The Warden

Chapter 1

The Warden gripped the porcelain rim of the sink, its cool, smooth surface serving as an anchor to the present. 

This is where he always found himself afterward.

Gradually coming back to, as he stood, chest heaving, staring at the flickering reflection in the mirror.  He reached a trembling hand, fingers stained dark crimson, up to touch under his milky eye.

Blink.

The reflection changed.

This time, he noted with a clearer head, the blood splattered across his cheeks, covering his lips, and a smudge from where he had just touched moments ago under his dark brown eye. He could still feel the euphoria coursing through him, like currents of white hot, all-consuming fire just underneath his skin from the game he’d played with the prisoner.

Because that’s how it always started, as a game, until he lost all control and the blood lust took over.  He scowled at the reflection in the mirror, remembering the feel of his teeth tearing into willing flesh and drinking deep as desperate, clutching hands slowly lost their strength. The same thrill that still trickled gently through his veins also reminded him of when he’d been different.

But now he could hardly remember that version of himself, if it had ever existed at all.

He turned the faucet to a slow trickle and began to scrub his hands and face clean.  If he thought hard enough, he could almost recall faint echoes of regret in a time long past. But as soon as the foreign concept brushed lightly against the edges of his memory, it disappeared. 

Why should he feel bad?

After all, this was a prison, and he had been charged with running it as he’d seen fit.  Everyone here was as guilty as he was, so what did it matter if sometimes he completely lost control.  The wretches he tormented were destined to spend what was left of their pathetic lives rotting away.  It was almost an act of mercy to end them.

Mercy.

A skeptical laugh burst from his lips and bounced around the cold, dark brick walls of his quarters.  Fuzzy memories of the only time he’d shown mercy and it’d come back to haunt him flicked quickly through his mind.

Long glossy hair, wide eyes darting around his face in terror, and a small musical voice, hoarse from lack of air where his fingers held tight around the pale skin of her neck. 

She’d begged him, like all the others.

And he’d let her go.

He slammed the door on the thoughts, anger heating like a hot coil in his chest. He pulled a deep breath in through his nose, long fingers nimbly undoing the buttons of his blood-stained shirt, as he worked to dampen the rage that threatened to send him spiraling again. He tore his arms from the sleeves and forcefully tossed the shirt into the trash near the bathroom door.

Why had he even allowed himself to think of her?  She only reminded him of the one thing he could never have.

Humanity.

He despised her for it. But his loathing and desire for revenge would do him no good.  He couldn’t reach her here.  He snarled, dressing in clean clothes, recalling the pity on her face as his vision faded to black while he bled out on the damp street.

The next thing he remembered was waking up here.

And him.

Rising levels of cacophony below jolted him from his thoughts.  It could mean one of two things.  Either some prisoners had turned on each other and he would have to make quick work to stop the ensuing blood bath, which annoyed him since he had just put on a clean shirt, or someone was here.

He descended the stairs into the growing madness, rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. He’d do his best to keep this one free of stains.

Greedy hands reached after him through the barred slats of the cells. He inhaled, but he could only detect a faint smell of blood, and there were no scuffles happening within the prison as far as he could tell.

He had a visitor.

Unease settled heavy in his gut as he prepared to face the only other person that ever came to this godforsaken place. He exited the building into the growing dark, strolling in an unhurried pace across the yard. 

The bastard could wait.

As he neared the gate, he could just make out ragged, choked breathing. 

No, not breathing. Someone on the other side of the gate was weeping.

Curiosity piqued, he unlocked and slowly slid the heavy door open to a small figure with long hair doubled over on the ground.  The metallic tang of blood filled his nose, sending pangs of hunger through him and saliva filling his mouth as he stared down at the human in the dirt.

She rose, crouched on her knees, and he observed the dark, sticky red covering her front and arms.  It flaked off of her caked fingers, where she nervously clasped and unclasped them in front of her.

When she lifted her face to his, he nearly stumbled backward away from her, but his grip on the door held him upright. Tears fell readily down her dirty face and dripped off of her small pointed chin. 

“I didn’t know where else to go.” Her pathetic whisper was almost lost amongst the pounding in his chest and head. 

Impossible.

He quickly donned the indifferent mask he had perfected long ago and studied the face of the girl who’d haunted him all this time.

Leaning against the door frame and sliding his hands into his pockets, he calculated whether it would be best to kill her now or if he could use this to his advantage.  A corner of his mouth twitched up as he settled on a plan.

“Come in.”  He offered, his smirk revealing one knife sharp, elongated canine, and he extended his hand to the only person he’d ever hated more than himself.