"These children that come at you with knives, they are your children. You taught them. I didn't teach them. I just tried to help them stand up."
- Charles Manson
He died a few weeks ago. Rest in Pieces.
THIRTEEN
WHENEVER I TALKED TO BANSHEE, I'd often forget his crimes, the savagery and sheer horror of his murders. I'd forget because he made it easy for me to forget. He'd say things like I'd love to break your fucking face - and you'd think nothing more of it in that moment. Hell, your brain might even mistake it for his saying I'd love to bake you a fucking cake. But then, later that night in the comfort of your bed, you'd realise what he had said and that he wasn't joking.
It was impossible to deny that he was impressive at his degree of manipulation. He had made me soften towards him in ways I didn't even think possible. To the extent that I had begun to actually consider his ultimatum.
I had momentarily forgotten that he had done so much wrong, to so many people. That he was a psychopathic, raging murderer. Or at least was, ten years ago.
I face palmed myself, smudging the foundation I was dabbing on my forehead. Was I truly so gullible as to believe it when one of the damned told me that he'd tell me information that'll be valuable to my safety? Was I honestly willing to talk to him without the barriers between us?
I scoffed at my reflection. "Stupid."
Aggravated, I picked up a baby wipe and wiped furiously across my face. I wasn't even in the mood. Makeup could wait. With one hand ridding my face of the foundation, I turned on my room computer with the other. The time it took to set up gave me ample time to think about what I would ask Frank.
"Ugh, Frank". I groaned, walking to the closet to look for something that read conservative, business and not-interested. Not because he had been giving me hints that he was interested in me but just because I felt wary about him. I was wary of whatever my next step was going to be because I was beginning to think I was becoming a part of a twisted game.
I settled for a chunky grey sweater and my favourite jeans. Nothing too exciting. Running a comb through my hair, I tried to calm my slowly rising heart beat. This wasn't what I had expected when I initially answered the newspaper advertisement a while ago.
In my head, I was going to go through either one of two paths because with the criminal justice system, there are always two things involved. It's either you're the victim or the defendant. If you're the defendant, you need to have an actus reus and a mens rea, in order to determine if you're guilty or innocent. Then they decide if you need punishment or rehabilitation. The process drags on.
However, there was a loop hole.
If you're the victim, you don't have a choice. Either way it goes, the wrong has been done to you. You can not escape it.
I didn't want to be a victim.
Once the power came on on the computer, I disregarded my harrowing thought and tapped an email to Mirabel.
After hearing that she were the one who told Banshee my name, I was quite confused as to where she stood in my situation. I hadn't quite seen her in a while as she wasn't always the one who recorded me after my sessions with Banshee. But despite my confusion, I needed her help.
I craved to see Banshees file again, in more explicit detail. Not because I needed explicit and graphic images of dead men, women and children to remind me of his brutal sins, but because I needed back story. I needed to know things about him that I could use to my own advantage. I needed to be able to take control and steer the conversation. I needed the upper hand.
Desperately.
Nevertheless, it was weird that I didn't already have access to the file seeing that I was supposed to get information out of Banshee.
I made my email brief.
If it wouldn't cost you an arm and a leg, could you email me or hand me Banshees file? Thanks. - A
That seemed enough to do the job on my part.
___
Frank pulled the glass from his lips and set it down on the table with a soft thump. He looked well, like he had taken the time to look decent for dinner. He wore a crisp white button down and a slim blue tie. His hair was tousled, and his smile was genuine. Charming, if I had the time to admire him.
I didn't question why he had moved our meeting from lunch to dinner.
"Nice tie, looks good on you." I quipped, ignoring the compliment he had given me when I sat down earlier.
I was right; what I had on was not as fancy as that outfit he wore.
"Thank you. I'm a big fan of the colour." He chuckled, smoothing the fabric of his fitted shirt.
I looked down at my dull grey jumper. Yep, pretty accurate. "I wear my favourite colours too." I joked.
If I was going to drill Frank with questions, I was going to go slow. If I rushed into it, I would say things I wasn't sure was safe to say.
Frank lifted his glass and signalled to mine. "To surviving at SSCD for an entire week." He said, eyes alight with humour.
