"It's just murder. All god's creatures do it in one form or another. Look at reality of it: you have species killing other species, our species killing all species and we just call it industry, not murder."
— Mickey Knox
THIRTY NINE
FAIRYTALES AND FOLKLORE would have us believe that evil had an ugly face. It remains common belief that demons possess wonderfully horrifying horns, scaly skin and teeth sharp enough to sink into the toughest skin. Whatever helps you sleep at night. Deep down though, hidden in the folds of our subconscious, we know that this is myth. Like us, demons aren't obscure. They aren't hiding under our beds waiting to gnaw at our feet. They aren't hiding in dark corners and preying on our vulnerability.
They are everywhere and nowhere. A face that is often overlooked, and sometimes even marvelled at. They can whisper sweet-nothings in your ear whilst the dagger digs deeper into your back. They can hold on to you and give you comfort when in the face of things that should terrify you. They are me and they are you.
In a feat of denial, we forget that even Lucifer was the most beautiful angel in heaven, and his ugliness was merely a metaphor for the ugly within.
With 100% certainty, Frank could say that he had met a demon.
___
FRANK FELT AS THOUGH he had been in a fight with a thousand men and had lost miserably. His joints ached and he found it increasingly difficult to open his eyes. He reached around him to grasp at memories and straws, but only felt the strain of cold metal against his wrists. At that, he jerked up straight.
"What the fuck..." was all Frank could whisper. The grey walls of the room were damp with mould, and the smell of desolation forced its way through his nostrils. There were only a few things that had caused him to spiral in his life, and waking up in a prison cell had become one of them. His disbelief turned into fear and he nearly gagged. "What the FUCK?"
It took his eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dull hue in the cell. Lifting his hands to his face, he realised that his glasses were missing. It wasn't as though Frank was blinded, but his visual impairment was severe enough for him to struggle. His tired eyes panned from the steel bed to the lone toilet in the corner of the room. That was all that it was. A closet space.
He was slowly realising that he had been put in solitary confinement.
The panic exploded in his chest like a bomb.
"HELP ME!" He screeched, echoing through the room like a siren.
There was a momentary silence before a voice from the far corner of the room startled him into silence. "How does it feel?"
Frank had assumed the shape at the other end of the room was the toilet but he had been terribly mistaken. He froze, in fear.
The voice was unnerving. A little familiar. "Tell me how it felt when you woke up to this." Hands stretched to the span of the room. "Helpless? Lost? Terrified?"
Frank squinted. "Who are you?"
His reply was a snake-like slither. "Take a wild guess."
The figure moved to its feet and towered above him. On seeing the locks of hair resting on broad shoulders, the empty eyes and the jagged grin, Frank felt the air in his lungs cease. He struggled to breathe through his panic as he realised that he was staring up at the man who consistently stole his dreams, tore them apart and moulded them into nightmares.
The man stood before him as though he were the prisoner.
"Banshee." Frank whispered.
Banshee shook his head slowly. "No." His eyes were hooded as he gazed down at Frank. Hair falling into his eyes to mask the chaos within. "Nicholas, please." A bandaged hand shot out and beckoned Frank to latch on to it. "Nice to meet you."
Frank didn't return the gesture.
"What the fuck is this?" Frank muttered, gaining strength from feeding off his own fear. He pulled at the shackles on his wrist and the chains that held his feet steady. He struggled even though he knew that he couldn't escape. "What do you want from me?!"
Head tilted. Voice soft. "I'm not sure."
"Why am I cuffed?" Frank said, his panic melting into a desperate distress.
Banshee's voice was like the calm before an unsurvivable storm. "It's what I wanted."
Frank was taken aback. The whole situation seemed unreal to him.
Banshee grinned at his facial expression. He ran his hand across his face, and let out a sharp hiss when he stressed the broken bones in his wrist. "Are you scared of me too?"
Suddenly, the hatred and aggression within Frank threatened to choke him. For years, he had wondered what it would be like to face the man who had completely destroyed his life. He had spent sleepless nights thinking of what his gruesome revenge would be like. Would he tear him apart limb for limb? Would he go mad and reenact his crimes?
