The Prisoner Project

SEVEN

"I was literally singing to myself on my way home, after the killing. The tension, the desire to kill a woman had built up in such explosive proportions that when I finally pulled the trigger, all the pressures, all the tensions, all the hatred, had just vanished, dissipated, but only for a short time."

- David Richard Berkowitz

SEVEN

WOULD BANSHEE THREATEN TO slit my throat this time? Only time will tell. I drummed my fingers against the table, restless and terrified but very determined to milk information out of him. The sooner I did it, the less time I would need to spend with him. I was scared, yes, but I didn't want him to see that he had successfully affected me so I played on a poker face. Seeing him the day before had been a puncture wound to an inflated balloon, it reduced the tension.

When the buzz that signalled his entry rang through the air, like the bell for a death toll, I sat ramrod straight against the chair and watched the metal doors slide open. Banshee walked out, and all thoughts of me pressing him for hard information and pretending to be the tougher guy flew out the window. I was shocked.

Not because he had walked out in his usual lengthy strides with a scowl, no, it was because Banshee, Nicholas Dementia, was smiling.

He had on a smile that didn't show his teeth. It was a close-lipped smile and that was something I was grateful for. He walked in with a skip in his step, and his head bobbed slightly. I couldn't help the death drop that my jaw was doing at how petrifying he looked. I racked my brain through pages of the Bible to figure out a very important question. Did the devil ever dance? It was only when he had come close enough to sit down that I realised he was humming an unfamiliar tune.

When his 6"4 form finally settled into the chair before him, he glanced up at me. His gaze was cool, impassive, yet brighter than the last time I had seen him. His eyes moved from my parted lips, to my widened eyes, and when he had had enough of his fill of my face, he winked. Winked. It was so quick that I still believe that I had imagined it.

He stopped humming. His voice was smooth, British, but you couldn't miss the underlying fire beneath them. "Hello. Aria." He stated, leaning against the head of the chair. He looked relaxed, lazily gazing at me. I hated that the roles had been reversed, I was the tense one now.

My shock died down into confusion. "Hi.."

Maybe Frank Trellis had accidentally given me the wrong prisoner? Had I walked into the wrong room? I knew all the answers to my questions was a bold NO because Banshee couldn't be mistaken for everyone else. He stood out in the same way MonaLisa did in the Musee du Louvre, he struck you hard like a gash against soft flesh. A 6"4 needle in a haystack. He was, indeed, unique.

I said nothing else.

Then he frowned. He sat up, leaning his body on the table. I noticed that his fingers and hands were still bruised. More so than ever. His middle finger still bled at the knuckle. "Aren't you going to ask me why I'm so chipper?"

I rose a brow, leaning away. "Oh...Well..Why?"

And then he grinned.

A smile that revealed all entirety of his jagged teeth.

They glistened rudely, stained with flecks of green and yellow. Whenever I thought I'd gotten over the shock of his peculiar appearance, he found new ways to surprise me. When he smiled, he became a reflection of all the horrifying, blood-curdling, fears you had ever had rolled into one. His smile was made of barbed wires defying their purpose, not made to keep us out, but to trap us in. It matched his eyes, in all aspects. Big, soulless, dead. "I'm glad you asked."