The Prisoner Project

TWENTY THREE

I was only following God's orders.

-Joseph Kallinger

TWENTY THREE

    SEEING SOMETHING THAT you swore to keep away from danger stand on the front lines of your own war was like death. My mouth was agape, and I didn't want to comprehend the reason why Diana would be here. It was beyond shocking. I closed my eyes and shook my head vigorously. "This cannot be happening..."

I heard a shuffle on the ground and knew she had stepped forward. Softly, her hand grazed my shoulder. "Aria, let me expla-"

Within seconds, I had shrugged her hands off me and spun right around. Her touch was meant to be one of comfort but it felt like the opposite. My head was still spinning on its axis from what Banshee had asked me, from what he had prophesied, so I couldn't possibly deal with her and Nicholas in one mindfuck.

One stone at a time, Aria. Killing two birds with one stone is impractical. One never really dies.

I grabbed the door handle and tugged it marginally. "I'm not finished with the interview." I muttered to the silent room. I could already imagine what Hanks face looked like. His mean mug would be tightened further, eyes in slits revealing how irrevocably upset he was because I was bypassing procedure. I couldn't just walk in and walk out whenever I wished. But at this point, I didn't care.

I pitied Diana, she might have expected happiness from me when I saw her but it really was tragic because those feelings were no longer things I was used to. Emotions like that came to me like water in a dessert. Rare, and often hallucinatory.

I took one deep breath, walked in and closed the door behind me.

My eyes widened when I noticed Banshee was still sat at the table. He hadn't moved yet, but he wasn't statuesque. No. His head was down and his hair fell over most of his features. However, between the strands of hair, I could still his eyes. and his eyes were focused on his wrists. He had pulled he orange sleeves of his uniform upwards and I could see that his injuries didn't stop there. It travelled all the way to the indentation of his elbow.

I felt sickened knowing it was self-inflicted. I wanted to know why he did it. There had to be a striving force behind it and it was neither guilt nor sadness. I remembered the way he cracked his knuckles when he punched the wall. How much force he had used to damage himself. It had to be anger. Frustration. Something red.

His eyes were hooded, and his lips were parted in an o. It took me a while to realise he was whistling. There wasn't anything particular about the action, but the tune itself struck me as vaguely familiar.

I stood against the white wall. He knew I was here yet he didn't acknowledge. He probably wanted an explanation.

But Hell, he had pushed me to the edge and I was still teetering at the cliff. I couldn't even breathe because Banshee had single handedly taken my breath away.

But I was going to have to face the music. I would tell him I had no idea what he was talking about and I had left because I thought he was going to hurt me.

Gingerly, I walked back to my chair. "I've heard that tune before."

Banshee glanced up at me for a few dire seconds, eyes revealing nothing but emptiness.