The Prisoner Project

ELEVEN

"We do whatever we enjoy doing. Whether it happens to be judged good or evil is a matter for others to decide."

-Ian Brady

ELEVEN

"DON'T FUCKING MOVE!" He bellowed, slamming the butt off the gun against the dry wall. He was heaving violently and his face was contorted into a forsaken grimace. His anger radiated of him like the flames from an inferno.

He jolted to the side when he twisted his neck, cracking it and then cracking his knuckles. "I've had dreams about this day. When I can drive bullets through every hole in your body."

I shivered, taking an involuntary step back and stumbling on my fear. He looked beastly, teeth that glinted in the dim light. I scanned the claustrophobic room. Where was she?

"I told you not to move, sweetheart." Hugh hissed on a menacing jingle. "Did you think I would let you kill me that easily? I knew you couldn't pull the trigger. I knew you'd let me take the gun. You'd do anything for me."

It was a sadistic thought but deep down, I knew Hugh was right. I couldn't kill him. I wouldn't kill him even if he begged me to. It was the reason why my fingers wouldn't pull the trigger. I couldn't hurt Hugh mentally, physically or arbitrarily in the way he had hurt me because somehow, despite this, I loved Hugh and believed he loved me back. I had tried and failed to engage in behaviors that may assist in my detachment from Hugh.

"God...." I whispered, my voice shaking on the fear I was feeding on. My baby brother was holding a gun to my face and I knew that if I triggered him, he would blast the bullet through my skull and let my soul drift into Hell. "Don't do anything stupid."

"STUPID!" He exploded, craning his head back like I had slapped him. "Don't talk to me about stupid. Not you."

I winced.

I backed away from his grip on the gun and gulped. If I was going to die, I wanted it to be fast and painless. Perhaps then I wouldn't have to be stuck living in constant fear.

"Hugh, please."

And his hand lowered the gun from my vision.

It was as if his name coming from my mouth was a sedative that calmed him down and made him ponder the weight of his actions. Like a ticking bomb, he tapped his fingers against his chin.

He tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. The fact that he had stopped threatening me and was now just staring at me made my heart speed erratically.

I whispered one last time. "Haven't you done enough?"

He stood impassively for a moment, as if weighing my words. And then whispered. "Scream for help, Aria."

My confusion must have been evident in my expression because he elaborated with repressed anger. His eyes were downcast with sadness now, a sadnes waltzing in between anger and desperation.

"I'll kill you. So fucking scream. I'm giving you a chance to save yourself, Aria."

And in that moment, I could tell that killing me was something he thought he physically wanted to do but didn't have the emotional capacity to do without feeling remorse.

My eyes were zeroed in on the barrel of the gun that was now aimed at my heart. One bullet and I would die. I was wheezing, crying, withering, every action associated with hysteria.

And when I finally heard the gun click, I lifted my head and caught eyes with my beloved brother.

His eyes were sapphire in the midst of gold, revealing all the turmoil and struggle within them. He was hurting. He had been hurting for far too long. No one deserved to have that much blackness of grief hidden within their hearts.