Sinn'ous takes the one step to close the gap between them. “A painless choice. You are a worthy sacrifice.”
It’s not rushed when his arm curls around the thin neck. A methodically slow move, he can’t take away all his fun. What good is a kill if the other party involved is willing. If he had the time he would have made them all scream and beg. But his surroundings prevent his own pleasures. Being trapped within the walls of Sandstone Correctional he’s had to adjust his killing methods.
Pressure is slowly applied. “Hail Satan.” He tenses and twists, the resounding crack is echoed by the thump of a slumped body hitting the floor.
And so it begins again.
He tugs the pants down and the shirt up, to have unrestricted access to his next tapestry. The razors’ cut through skin withease. Over and over, they do their job, giving a worthy kill to Satan.
Arms caked in blood, adding the real thing to the inked blood of his upper arms. He’s a caged killer who has come out to play.
Cut.
Cut.
Cut.
15
SINN'OUS
Swirling warmth drizzles down Sinn'ous’s heated skin, but it’s not able to dull the sparking zaps racing just under the skin. His body is ablaze in the afterglow of his kills.
It’s not enough.
It never is.
Rogers is just outside The Hole’s shower room, stuffing his soiled bloody clothes into a bag to take to The Hole’s laundry room and begin a spin cycle to knock off all those pesky traces of evidence from sacrifices made.
Yet, it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
The small, tiled room has only three shower heads, sectioned off by hip-high partitions. In each corner of the boxed shower stall is looped D-rings welded into the wall. Each loop set at intervals to create a restraint system to attach inmates who are shackled by wrist and ankle.
Closed in on three sides it’s the most privacy he has showered in since he stepped through the doors of Sandstone Correctional.
Every bead of twinkling crystal sliding over his skinholds a memory of a darker counterpart. A parallel to a deep saturation of colour dripping overpale skin. The same deep red that is tattooed into his own skin, only it was fresh. Fresh and glistening in dark contrast to the water that covers his skin now.
He will never have enough of it.
The sacrifice of life to gift to a greater cause. Not only to tie off loose ends and kill whispers that may have tried to tickle Jasper’s ears, but to show his devotion and gratitude to the lifehe has been given. To give back to Satan for all that he has been given.
Hail Satan.
Sinn'ous briefly glances over the animal skulls tattooed on his abdomen, tangled in barbed wire and interwoven in the leviathan cross. And further down, to his legs, where blood-red ink drips in a splatter down the insides of his thighs.
Heated steaming air joins his lungs, moisteninghis inner organs. Water flicks off his lips when a wet cough morphs into something closer to a deep laugh. The sound catches on the outer door opening.
Rogers enters, lips thinned into a pursedline that sits flat on his face, a new set of grey clothes bundled in his arms, and a pair of shoes on top.
The clothes are left on a bench by the door.
And Sinn'ous is left alone once more.
Alone to reminisce.
He scrubs his hands over his face unsuccessfully scrubbing away the smirk. He’s too fresh off a kill, every neuronin his brain is still firing. His neurotransmitters spasming to the flood of endorphins. It will be many hours before he can adequately compose himself.