I gaped. It was already a week? That meant I had one mandatory week left. I knew I could ask for more time if I so wished but my time was ticking. One the one part, I was excited. I would get paid, I would leave here. I wouldn't have to see this man again. On the other, I was distraught. I would never satisfy my curiosity. I would fail the project. I would never know what the goal of the letters were. On the last thought, whoever sent the letters knew my address.
Franks voice broke me from my thought process. His hand remained lifted. "Aw cmon, don't leave me hanging."
Slowly, I lifted my glass and clinked it with his. "Wow."
Unconsciously clinking a bit too hard, the white wine from his glass slipped from his loose grip and splashed. The contents landed on his lower arm and stained his white shirt.
There was a short silence and then a "Fuck."
Dropping my water cup down quickly, I gasped. "Oh no, I'm so sorry! I'm always so clumsy and I-!"
Frank shook his head, and his face held an apologetic grin. "Ah, fuck the shirt. I've not been a big fan of it anyways. It's fine, really."
I grabbed the napkin nearest to me and reached over to help clean up. I really needed a leash in public. I was either toppling over, spilling things or causing a mess. "Too bad. It was a really nice shirt."
Frank chuckled and then wrapped his hand around mine and slid the napkin from my grip. "It still is. I'll take care of it."
Politely accepting, I relaxed back on my seat and watched him wipe away the wine from his shirt and the table.
And when he moved, I noticed something.
Because of the liquid, the sleeve of his shirt had become slightly see through. I could see an outline of something on his left bicep. It was ink. Frank had a tattoo.
Interesting.
"You have a tattoo?"
The words had slipped out subconsciously and revealed that not only was I being nosy, I had been checking him out for long enough to notice. Cringe. I didn't retract them though, I let the words settle in the air.
When I had said them, I swear I had seen him pause. Like the small break before the next song starts on a radio. Like the blank screens after every shot in a movie. It was miniscule but very significant. He glanced up at me slowly and then down at his arm. "Oh. That old thing?"
I shrugged, trying to hide the fact that I was embarrassed for having asked so blatantly. "What is it?"
His lips pouted. "Something I got done ages ago. It doesn't matter."
And once he had said that, I knew that was the end of the discussion and it was time to change the subject.
But my fucking curiosity.
I pretended to reach over and grab a second napkin in order to get a closer look. Doing so, I could make out an outline because it was a fairly big tattoo. It looked like an image of a woman and two children. Stick figure images, as if a child had drawn them.
Strange.
I sat back on my seat, intrigued and uncaught. "So how was your day?"
"Nothing exciting happened," He mused. "But we did catch Kaufman today."
I hm-ed.
Perhaps mistaking my indifference to fear, he reached over to touch my arm. "Not to worry, love. He's in in a holding cell far, far away."
I pulled my arm back politely and feigned a sigh of relief. "Sounds great."
"It came as a shock though, that he had left his own cell. I could barely believe it when I heard it myself." He muttered, running a hand across his stubbly chin. His eyes were narrowed in concentration.
I couldn't even deny that Frank was a very attractive man, especially when he cleaned up nicely. But I wasn't interested like that. Plus, it was a breach of work policy to even think he was handsome.
I took a solemn bite from my plate. It was a luxurious dish that I had truly never heard of and it looked grim. I hadn't touched it since I had arrived.
He had ordered for me.
I nodded. "Shocked me too. Mostly because a little birdy once told me it was impossible for someone to escape SSCD."
"Oh but that birdy wasn't telling tales." He leaned against his chair and folded his arms. An air of seriousness passed us in soft billows. "If you ask me, I think someone let him out."
A gasp escaped my lips. "What?"
Frank rose a bushy brow at my outburst, amusement in his big eyes. "It's only a theory. Besides, no need to fret, there was no way Kaufman could bypass the lockdown procedure. It's not happening again."
"Yeah, it better not. Don't want them having Banshee escape next." I muttered, sipping from my glass of water.
"Speaking of Banshee, how are things going with the both of you?" He immediately jutted in. His eyes sparked with sudden interest and for a moment I wanted to lie. I wanted to tell him it's fine and it's going brilliantly well. I wanted to lie so bad.
But then I remembered that Frank wasn't the bad guy. Banshee was. Perhaps (and quite obviously) I could trust Frank better than I could Banshee.
I heaved, deciding to start with the less pressing issues. "It's a mess. I'm spilling more about me to him than he is to me. I don't know what I'm doing wrong but I don't think it's going as well as its supposed to."
