The Prisoner Project

TWENTY SIX

when I said I was on a hiatus, I didn't lie. I was. I wasn't just seeing your messages to update and ignoring you. I had so much on my plate. A light in my life turned off and I needed time to adjust to the darkness.

Thank you for waiting <3

_____

She kept begging and pleading and pleading and begging [for the life of her unborn child], and I got sick of listening to her, so I stabbed her."
— Susan Atkins

TWENTY SIX

THEY ALWAYS SAY THAT WHO WE ARE and what we believe in are a composite of our memories. Did that mean that amnesiacs become hollow shells once they forget? Did that mean that the elderly died before their hearts stopped? Does that mean that I don't know who I am? I asked because my memories had been warped by years of repression and the slow hand of time. I didn't know who I was, or what I was capable of.

In the span of days, I had come to the realisation that I was both a murderer and a victim; and that every choice I had believed to be mine was turning out to be staged from the moment I saw that advert.

Fuck.

On entering the white office, I instantly noticed Frank. I wanted to feel relief, but after my new found knowledge, I knew that trusting him was a chore. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, head tilted up, and lips drawn into a straight line. Eyes, however, were hooded with moon crescents underneath and remained on me. His tousled hair fell across his furrowed brows and his shirt was crumpled. Unlike other days where he carried concern in his big eyes, Frank Trellis looked completely and utterly tired of my shit. 

It seemed as though I was draining him in the same way he drained me and hell, I matched his facial expression internally and externally. Ignoring his sharp eyes for lack of better judgement, I slumped against the wall and looked at my feet.

"You can go in, Miss Black." An assistant said. Her smile was genuine but wavered when she noticed the darkness underneath my eyes and the slack in my jaw. "On second thought, if you don't want to do the interview today, I'm sure we can let you g—"

   "I'm fine."

"Oh—" The woman looked away quickly, understanding that her concern was neither needed nor necessary. "Well, if you need any kind of assistance, I'm always here to help you."

Just as I opened my mouth to prolong the conversation, Franks voice cut through mine. "She said she was fine." Rather than look at the assistant he was addressing, his heavy lidded eyes challenged me. He smiled, a small plastic little toy. "I'm sure she's just dying to get in there."

My eyes flashed infinitesimally. Something was going on with him. I plastered on a fake smile and nodded in faux agreement. "In fact, Mr Trellis, I am."

Just like that, his smile slipped and he gazed blankly at me for a few intimate seconds before pushing up from the wall and leaving the room with a bang that resonated through the small white office. There had been disbelief and disappointment in those eyes, and I had no idea why.

The assistant's voice jolted me out of my confused daze. "I'm sorry, Miss Black, he's been like that all morning."

I waved her apology away. "I don't care." I muttered, heading straight for the metal door and pulling it open.

And the second I stepped into the interview room, my shutters closed and I was stone again. Because the man sat in front of me was a sculptor and I knew he would do anything; go through any obstacle; break his hands and callous his fingers just to carve me into a vulnerable image. He wanted me to trust his intellect, that my sculpture would be worth my destruction. And for some reason, I had agreed to let him. I had handed him the hammer and chisel, and asked him to do to me as he wishes.