The Prisoner Project

THIRTY NINE

"It's just murder. All god's creatures do it in one form or another. Look at reality of it: you have species killing other species, our species killing all species and we just call it industry, not murder."

— Mickey Knox

THIRTY NINE

FAIRYTALES AND FOLKLORE would have us believe that evil had an ugly face. It remains common belief that demons possess wonderfully horrifying horns, scaly skin and teeth sharp enough to sink into the toughest skin. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Deep down though, hidden in the folds of our subconscious, we know that this is myth. Like us, demons aren't obscure. They aren't hiding under our beds waiting to gnaw at our feet. They aren't hiding in dark corners and preying on our vulnerability.

They are everywhere and nowhere. A face that is often overlooked, and sometimes even marvelled at. They can whisper sweet-nothings in your ear whilst the dagger digs deeper into your back. They can hold on to you and give you comfort when in the face of things that should terrify you. They are me and they are you.

In a feat of denial, we forget that even Lucifer was the most beautiful angel in heaven, and his ugliness was merely a metaphor for the ugly within.

With 100% certainty, Frank could say that he had met a demon.

___

FRANK FELT AS THOUGH he had been in a fight with a thousand men and had lost miserably. His joints ached and he found it increasingly difficult to open his eyes. He reached around him to grasp at memories and straws, but only felt the strain of cold metal against his wrists. At that, he jerked up straight.

"What the fuck..." was all Frank could whisper. The grey walls of the room were damp with mould, and the smell of desolation forced its way through his nostrils. There were only a few things that had caused him to spiral in his life, and waking up in a prison cell had become one of them. His disbelief turned into fear and he nearly gagged. "What the FUCK?"

It took his eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dull hue in the cell. Lifting his hands to his face, he realised that his glasses were missing. It wasn't as though Frank was blinded, but his visual impairment was severe enough for him to struggle. His tired eyes panned from the steel bed to the lone toilet in the corner of the room. That was all that it was. A closet space.

He was slowly realising that he had been put in solitary confinement.

The panic exploded in his chest like a bomb.

"HELP ME!" He screeched, echoing through the room like a siren.

There was a momentary silence before a voice from the far corner of the room startled him into silence. "How does it feel?"

Frank had assumed the shape at the other end of the room was the toilet but he had been terribly mistaken. He froze, in fear.

The voice was unnerving. A little familiar. "Tell me how it felt when you woke up to this." Hands stretched to the span of the room. "Helpless? Lost? Terrified?"

Frank squinted. "Who are you?"

His reply was a snake-like slither. "Take a wild guess."

The figure moved to its feet and towered above him. On seeing the locks of hair resting on broad shoulders, the empty eyes and the jagged grin, Frank felt the air in his lungs cease. He struggled to breathe through his panic as he realised that he was staring up at the man who consistently stole his dreams, tore them apart and moulded them into nightmares.