"You should see your face." Banshee muttered, leaning down to peer at Franks reddened face. "You really do hate me."
Now, what Frank hadn't ever considered was the possibility that he would be the prisoner. He hadn't considered that his suppressed grief would overwhelm him so suddenly and intensely that he would burst into tears and weep like a child.
As quickly as it had happened, a certain silence that was full of tragedy settled between the two men.
Unlike Frank who sobbed, Banshee remained expressionless. If Frank's outburst of emotion had shocked him, he did nothing to show it.
When Frank noticed that there was something empty in the way Banshee watched him, he was forced to feign mild composure. His vulnerability embarrassed him and so, his voice had become small. "Please. What do you want from me?"
"I just wanted to see you." Banshee confessed.
Frank wiped at his leaking eyes. "Why?"
"I had assumed your grief would sate me."
"Does it?"
Banshee, for a second, looked confused. An image of concern etched on his features. He moved so he sat in front of Frank, facing him. Their knees touched. Their eyes locked. Man to Man. Predator to Prey. "No."
At that, Frank squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't comprehend the emotions coursing through him. He hadn't expected Banshee to say sorry or show remorse but this hurt. He had been holding on to this pain for so long that he no longer knew what to do with it.
He was looking in the eyes of the devil and he no longer wanted to fight.
Defeated, Frank whispered. His voice was broken from the silent sobs that escaped him. "Why'd you do it?"
"That's what this project is all about, isn't it? Finding out why." Banshee smiled small. "You and I know I have no answers."
"Do you even remember what you did?"
Banshee's grin had disappeared. "Of course, it's all I think about."
"She was fucking four."
"I'm aware."
"My boy was ten. My brother. My wife." Frank swiped at his nose, uncaring whether the snot and tears made him look disgusting. This was real. His pain was disgusting. "You fucked it all up for me."
Banshee didn't respond. His head rested on his hands, his hands rested on his knees. His eyes remained on Frank, as though he were watching a fascinating film about the thin line between life and death.
"You fucked me up." Frank whispered.
Blinking twice, Banshee whispered back. "Why weren't you with them?"
What?
The question threw Frank off.
"I..."
At that moment, none of the reasons that Frank had thought of seemed justifiable. Why wasn't he with his family when they were murdered? Maybe if he had died with them, it would've been easier for everyone. "I was working on a case."
"What case?"
Frank scoffed through tears. "I don't remember." His hands balled into fists. He pressed them against his eyes and groaned. "Jesus Christ, I don't even fucking remember."
How fickle.
"Frank." Banshee muttered, reaching forward and pulling his hands from his eyes. "Look at me."
Frank, in shock at the physical contact, stared blankly at him. Within both their eyes, dangers of different variations swam. Frank's was the kind you steered clear of, but Banshee's was exhilarating. It made you want to teeter on the edge of it. Frank's was an abyss.
"I wanted to see you before I died." Banshee looked down at his bare feet. "That was my ultimatum."
Frank was visibly shocked at this revelation. It frightened him.
"I've thought about you for years." Banshee shifted, lifting from the ground. He felt the need to distance himself from the situation. "When I walked away from your family, I hadn't realised there was someone left. I found out about you on the news and it fucked me up in here." He tapped at the spot where the human heart was supposed to be. "I'm not sure what it was."
If Frank had words to say, it refused to leave his lips.
"I think it was the thought of you being utterly alone in the world. It disturbed me. I know it sounds foolish but it's true. You see, the people I killed were already alone. And if I happened to kill a family, I'd kill them all. You were the exception. Because of this, I looked for you and I was certain I'd have you dead by the next morning."
Frank felt nauseous listening to how shamelessly Banshee talked about human life. His perception of the world was so twisted that he truly believed Frank's lonely life was the bigger tragedy, and not his dead family. "Fuck you."
"People die everyday, Frank. We're all going to die someday. When you die, you die. Nothing matters to a dead man. You don't get to feel. You're dead." Banshee looked bigger, and more brutal than Frank had assumed. He looked down at Frank with hooded eyes filled with intensity. "It's the living that suffer and you were suffering."
Severely disturbed, Frank could only stare.
"But then what you did next shocked me. It was like you didn't care." Banshee shook his head. "Or maybe you cared too much."