Frank seemed nothing less than satisfied. He didn't look appalled or disappointed as I had initially expected. His lips quirked up in what seemed to be a sympathetic smile. "Ah, don't beat yourself up about it. It's quite expected that he'd make you feel comfortable about telling your stories."
"But isn't that bad?"
"In a certain sense. Does he seem to be using that information against you?" Frank said, leaning closer to me. The candle illuminated his eyes, making it seem brighter, deeper, more fire.
"No. But he could."
"Possibly."
I frowned. "You don't seem to be discouraging this."
"If it helps you both find common ground then why not?"
My head snapped back as though he had just spat his wine in my face. What on earth did that mean? "You think I'd find common grounds with a mass murderer?"
Frank looked impassive in the face of my frustration. His lips lifted slightly at one side and he lifted his shoulders in at small shrug.
"Aria, we all have a bit of them within us."
I shook away his words that picked at my skin. I wasn't a killer! I wasn't. My past didn't count. I looked down at my barely eaten plate of food. "Speak for yourself."
He chuckled softly. "I was."
My eyes lifted to Franks eyes and it clicked like someone had picked a lock. Unlawful. Illegal. Wrong. But then he smiled one of his lethal smiles and I shook away my earlier dismay.
For some reason, Banshee telling me that there were people I couldn't trust in SSCD made me see everyone as the potential antagonist. Frank had honestly done nothing wrong. Why was I letting Banshee into my head? Gah!
"It's been a while since I've eaten this type of food." Frank muttered, breaking the comfortable silence.
"Don't be too quick to call it food. It tastes like Styrofoam." I muttered petulantly.
There was a short pause, and then Frank lifted his head to look at me. When he realised that I was a serious, his face morphed into a huge grin. He tilted his head back and laughed. "I'm such a fucking idiot,"
Chuckling because I couldn't help not laugh at his laugh, I wondered. "What?"
He gestured to his plate of food. "I think this is gross. Unbelievably gross for the amount of money it costs."
"Then why did you bring me here?"
"It's expensive, and beautiful and the ceiling lights up at night. I wanted to impress you. I guess you could say I fucked up." He tutted, shaking his head at himself.
I flushed a faint red. Impress me? "I'm more of a McDonald's girl but you didn't do too bad. It's got good sides to it. The chairs are soft, the serviettes were origami and the water?" I took a sip and sighed dramatically. "Amazing."
Frank picked up one that was done into a crane. "You're right. I'm not that bad."
Deciding that this was the best time, I said. "Frank, I have something serious to ask you."
Moving his attention from the crane to me, a crease formed between his brows in concentration. "Feel free to ask anything."
"Please be honest with me."
"Aren't I always?"
I sighed. "You once told me that the letters prisoners write are anonymous but is it possible that the prisoner could know who they're writing to?"
Frank slowly let go of the crane and it floated to the floor in a sad, slow drift. "Oh?" His voice sounded shocked. "Wasn't expecting that. Anything you want me to know?"
"You could answer my questions for starters." I tried to joke. But rather than come light as a feather, it dropped onto the table like a boulder. I sounded worried.
Frank sat up, more serious. But yet, no crease seemed to line his brows. He seemed a stony serious, rather than worried. "No. It's not possible. Names are selected from a random generator of applicants."
I felt my eyes widen. "Applicants?"
"Yes, applicants. People who apply to have their pen pals as prisoners from SSCD. The people who write to our prisoners know exactly who they are writing to. They are aware."
This differed from what he had told me initially. I was confused. He had only told me they wrote letters to blow off steam. This sounded more serious. More controlled. Just another way to remind them that they were prisoners. Dehumanised, rejected and isolated prisoners. The outside world knew that they were writing to crude men behind bars. Murderers.
I could imagine that some of the letters must be heinous and callous if people actually applied to write to them.
"Wouldn't they get hate mail if people applied to be their pen pal? Perhaps people whose families they killed?"
It was as though my question was a lightning bolt on a sunny day because Frank clenched his jaw and hissed. "Nothing short of what they fucking deserve."
I blinked, leaning back. "OK..."
I vaguely remembered Banshees comment. People who admire my crimes write letters to me telling me about the outside world, how does that fucking help? - That meant they did get fans too, people who congratulated them on crimes that either haunted their nightmares or boosted their grotesque egos.
Frank heaved a deep sigh.
