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Substance

Some live to hurt. They live to watch tears run from the eyes of those they deem worthy of their punishment as their own pupils dilate in pleasure. They enjoy watching humans crumble in their grasp like empires long since crumbled; ruins of the afterglow. Suits of white and foaming ice become stained by dark bitter red as they feast and revel in the most perverted hedonism.

And to that I say that those are people who are nothing but fools. Ruining lives for short lived pleasure that could be derived from much simpler tasks. And when those souls you've corrupted and defiled in your pursuit of sadism have burned away, what is there for you to feed off of? The ashes of your conquests, or the tears of their pain? More value is found in a plate of pasta, and much more joy as well.

But perhaps the act of bringing harm is truly a greatest high, but does the high rival that of praise or success? And maybe the sight of bringing a man to his knees from agony is a delightful sight indeed, but the sight of my beloved rivals any. So tell me, was there any real purpose? Any substance?