Prisoner

« 1 »

Some kind of curdled liquid falls from above, dripping onto his shoulder.

He stops, looks up.

The ceiling is covered in damp, dark, oozing patches of blood, seeming to bubble and move as if it has a mind of its own. Of course, it could be something other than blood but, in a place like this, that's not likely.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he averts his eyes, fixating his gaze in front of him.

It's dark.

That was the first thing he noticed when he arrived. The only light is provided by flickering clumps of wax scattered sparsely along the floor on both sides of him, almost as if they're trying to guide him where to go.

As if he doesn't know.

There's only two ways you can go. Out, or onwards. And as much as he would like to turn around and go back the way he came, he knows he doesn't have a choice.

With a staggering amount of willpower, he forces his foot to take a step. And then one more. Another, another, until he's picked up the pace into a slow, cautious walk.

It smells.

That was the second thing he noticed about this place, and the realisation came almost a second after his first observation.

He was expecting it, of course. How could a place like this not have some sort of stench to it? But he was not expecting it to be this bad, that's for sure.

Over the years, layers of rot and mildew have piled up, caking the stone walls in grime. The aged blood dripping from the ceiling doesn't help, leaving puddles of black gunk on the floor he's taking extra care not to step in. That, along with the smell of old urine and shit makes for a delightful aroma.

Not to mention the terrible hygiene of the people behind the bars.

On either side of the dimly lit corridor he walks down are cells, a couple of rusty bars being the only thing from keeping him and them separate. Out of everything he's seen so far, the behaviour of the criminals is by far the creepiest.

He got a shock on the first level.

That's an understatement.

The guard he was with had a lamp, so he could see them all properly. Their bloodshot eyes, unnaturally large, their pupils tiny pinpricks hidden in their irises. Their hollow cheeks and startling thin frames. The way every single bone was visible against their skin. Their jagged nails. Their yellow, cracked teeth. The way their fingers turned white as they desperately clung to the bars.

But worst of all, their screams.

It seemed like that's all they did on the first floor. Scream.

Screams high and shrill bounced off the walls, and he could tell they hadn't been there long. Screams low and weak, almost strangled, haunted his mind, caused his mouth to turn dry simply from hearing them.

They screamed. They clung to the bars, clawed the air as if they were desperate to escape.

They were the freshest prisoners on that floor. The newest to this place.

The guard went up with him to the second floor, too. That floor was almost silent compared to the one below it. His spine crawled at the eeriness of it all.

Instead of screaming, the criminals sobbed. Wept. Cried. Begged for him to help them.

Some sat curled in a ball in the corners of their cell, rocking back and forth, crying quietly to themselves, muttering nonsense. Others were at the bars again, sobbing and begging frantically, their eyes wide with insanity.