The Prisoner Project

TWENTY FOUR

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"Killers do have a heart, it's simply fuelled by rage, domination and a sickening desire to take control."

- Author

TWENTY FOUR

   HER EYES HAD DARKNESS inside of them. I knew it was because of what I was saying to her. I knew I was the predator in this moment but I didn't want to stop. I wasn't going to. Not until I filled the gaping holes in my memory with truth. Diana had just let me know that my dreams were mangled, and were revoltingly twisted by guilt and the wrinkled hands of time.

Nothing I believed was really as it seemed and I hadn't been able to see that because I had repressed all my thoughts from that night. I only remembered through nightmares and those, apparently, were terribly warped.

It was my fault though.

Whilst Diana had attended therapy after the incident, I locked myself away from the world because I had a fear of blurting out things that could incriminate us both. I hunched over mounds of books and ripped at the pages when I realised I couldn't escape physically as I could mentally.

Whilst Diana began to heal, and began to love and laugh, I morphed into a vessel for depression to build a home in. Because I felt like my happiness would be blasphemous, I turned away at any opportunity to grow from the traumatic incident.

Naturally, I became deformed mentally and emotionally. The guilt had made a tumor grow within me, one that was malignant. A tumor so bizarre that it was metaphorical. It had tainted my psyche. From guilt came shame came fear came sadness came pain.

Then one night, Diana yanked me from my darkness and forced me to open up because bottling what I felt had slowly began to devour me from the inside.

I agreed to, tried to, until, I snuck a glance into the notepad my therapist held and saw she wrote hopeless underneath my name.

I fled. I began to stutter. I became mute but understood I still needed to let out my feelings. So, I wished with my hands. I wrote agonizing poetry with my fingertips and talked through ink blots. It felt safer, yet more beautiful. Like fireworks, but high up in the skies. Like animals, but tamed.

It made me feel something vaguely similar to happiness. Not happiness in itself. No. At that tender age, I had come to accept that happiness was a myth. I knew that any one who claimed to be happy was a liar. The most powerful person in the world was one who was truly happy. And when they smiled, it cracked the world in half. Split right in the middle.

So as far as the world remained whole, no man was happy.

Yet I felt like I could be.

Until one night, when the nightmares started. And then I began to stutter again. But this time, it was far worse because I stuttered with my hands.

So I bottled up, put on a facade and begun to live as though I were okay.

But in passing thought, I knew that this tiresome journey of self-pity and deprecation is the reason why I applied for this job. Perhaps uderstanding why others did it would open up the truth to why I did it? I didn't know.

All I was aware of was that now Diana's eyes were telling me that my memories of that day were tragically inaccurate. And now, I wanted to know the truth. Too little, too late? yes, but better late than never.