The Prisoner Project

TWENTY SEVEN

"God's creatures who cried themselves to sleep stirred to cry again."

― Thomas Harris, The Silence of The Lambs

TWENTY SEVEN

IN THIS MOMENT WE SHARED, I knew that I had to let all my guard down to get what I wanted. Yet, I wasn't foolish and understood that I had to be tactical first, before anything else. In watching Banshee readjust his cuffs against his damaged wrist, I realized that he could be incredibly still. There was something charged and restrained in the slow, casual way in which he gestured and moved that was disturbing. I could barely listen to everything that had left his sordid lips at that point. The very thought of describing this interview, of trying to overcome the inertness of mere words, fills me with bitter, impatient, fear.

I watched his lips pull apart and his eyebrows draw together. His voice was softer, yet still sounded loud in my ears. Everything he did, to my fragile psyche, was loud. He could whisper in my ears and I would deafen as though someone shot a bullet by the shell of my ears. I could hear him breathing, and feel faint. This was the man who murdered. The psychopath. His face was irrevocably charming, but his insides were darkened with dirty, pure, unadulterated evil. Banshee was dirty, and earthy, and oh so clever.

I instantly knew that this would be most difficult. More than I had ever imagined.

"Sometimes, you look at me like you loved me."

Says the man who doesn't know what love is. I spat. "That's vile."

Banshee chuckled, and rested his matted head against his palm. "Don't question it. Go straight to the point and tell me all the nasty things you've done."

"You first."

Banshee looked at me, smiled as though sated, and nodded. "Taking charge? Okay. I'll let you steer the boat for now."

I wanted to roll my eyes but instead raised my hand dismissively towards the glass to wade away his comment. Banshee's hand lifted just at the same time, and he caught it in mid-air. Not actually touching me, he mimicked the gesture of pulling my hand down. "Don't dismiss me."

"I'm simply eager to get you talking."

I stopped him with a finger in the air when I noticed he was about to speak. I leaned close to the glass, so close that my breath created fogs against its surface. "Nick, I'm almost certain our conversations are being recorded."

Just then, his face became unusually blank. "You called me Nick."

"Did you hear what I just said?"

He heaved a sigh and his head drooped. I could lie to you and say he looked angry, but I couldn't reduce his expression to anger. It was a mix between distress and resignation. Like when a lover is torn apart by the choice of strangling his cheating wife or himself; for loving her so easily.

When he spoke again, it was emotionless. "What gave you the idea that we're being recorded?"

I, perplexed at his earlier reaction, spoke calmly. "It's a long story but I'm certain that someone is listening. It could be anywhere."

He didn't look up at me, not yet. "What could be anywhere?"

"The microphones."

"I don't care, Aria."

"Well, I do."

There was a short pause. It was amused, and cunning. "Because you're about to say very scary stuff?"