"Be faithful unto death,
and I will give you the crown of life."
— Revelations 2:10
THIRTY ONE
NICHOLAS HAD NEVER really thought about anyone. He had never cared about anyone else but himself, and it had always seemed enough for him. His heart was no hotel, it was so small and frigid that it couldn't even contain himself. He knew he was a psychopath — sociopath if you wished to coat his derangement with decency. He bordered on schizophrenia, and battled on the spectrum of bipolar. He was dangerous.
Nicholas knew that his only purpose for being alive was suffering. He knew that every breath he took was a sin and that he was supposed to be dead, decades ago — but death was the easy way out and everyone in SSCD knew this.
Outside the prison walls, Nicholas had died two days after his arrest. Many prisoners, like him, had been declared dead to the public and granted death certificates — yet lived like ghosts within the decaying prison walls. Did you know it was possible to be a ghost even when you were living? A blatant contradiction, yes, but believe it when I tell you that Nicholas was dead. That's what happens when you shut the criminally insane in isolation for years. Leaving them alone with their maddening thoughts? They died a little everyday.
Now imagine how much life is left after a decade.
To everyone, Nicholas was a blasphemy. But no one would understand, or believe, that the dehumanised Prisoner 143 actually had emotions.
He buried them alongside the memories of the corpses he had piled. He had suffered immensely in his life — abused from the moment he was conceived, to the moment he had been incarcerated— and so he reassured himself with the belief that he was only giving back the same energy he had received to the universe.
But sometimes, once in a blue moon, when Nicholas was alone in his cell, he would close his eyes and wonder — Do I have to be I this way? — and the thought that he could have been any different, that he could have lived a normal life, would throw him into a frenzy so violent that he would be unable to control his actions.
He would be blinded and gagged by all the guilt and anger that he had suppressed for decades. He would choke — and then he would beat himself up for thinking about it.
Nicholas would ball his fists into angry shells and crack his knuckles against bloodied cell walls, he would take his fingernails against his skin like flint, and he would throw himself against the metal bedpost. Anything.
And then he would stop only when he was bloodied and hideous, when he was certain that he could feel nothing but excruciating physical pain, when his thoughts were focused only on how he fucking deserved it.
Just to clarify, Nicholas had never tried to kill himself but he did want to die. Not by his own hands though. That was sickening to him. He had used his hands to take many lives, and taking his own life with them felt disrespectful.
"I did the right thing." He would reassure himself as he slumped against the concrete flooring. Just minutes before he would pass out from pain, he would grin widely at his antics. Laugh a little even, and whisper. "I win"
And that was inherently funny because Nicholas knew he was only fighting with himself. He was battling with his own psyche so although he was winning, he was losing too.
He had only felt this way a handful of times but the most vicious of them all — the day he nearly died from his self harm, was the hours after he realised that he had indirectly ended the life of the only person who had admitted to trusting him.
Aria.
There had been a foreign feeling within him when she had said those words. It had been harrowing, and damaging — but now, he closed his eyes against swollen eyelids and whispered once more. "I did the right thing."
For the first time, however, as the words left his bruised lips, it was a fact that Nicholas didn't believe himself.
____
I LEANED MY HEAD back against the cool sheets of Franks bed. He had insisted that I spent the night at his place because I was no longer safe at mine. The thought seemed bizarre to me, and I was finding the whole thing hard to digest. But I was so tired, physically and emotionally, that when he had pitched the offer, I had been a little too quick to accept.
His flat was much bigger than mine. Very beautiful, but a little clinical. It had different rooms, and despite the thick walls, I could hear him in his study. He was on the phone, and he was yelling. My hands reached for my phone in my pocket and I turned it on.
12 missed calls from Diana.
1 missed call from Mirabel.
I switched it right back off and got off the comforter. Despite my obvious fatigue, I was too uncomfortable to sleep. I wrapped my arms around myself and went over to the window sill to peer out the window. The night was peaceful, and the moon was boasting in its full element. No stars dotted the sky, but there was something comforting about the fact that the moon too was all alone, like me.
A sudden chill coursed through me and I felt grateful for the sweatshirt Frank had lent me.
I heard footsteps and spun around to find Frank standing in the doorway. His face was in a scowl, and his eyes were serious. He didn't look upset at me, just generally disturbed.
"Did something else happen?" My voice betrayed my cool demeanour. It still carried all the despair that I had been feeling all day.
Frank shook his head, and I noticed his jaw was ticking.
"Then what's wrong?"
"You." He said in a heartbeat. My words had not even settled in the air before his answer had come. It had shocked me into silence, and he heaved a sigh at my obvious dismay. "Not you. I mean you...being here. You need to go."
I blinked. "Go?"
He nodded.
"You're the one who asked me to stay here to—"
He cut me off with a dismissive wave of his hand and a step forward. "Not here. I mean SSCD."
