The Prisoner Project

FIVE

"Even psychopaths have emotions; then again, maybe not."

- Richard Ramirez, Night Stalker

FIVE

I KEPT PLAYING with the hem of my sweater in an attempt to hide the fact that I was scared shitless. I had walked into the room empty handed with nothing but the fire drill beat that my heart was pounding. Why had I let Frank Trellis talk me into this? Behind my thoughts, I knew the answer. I wanted to meet Nicholas Dementia. I really did, but at the same time, I wanted nothing of the sort.

Would I be dying by mental or physical trauma today? It was hard to tell. My heart was racing, my blood high above the average pressure, my nails dug so far in my palm that I knew I had caused damage to it. Would Banshee be big, burly, violent and painfully ugly? Or would he surpass my imagination and step out with red serpent skin, a beastly tail and two sharp horns on his head? Was that it? Was Banshee the devil?

I heard the buzz from a door that signalled it was time for him to come and I jolted in my seat. Unconsciously, my eyes moved to a small object on the wall at the other side of the room. The security camera. Knowing it was there and that the very well trained (as The Chief Guard had smugly commented) security crew was watching me made me feel less jittery. I still felt ill and was unable to remove my eyes from the metal doors that slid open painfully slowly.

It slid open to reveal the one person that terrified me the most.

He walked in alone, surprisingly, with no guards hopping around him with AK-47s pointed at his neck or Army Men hounding him with military rifles and bombs. No, he walked in like he had come at his own will. Banshee walked in like a King. I recalled words from the book of Revelations in the Holy Bible and found them fitting for the harrowing scene before me. He approached me like it were Judgement Day.

Rapture.

At first glance, you would think Banshee was unconventionally attractive. Then you would kick yourself for thinking like that. Because your eyes would then adjust past his façade, recall his beastly crimes and refocus. You would understand that Banshee was just as ugly as his crimes. He was not pretty with sad things in it but ugly with horrifying things buried deep within.

He was nothing like what I had expected him to be. He looked almost..normal. His hair was lengthy and let loose enough to reach his shoulders, it fell in sections over his face and danced when he walked. His arms were hidden under the orange overall he wore, it looked dirty and unkempt. Behind my fear, I thanked heavens for the glass between us. At least, I couldn't get a whiff of his scent.

I couldn't see his body but I knew he was huge, towering a good 6ft 4 if I had dared to guess. He took long, lengthy but painfully slow strides to the seat and lowered into the metal chair. Surprisingly, Banshee had no tattoos, skin as clear as crystal. Clear enough to see the blackness in his heart, probably. His hands and fingers were bruised to the bone. Bruised enough to still have dried blood on them. His lips remained sealed, straight, void of emotion.

Out of all his fantastic features, what terrified me the most were his eyes. They looked sad, with eye bags hovering underneath them, and they were hard on me. When I looked into them, I felt the same way I had when I looked into the dead eyes of my brother. Soulless, Horrifying, Demonic.

Even as the thick pane of glass separated us, I felt terrified to be face to face with someone as evil as Banshee. Whenever I blinked, images of him watching the life drain out of his victims and sobbing like a banshee afterwards played like a projector against my eyelids. Fear lacing through me, I realised that Banshee and I had been staring at each other for around five minutes.