"What are you—?"
"I'm talking about how you just left. You fled like a man who'd run mad." He squatted before Frank with an adamance in his eyes that mirrored anger. "At first, I assumed you were in denial, unable to comprehend the massive loss in your life. Your entire family was murdered. It would fuck anyone up."
It was guilt that made Frank grip his beating heart. He remembered how he had been unable to deal with the reality of the situation. He had left his home, the city, and his entire life behind. He had walked out his front door the next day, got into his car and drove to anywhere, and he had not looked back since then.
"—But then you never returned. I admit it took a while but I finally realised that you weren't ever in denial. No. You were just a fucking coward."
And just like that, the wound that was etched on Frank's heart split open and bled again. Just like it had on the first day. But this time, he couldn't run away from the excruciating pain. He was forced to face it.
He broke down and wept like a dying man.
Frank's tears did nothing for Banshee. He was impassive.
"If I had killed them physically, you left them for dead. I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time." Voice like a demon, he hissed. "When was the last time you said their names?"
No answer.
"You didn't even acknowledge their deaths. Didn't go to the funeral. You have nothing left." For some irrational reason, Banshee sounded annoyed. "The only thing that you have left is a faded tattoo of the image that your daughter wishes you had." He tutted. "And even that, means nothing."
That was all it took.
Frank didn't think twice before taking a swing at Banshee. He swung with a need to inflict serious damage. The force of the blow had knocked Banshees head to the side. The metal of the handcuffs cut through the skin of his cheek and left a metaphor that read how fucking dare you?
The sound of the gore reverberated through the dingy cell.
Without lifting his head, Banshee spat on the concrete flooring. A mixture of blood and saliva. He shook his hair out of his face and sighed heavily. "OK. You've let it out." With one hand, he wiped at the gash on his cheek and studied the bloody residue. "I'll let this one slide but do it again and it's an eye for an eye."
Frank no longer cared about the consequences of his actions. He was no longer wary. "Fuck you and your fucked up sense of reality. You would never understand the reasons for what I did."
"Enlighten me then."
Frank cradled his bruised knuckles against his broken heart. The file hadn't lied. Banshee was strong. "There'd be no point. Everything about you is wrong."
"You think what I do is wrong?"
"You don't?"
"Do you?"
There was hurt laced in Frank's every letter. "Yes."
"But Frank, that's hypocrisy." Banshee lifted his hands to show the permanent scarring that years of wearing metal handcuffs had left him. "Everyone who's been cuffed in this prison is either dead or well on their way to dying. You play a part in that." He smiled like he wasn't next in line. "You say killing is wrong. They tell you from the moment we're born. It's the greatest sin to mankind, they'd say. Yet, given the right circumstances, every man would commit the crime. We're animals, and true to form, are susceptible to the same urges as the rest of the animal kingdom. It's in our nature."
"You're wrong."
"Wrong? But, don't you want me dead?" His bruised cheeks hollowed on a pout. "Just because you're not the one pulling the trigger doesn't mean you're not doing it. You're ecstatic that I'm on the death row. You'd curse anyone who tried to prevent it. You are killing me."
The silence in the room was heavy.
Banshee hissed at him. "Murderer." The mockery in his eyes was evident.
"It's not the same." Frank gritted. His eyes were boring holes into the concrete underneath him and every part of his brain was screaming in anguish.
"It is, to me."
This time, the silence that came over the room wasn't sinister. It creaked and groaned and rattled the two broken men that sat within it. They studied each other for minutes, unable to comprehend each other. They were yet to realise that they were simply born of different compounds and components. None of them would ever understand the other because they were nothing alike.
The fact neither satisfied nor troubled them.
Mere seconds past before Frank broke the silence. "I hadn't imagined it like this."
"Meeting me?"
Frank nodded, toying with the chains on his wrists.
"Me too." Nicholas admitted. "I was nervous. I thought I'd feel something."
Hearing that Banshee had been nervous instilled in Frank a kind of strength that he hadn't expected. He didn't address it. "You don't feel anything?"
"No." He shook his head, his hair danced like tendrils in the wind. "Nothing."