The silence in between his words were palpable. "I don't understand why you hadn't left the second you realised something was wrong." His hands shook as they passed through his hair. "I know I was supposed to reassure you that you'll be alright here but you didn't even trust me."
I had been silent as he spoke. I hadn't even been looking at him anymore, but through him. Because for a moment, I had forgotten that I had been granted the option to leave.
"I hadn't remembered that I could." I whispered.
Frank looked appalled at himself. "Fuck. That's my fault. I was supposed to be looking out for you. That was my job." He crossed the room and stood before me. "But I'm telling you now. Go."
I should have been jumping at the thought of leaving but I couldn't even think of the possibility of feeling happiness. I didn't want to go. Not yet. Besides, who would I be going home to? Certainly not Diana's And was it really that easy to leave? Ultimately, it didn't make sense to me to leave and not know why I was even here in the first place.
My conflict must have been reflected in my eyes because Frank repeated his words a little more sternly. "I'm serious. Pack up your shit and go home. This is over."
Slowly, I looked up at him and shook my head. "No."
"No?" Now, I understood why Frank thought I was insane. His eyebrows shot up in surprise and remained there for a few seconds. Then his eyes narrowed, as though he was seeing something in me that I couldn't see. "Well, it's not a request. I'm firing you."
It was then that I stood up and pushed past him. My arms crossed against my chest. "You can't do that."
Frank spun around and I noticed his eyes were wide with concern. For me. I hated that he looked at me like I was helpless, like I had been utterly manipulated and was now mad. "You're supposed to want this."
"I have reasons for saying no."
His lips pressed in a thin line. "Is it the money?"
I gasped.
"Is that what's keeping you here?" I watched him ruffle through the pockets of his suit pants and pull out his wallet. He pulled out a wad of fifty pound notes and thrust them at me. "Because I'll pay you the rest of what you would get."
My mouth was agape. "Are you serious?"
His eyes were still on the wallet, digging for spare change at this point. He was holding them at me like I was a beggar on the street. "Yes, take the money and go home."
"Frank." I muttered. "You're a fucking piece of shit."
He froze, and slowly his head lifted to face me. Seeing my face, his face fell. "I—"
"I don't want your fucking money." I hissed, spinning to leave his room. To go where? I didn't know. This was stupid. Whatever I was doing was stupid. There were so many things more pressing and troubling than this but I needed something to let my frustrations out on and Frank was it.
"Aria," Frank hurried close behind to stop me from leaving. "Shit, I'm sorry, I'm just trying to understand why you won't leave."
"Move."
"For fuck sake, I'm just trying to help."
My voice came louder than I had meant it. "Why?"
Everyone wanted to help me. Everyone wanted me to trust them. I was getting fed up of bending over backwards because someone told me that they cared about me. I had frustrations in my eyes that pierced through Frank. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because this feels like it's partially my fault."
I shook my head. "You don't even know what's going on so how the hell is this your fault?"
His eyes flickered from me to the ground. Whatever he was going to say, he held back.
His voice was smaller. "You wouldn't understand..."
I sighed. "I knew you'd say that."
"Christ, Aria, what do you want me to do?"
Funny, because I had never asked him for anything throughout my stay. But now, I wanted something that was both important and tragic, but also imperative to me staying sane.
"I want you to let me see Nicholas."
Frank stumbled as though I had shoved him. He looked taken aback and completely hurt. His mouth opened and closed before he muttered, "Why the fuck would I do that? I just fired you."
"I need clarity."
"And he's the one to give you the clarity?" Frank sounded incredulous but I knew he would never understand. "Aria, please. I warned you not to let him in your head. He's dangerous, and manipulative, and—"
"Why did you not tell me Banshee had done the project before?"
First my tone had hushed Frank, and then my words had shocked him. He looked comical even, almost as though he was as lost as I was. "What?"
"Exactly. You didn't know either." I whispered. "You don't have the answers I need, Frank."
"So you're staying here after someone thrashed your room, kidnapped your intern friend — probably beat the living shit out of him, and turned your sister against you because you want a serial killer to sate your fucking curiosity?"
My face held impassivity. "Yes."
Frank cursed. He leaned against the coffee table near the front door and shook his head in dismay or disgust, I couldn't tell.
"I'm sorry but I don't think Prisoner 143 is the best person to help you wi—"
"Frank, I trust Nicholas more than you."
Unbeknownst to Aria, she had single handedly hurt Frank in the worst possible way. Frank was certain he had been shot because the pain that twisted within his chest was enough to make him gasp out loud. He grasped at his heart. Aria was saying that she trusted the man who destroyed his life more than she would ever trust him. It was more damaging than anything he had ever felt.
Frank lifted a finger at her to stop talking, and slowly but painfully left the room.
Aria watched his exaggerated reaction and felt utterly confused. She took a moment to gather her thoughts before climbing onto Franks couch and falling asleep.
Tomorrow, she thought, Nicholas would have to keep his promise.