Another Glorious Gone

.::chapter øne - vøid::.

Empty, bright, destruction.
I pry my eyes open and feel the ice-cold stone pressed right against my cheek; once again, I am on the floor. Nothing's new. My eyes gradually adjust to the light, you'd think I'd be used to the blinding light of the tombs lining the ground below my prison cell but no. Out the window, neon gravestones, with echoing hymns that fill every empty cavity of my body with yearning. Empty, want, destruction. Clandestine stares back at me when I manage to pull myself up and stand in front of my dusty mirror. I always felt like my name was mocking me, Clandestine, something kept secret... hidden because it's illicit. Clandestine, that's me? I think? The only "name" I really recognised growing up was 229. Citizen number 229 under the reign of the glorious Municipality of Dema.
God, how I've grown to detest the way this city's name rolls off my tongue. An oppressive regime ran by a high jacked religion and a group of "bishops" drunk on the power given to them. A power granted to them by a so called "God", one that I find my faith in dwindling more and more everyday. If the God they preach is real then he is an evil man; ignoring my pleas and pushing me into a grave I did not know I had dug. His hands manipulating me into digging this hole in the ground and now I stand here on the edge of it cursing the one who put me here.
I run my scarred hands over the pale skin of my hollowed out cheeks as I stare down the gaunt eyes gazing back at me with a strange feeling of resentment. Deep lashes line my face and burns cover my body, oh how I yearn to return to my spot on the cool floor. I am disconnected from the figure looking back at me even though it is me. I used to see myself when I looked in the mirror. When I was young, bright, and still alive i glanced in reflective objects looking to see if my hair was sitting correctly but now i stare at myself looking to see where the light behind my eyes went.
Scars, acid burns, scratch marks any form of torture you can name is casted somewhere on this pathetic vessel, lining my arms and face for I... I am a lab rat. Since the very minute I was placed on this earth the bishops have used me as a contender in every sick and twisted experiment their hearts pleased (for the "sake of science" of course.) It used to make me sick to my very stomach every time I watched their faces contort into expressions of vile pleasure whilst I screamed my lungs out in agony due to their so called "investigations" but after nearly 17 years of this heinous routine I have learnt one thing: their cruelty is now a constant, just another part of this sickening cycle i call life. Their cruelty or more specifically his cruelty is my life.
Nicolas Bourbaki also known as the very bane of my existence. I was never once explicitly told this but I know all the experiments conducted on me are his idea. Every scar, every nightmare, every single thing that plague me are his doing; head bishop Nicolas Bourbaki (nicknamed as Nico) is a unstoppable, atrocious fire. How can they even nickname such a man? A man? A monster.
"Oh Clandestine." His voice echos through me even though he's nowhere near.
A shudder runs down my spine as his words bounce between my ears, I hate how he calls me by name it makes me miss the hollow coldness of my number. To him I should not be Clandestine but I am... I truly am. My hands tremble alongside the shudders jolting through me making it almost impossible to close the buttons on my drab uniform. Today will just be another day, more chemicals, more dizzy spells.
God, if you're really there please just take me already.