The Prisoner Project

THIRTEEN

"These children that come at you with knives, they are your children. You taught them. I didn't teach them. I just tried to help them stand up."

- Charles Manson

He died a few weeks ago. Rest in Pieces.

THIRTEEN

WHENEVER I TALKED TO BANSHEE, I'd often forget his crimes, the savagery and sheer horror of his murders. I'd forget because he made it easy for me to forget. He'd say things like I'd love to break your fucking face - and you'd think nothing more of it in that moment. Hell, your brain might even mistake it for his saying I'd love to bake you a fucking cake. But then, later that night in the comfort of your bed, you'd realise what he had said and that he wasn't joking.

It was impossible to deny that he was impressive at his degree of manipulation. He had made me soften towards him in ways I didn't even think possible. To the extent that I had begun to actually consider his ultimatum.

I had momentarily forgotten that he had done so much wrong, to so many people. That he was a psychopathic, raging murderer. Or at least was, ten years ago.

I face palmed myself, smudging the foundation I was dabbing on my forehead. Was I truly so gullible as to believe it when one of the damned told me that he'd tell me information that'll be valuable to my safety? Was I honestly willing to talk to him without the barriers between us?

I scoffed at my reflection. "Stupid."

Aggravated, I picked up a baby wipe and wiped furiously across my face. I wasn't even in the mood. Makeup could wait. With one hand ridding my face of the foundation, I turned on my room computer with the other. The time it took to set up gave me ample time to think about what I would ask Frank.

"Ugh, Frank". I groaned, walking to the closet to look for something that read conservative, business and not-interested. Not because he had been giving me hints that he was interested in me but just because I felt wary about him. I was wary of whatever my next step was going to be because I was beginning to think I was becoming a part of a twisted game.

I settled for a chunky grey sweater and my favourite jeans. Nothing too exciting. Running a comb through my hair, I tried to calm my slowly rising  heart beat. This wasn't what I had expected when I initially answered the newspaper advertisement a while ago.

In my head, I was going to go through either one of two paths because with the criminal justice system, there are always two things involved. It's either you're the victim or the defendant. If you're the defendant, you need to have an actus reus and a mens rea, in order to determine if you're guilty or innocent. Then they decide if you need punishment or rehabilitation. The process drags on.

However, there was a loop hole.

If you're the victim, you don't have a choice. Either way it goes, the wrong has been done to you. You can not escape it.

    I didn't want to be a victim.

Once the power came on on the computer, I disregarded my harrowing thought and tapped an email to Mirabel.

After hearing that she were the one who told Banshee my name, I was quite confused as to where she stood in my situation. I hadn't quite seen her in a while as she wasn't always the one who recorded me after my sessions with Banshee. But despite my confusion, I needed her help.