him to his feet. He was weak, barely able to stand, but there was still life in him. He leaned on me heavily as we made our way out of the cell.

The corridor was empty, the guards having moved on to their next post. We had to be quick—any moment, someone could come looking for us. I led him to the nearest exit, a service door that opened onto a narrow tunnel. It was dark, damp, the air thick with the scent of mildew, but it was our only way out.

We stumbled through the tunnel, our footsteps echoing in the darkness. I could hear the man’s labored breathing, the strain in his voice as he fought to keep moving. But we couldn’t stop—not yet. Not until we were free.

The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, winding deeper into the earth. I began to wonder if it would ever end, if we were simply walking toward our doom. But then, finally, we saw it—a faint light at the end of the tunnel, a glimmer of hope.

We emerged into the cold night air, the stars shining overhead like distant beacons. The facility loomed behind us, a shadowy monolith against the sky. But we were out, we were free—at least, for now.

I led the man through the forest, away from the facility, away from the horrors we had left behind. I didn’t know where we were going, but it didn’t matter. As long as we were moving, as long as we were away from that place, we had a chance.

Hours passed, the night growing colder, darker. The man grew weaker with every step, his strength fading. I could feel his body trembling, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. I knew he wouldn’t make it much farther, but I couldn’t stop—not until I found a safe place, somewhere to hide.

Finally, we reached a clearing, a small patch of earth bathed in moonlight. It was quiet here, peaceful, the horrors of the facility a distant memory. I helped the man sit down, leaning him against a tree. His eyes were closed, his face pale, but there was a faint smile on his lips.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

I nodded, tears burning in my eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

He shook his head weakly. “You did enough.”

We sat in silence for a while, the night air cold against our skin. I knew he didn’t have much time left, but I stayed with him, holding his hand, offering what little comfort I could. He deserved that much, at least.

When the dawn broke, he was gone. His body lay still, his face peaceful, free from pain. I buried him there, in that quiet clearing, marking the spot with a simple cross of twigs. It was all I could do.

As I stood over his grave, I felt a strange sense of peace. I had done something right, something good, even in the face of so much evil. But the cost was high, and I knew I couldn’t go back—not to the facility, not to the life I once knew. I was a traitor now, a fugitive, but I was also free.

I walked away from that clearing, away from the facility, away from the horrors that would haunt me for the rest of my days. I don’t know where I’ll go, what I’ll do, but I know this: I will never forget what I saw in those lower levels. I will never forget the price of my loyalty, nor the cost of my redemption.

And I will never forget the face of the man I couldn’t save—the one whose name I never knew, whose pain I could never truly understand. But I will carry his memory with me, always, a reminder of the darkness that dwells within us all, and the light that can still shine through, even in the darkest of places.