Rogers studiously does not look up to the no longer moving blur of the other inmate on screen. Clicking the buttons needed to wipe the feed. Then starting up the reboot, which will lock out all the cameras during its restart process, and take five minutes to switch back on and begin recording again.
They will be sneaking Sinn'ous back in through a side door, which Cunningham will be deleting the footage of. This path, through K-Wing, was not the most direct route to solitary, the only reason they came here was to get to medical. Now that that is done they don’t need to come back. Which is a good thing, because Williams is about to reach the last set of doors.
Rogers rushes out of the room just as the cameras flicker and go out. He dashes down a conjoining corridor which will take him to the door where he’ll meet Sinn'ous.
Then he’ll take Sinn'ous past the yard cameras’ blind spots to solitary, and shut off the cameras and scrub their memories. And wait until Sinn'ous is done doing whatever it is he’s about to do to the poor trapped bastards in solitary.
After which he’ll play the game of ‘oh, no, the cameras’ accidentally shut off.’
14
SINN'OUS
Death is everything good in the world. Everything worth while. Worth doing. Worth rolling in its luxurious scent.
Why only speak of death, when you can create it?
This is how Sinn'ous comes to find himself silently stepping into the empty corridor of The Hole. A small space where the walls close in on you the longer you stand in it. Whispers that taunt you, enticing you with what you can’t have.
Rogerswason watch here.Wasbeing the operative word. He went on a midnight stroll. An innocent snack run. Leaving Sinn'ous alone to take care of the necessities.
Cunningham was his ticket out of A-Wing, and Rogers was his ticket into The Hole. Someaccidentalswitch offs of cameras, blind spots, and footage tampering. And here he is. Alone—save for his soon to be sacrifices.
The rest is up to him. Him and his razor—well,razors. And the all-consuming need to kill. To take. To make it known that no one is to touch Jasper Marcelo.
He is mine to kill.
Mine to mark.
Mine to consume.
No sound follows him down the constricting corridor. No protests hit when he slides the exterior lock across. Or when he pushes the solid door open. Nothing stirs in the cell lit by tiny fluorescent lights, barely above the glow of a candle’s flame.
A room the size of a king-sized bed, outlined by grey walls, traps frigid air. A bunk nearing half the size of the bunks in gen pop is as inviting as a slab of cement. A toilet squished inthe corner licking the edge of the door frame, doubles as a sink. Three squares of toilet paper are set in a groove in the wall. And one junkie huddled on a plastic looking mattress facing the corridor, hands tucked under his armpits to cling to his body heat in a tight hug.
Sinn'ous wastes not one fraction of time. He crosses the room in one easystride. Loops an arm around the sacrifice’s neck, and as the body reanimates in his hold, he pulls back and down, flexes his biceps, and breaks the neck in a swift tug.
Then it’s on to the artistry of this sacrifice. To be worthy of his deity.
Praise Satan.
Two razors are drawn from hidden places in his prison clothes. Their sharp blades gliding through the scratchy prison shirt on his sacrifice’s body, parting the fabric ready for his use.
It’s a dance. A twist of the hips, a flick of the wrist, a slide of the feet. And repeat. One cut, two cuts, three cuts, four cuts. Warmth swishing, splashing, arching wide over the walls and ceiling.
A one, two, three, four.
Cut this arm, cut that arm. Cut this leg. Cut that leg. And repeat.
More and more blood flows. It’s never ending. Red rivers that run and run.
And run.
Dripping and flowing, and rolling over the waterproof mattress.
“Hail Satan.” Whispered words that follow the flow.
And one, two, three, four. A cut. A slice. A stab. And repeat.
