The Prisoner Project

TWELVE

"Stop it." I muttered,

"One is lying in a bathtub, using the blood from his slit wrists as a bath bomb." He whispered, dark humour laced in his voice.

I placed my hands on the table, letting it slam down in finality. I wanted him to stop. "Nicholas!"

He stopped. He lifted his eyes to mine and challenged me, twinkling with mischief. "One died in utter, blackened, silence. A bullet to the head."

And then smiled with his teeth. "She speaks."

I straightened like a rod had replaced my spine. "What is wrong with you?" Considering he had been chained in a cell for gruesomely murdering mass amounts of children and adults, that question had immediately become rhetorical.

He chuckled lowly and rested his back against the hard metal of his chair. Everything about and around him seemed to be in a constant state of hardness. His chair, chains, his eyes, his face, his heart. Was he ever soft? Had he ever been?

I couldn't fail to notice that he was in a weird mood, patient enough to let me sit in silence even as I had ignored his signature hello. His tongue darted out to part his rosy lips. "Your eyes, Aria. I can't read them today."

Involuntarily, I closed my eyes. "They're not for you to read."

"They're troubled."

I peeked up at him and his eyes were on me, sultry. "What does it matter to you?"

His voice was a breath. "Everything."

I heaved a heavy sigh, looking away.

His eyes narrowed. "Enlighten me."

"Frank told me that prisoners have pen pals." I started, eyes darting between and within his ardent eyes. A swirl of brown and a fleck of golden. Dead, hollow, no flash of recognition.

He rose an unruly eyebrow, it had a clean cut parting it slightly into two. "Frank?"

"The superintendent."

He clicked his tongue. "I wasn't joking when I said you're one of the first persons I've spoken to in ten years, love." He muttered. "But whoever he is, I'd love to snap his jaw for talking to you about me."

Ignoring the meaning behind his words, I focused on what was at hand. This was serious. I was desperate to know if it was him, and if it was, why he was doing it. If it were to manipulate me, what did he want to manipulate me into doing?

I looked at the skin peeking from underneath his orange tracksuit. It was clean, pale skin. Years of being away from sunlight. "Do you write letters or not?"

My tone wasn't harsh but it was demanding. It made his bushy brows furrow. I could see his jaw tick. You'd think he'd be accustomed to my outbursts by now, but it was the fourth interview and it still affected him.

He shifted his weight from one elbow to another. Then he pushed his unruly hair from his face. "I'll humour you with the response you want. But it's not for free."

I heaved a heavy sigh.

On seeing the light fade in my eyes, he released a wolf in the form of a close-lipped smile. "You expected it."