There was no way for Frank to accurately describe what this ordeal felt like. His entire world had been consumed by this. He was looking in the eyes of the man who decided to, in a single act, wreak so much havoc in his life.
It was unusual but Frank had begun to feel a little lighter. He was realising that it felt more emotionally draining thinking about this interaction, dreaming of it, seeing him through security cameras than actually doing it. Now that he was facing him, he felt like the boulder on his shoulder had cracked in half.
Maybe Banshee had a motive, maybe he didn't. But Frank now knew that the anger he had harboured for years was one-sided. There was simply no use for it when the person he hated would never understand the gravity of what they had done.
"Are you going to kill me?" He finally asked.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to hurt you." Nicholas teased.
In truth, nothing about this interaction felt satisfying to Banshee. He didn't care for this man as much as he had believed. He no longer felt an attachment to him or his dead family. It had come as a surprise to him that after decades of wondering how it would feel to completely obliterate an entire generation out of existence, he wasn't in the mood. "Not me, at least."
Frank had the decency to look appalled.
"I thought you were it for me. The final piece to the fucking puzzle. I was going to die a sated man." He ran a bandaged hand through his dark hair. "It's not you."
Frank was about to question who it was when Nicholas's words sunk in. Suddenly, a singular thought passed his mind like a bullet through his brain.
He sat up straight. "Aria."
"Aria." Nicholas repeated. He slowly sank down to the floor, head in his hands and worry in his eyes. He had asked for this. He would be dying soon. Yet, he was not content.
Frank gaped. "You want to hurt her—?"
"No, I don't. That's the problem." For the first time in his life of certainty, Nicholas was struggling to find clarity. He glanced up at Frank. "It's a bizarre feeling."
"She doesn't deserve what you did to her."
"No one deserves what I do to them."
"But—?" Frank queried because he could hear the lost word in his sentence.
"But it's different this time." A scowl played on his lips. "It feels different. It feels."
Frank stared at Nicholas and noticed that there was a garden in his face where roses and white lilies were supposed to grow. Yet, there was only a ton of weeds. There was something missing from this man. Something along the way that was supposed to make him whole was gone and it had ruined him. Maybe at birth? Maybe in the course of his disturbing life? Frank couldn't tell.
He looked away. He'd been carrying his pain and hatred for so long that he didn't even notice it any more, so as it slowly disappeared, it felt strangely satisfying.
"I'm going to help her." Frank announced. "I'll try."
Nicholas looked up from long lashes. His eye bags were pronounced, and for the first time, Frank could see the weight of fatigue that followed him. "That's a selfless thing to say."
Frank shrugged. "I've got nothing to lose."
In a bizarre act, Nicholas threw his head back and laughed out loud. The familiarity of those words did it for him. He sat back on his arms and laughed, a real hearty one. And when the humour had tided over, he sighed. "Thank you."
"I'm not doing it for you." Frank insisted.
"Of course."
Nicholas never expected anyone to do anything for him. In the long run, he never mattered. He was aware that his entire life was tragedy porn. He knew that his existence was nothing but a means to unfortunate endings.
He deserved to die.
Slowly, he stood up and walked towards the door of his minute cell room. The room he had become oh so familiar with. His blood was on the walls and the floor. Even the ceiling had tasted him. They served as reminders for his severe mental trauma. He leaned against the rusty metal of the door and looked back at the perplexed man cuffed to the corner of the cell.
The cell that had been his home for a decade.
He lifted his hands to knock on the door, but paused.
"Frank?"
"Yeah?"
"It's not your fault." He said, deciding to play the role that seemed the most fitting. "Not this time."
There was a beautiful little pause.
"I know." Frank muttered.
Nicholas nodded, lifted his bandaged hand and knocked on his cell gate, once, twice and a third time.
AN: I promise. I was ~this~ close to labelling this book as 'discontinued' but then I remembered that writing isn't easy and it takes authors years to finish books and I shouldn't give up so here it is so happy reading (or hope you enjoyed it since we're at the end of the chapter). Another update is coming soon, literally typing it as this is uploading, same time next week!
also, thank you for 800K! I couldn't believe it when I saw it. I literally screamed! thank you for sticking by!!