The Prisoner Project

FOURTY TWO

"All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that's the tragedy of living."

T.L. Martin, Dancing in the Dark

FOURTY TWO

IT FELT ODDLY SENTIMENTAL to say my last words to Banshee. He truly had the gift of metamorphosis, because he had somehow been able to slither under my skin, into my veins and weave his way into my every thought in a matter of days. It had completely blindsided me, so much so that I wondered if it were even real. Thinking about it proved futile. It didn't smooth any wrinkles in my brain, it just made them into spirals, thoughts turning in and in and in on themselves forever.

It was the sole reason why I didn't say a word of protest when Banshee took the several steps he needed to reach me, grabbed my hand between his calloused fingertips and whispered—"Don't be frightened."

Now that I knew his motives, my fear had begun to thaw into something softer, something a little less maniacal. "I'm not." I confessed. "Not anymore."

And then he smiled, a small boyish smile that I had never had the dismay of seeing. His hair had fallen into his eyes, shielding the intensity of his gaze. Something had changed in the way he looked at me. It wasn't inherently romantic, just grazing the surface of affection.

The beast was finally going to be put to rest.

"It's a little anti-climactic, don't you think?"

"What is?" I muttered, my hand still in his. I felt a little unwise, grateful that the security cameras couldn't witness the humanity of this moment.

"Dying."

I blanched. "Oh."

"A small part of me expected more. I had thought my departure would be a little more exciting." He shook his head as though he was disappointed at his own naivety. "But that's the thing about death, isn't it? It's quiet. No crowds. No sirens. No commotion. No ones speaking a new language of crisis. It's just you."

"Sounds lonely."

"It is. Death is the loneliest act of all."

"Yours is." I reminded him, pulling my hand out of his grasp and taking a cautious step back. It was a little comical but in that moment, I didn't want his misfortune to slip through his touch and into me. "You died ten years ago."

I watched as he flexed his empty hand, shoving it into the pocket of his orange scrubs. He mulled over my words for a moment, before retreating back to the centre table. The distance was welcoming.

He leaned against it, and looked up at the bare ceiling. "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

His every movement was so deliberate, I could watch him for hours. "If a man dies and no one knew he was alive, did he ever live?"

"Oh but Aria, you knew." He muttered, eyes readjusting to focus on mine. There it was again. The abrupt effect of his careless gaze. "You know me."

"The families of your victims know you too." I hissed.

His smile was mild in the face of my ardour. "But you cared."

I didn't respond because even if it were true, what did it matter when I wanted him to die? The darkness that surrounded him was shrouding any sympathy I could feel for him. After all, he felt no remorse. Time and time again, he told me with actions and words that he was a monster. If he lived, he would only feed off the fear of others, or detach himself from his guilt until he could no longer feel again.