"I'm sorry. It's a touchy subject for me. I think a man who murders another man's family deserves to die. Savagely." He muttered, an apologetic expression on his face.
In his eyes, I could trace sadness. Pity. The pain of a man who worked with the most evil people in Stockholm, keeping them alive while their victims were trapped in either hell or heaven. To each their own.
"It's okay. I understand." I managed. I truly did understand.
It soothed me that this meant that Diana wasn't writing to someone in SSCD. It made my nerves reduce to jitters. What did this mean for me then?
Franks voice sounded curious. "Are you OK though? What's going on?"
I wasn't about to tell him anything, especially now that it seemed impossible that Diana would willingly write letters to a prisoner.
I shook my head. "Just being paranoid. Sorry."
"It's OK. You can talk to me about anything if you feel frightened."
I scoffed.
He chuckled at the fact that I had wrinkled my nose. "If you still feel wary, you can talk to Rita too. She might be rude but it's probably because she hates this."
Rita?
"Why does she hate the project so much?"
Frank shrugged. "No idea. I've tried and failed to show her the benefits of it but she just turns the other cheek." He sipped his wine and finally set down an empty cup. "She was a prisoner project girl before so I fail to understand her-"
What?!
"She did the project once?!"
"Shocking, isn't it?" Frank joked.
I narrowed my eyes. He had told me the project wasn't running for that long. It was fairly new. "But isn't she quite...old?"
He stopped himself from nodding. Probably because he didn't want to call her old. It would be disrespectful. "You do seem to forget that you're the youngest staff we've had for this project. Besides she's not that old, frowning gives one wrinkles."
"Wow. That's....eye opening." I muttered.
It really was. I hadn't assumed she had anything relevant to do with the project. I had assumed she was just a woman who scared potential employees away and recorded their conversations. Perhaps I could ask her questions about the project and what happened with hers. I was heavily intrigued.
"It certainly is." He agreed. Then dropping his voice a few octaves lower, he muttered. "Be careful around her though. She can be quite...off."
That threw me off. It threw me thousands of miles off the main road. He had said it like it was office gossip. If he didn't like her vibes, why didn't he just sack her then? Or tell her off? Why warn me?
I wiped the disapproval of my face and muttered. "Well then. Anyway, I was going to ask Mirabel about-"
"Don't." - was the sharp reply that Frank spat at me. His voice revealed his strictness. "Don't talk to Mirabel about anything. Information is always confidential. Mirabel is a secondary staff and doesn't need to be asked anything."
Jeez.
I nodded because that was all I could manage. "What's a secondary staff?"
"Think Janitor. She's that unimportant. Don't ask her for anything."
Thinking back to my early email, I flushed. Too late.
As the dinner ended and Frank walked me to my door, he transformed into the gentleman I had thought he was. His arm was around my shoulder and even if I found it quite discomforting, I let it slide past me.
"Thanks for the Styrofoam." I muttered, reaching for my door handle. I hated that this was feeling date-y. Normally, he'd just say goodbye at the front desk and stumble off.
He laughed lowly. "Not a problem. I should probably write a long letter to the restaurant complimenting the food."
"You should." I joked.
He nodded politely and stepped away from me. "Alright. I'll let you be. Goodnight."
I waved him off, praying that he wouldn't ask for another dinner with me again. Brunches were fine but dinners could become awkward quite quickly. I didn't want an infamous text with a Frank T.F signed at the bottom asking me for anything else.
T.F.
I called out. "Frank?"
"Yes?"
"What's the F in your name?"
His eyes widened infinitesimally. A hilt in his step made him stumble forward ever so slightly. Physically and mentally. "Why?"
I shrugged playfully, not paying attention to his reaction. "Call it curiosity."
"It killed the cat."
I rolled my eyes. "It can't kill me, I survived for a week."
And with that, his eyes softened. "Its Fisher. Frank Trellis Fisher."
I nodded politely. It wasn't embarrassing at all. I didn't understand why he had hesitated. "Nice."
He turned to leave finally.
"Not necessarily nice. It's tragic."
___
AN: If you've been truly reading between the lines, you'd see so much.
Hey guys! Just to let you know that the only reason I haven't been updating is because I'm now studying Law! It's really hard but please understand that I'm trying to update as fast as I can <3 you guys helped me reach 16K!! THAT'S BEYOND AMAZING.