In the hour of Satan, three in the morning, or close to it, his cell door clicks. And he steps right on out.
Rogers is in the monitoring room, Sinn'ous has a thirty minute window between now and when the guards walking the Wings return from their lap.
Get in, get out.
He has two sheets wound tight in his hands, torn and tied in a manner to strengthen them into thick ropes. This is where he thrives, in making a show out of the men he kills. These two will be hung and suicide will be the coroner’s findings.
Each step down the long platform to Mark and Harry’s shared cell is placed in a way that carries no sound. A silent predator creeping through the night. Rushing and cautious all in one cocktail mix of deadly silence.
Stuffed into his pocket is the knife he stashed in the filing room, the one covered in blood and wrapped in a torn square of navy-blue uniform. That extra level of care he took to make it look like this was the murder weapon is now going to serve its purpose.
Two staged suicides to put to rest a guard’s murder and settle the thick tension building inside Sandstone Correctional.
The cell door is already open, and the men are snoring in their respective bunks. They don’t stir at his presence. Not even when he leans over one of them to inspect him. His eyes dart to the second man. This is going to be a challenge, killing them both in a way that screams suicide. He knows he can get one choked out by the rope to look like a hanging, then stage the body against the cell bars. But what are the chances the second manwill graciously stay asleep to wait his turn, and not wake and become hostile. Hard to fake a suicide when thesuicideyis covered in defensive wounds.
He’ll risk it, and hope they don’t look too closely at the finer details.
First things first, the knife. It’s but a cinchto open a cupboard and hide the weapon behind the mess living in there. Rumpled clothes, scrunched paper, empty snackbags, and other used commissaryitems all competing for space on the stuffed shelves. They try their luck jumping to freedom, but a swift shove has everything stuffed back behind closed doors.
One rope he leaves on the ground within reach, the second rope he tightens in his fists. Stepping behind the bunk he sends a prayer down to Satan.
In a swift flick of his wrists, he has the rope locked around a thick neck, dragging the man to the bunks edge where he can tighten the rope. The angle will rub rope burns in a way that’s consistent to an upwards hanging, and the body’s instinctive struggle to survive.
Sheets flap, grunts resonate, choked gags emanate, and hands claw towards Sinn'ous’s face. He effortlesslyavoids them, leaning back and pulling tight. Constricting the rope as a snake coils its prey, each sucked in breath is a new tightening of rope.
Sinn'ous leans forcibly into his arms, using his weight against the sacrifice to pin him down. He drives the rope into the flesh of the neck, colour changing to a deep reddish blue. A tone in colour bordering on the cusp of a week old bruise. Entire body rocking, yet it still takes three tries before the sounds of bones breaking exceed the slump of a body going limp.
“Oh, God.” A strangled voice carries from the second bunk. Harry is huddled back against the wall, legs drawn up to his chest, face drained of colour.
“There is no god here, only Satan. And you will showyour respect in death.”
Leaving the dead body, and rope hanging loose hooked on a slack chin. Sinn'ous bends without pausing his stride to pick up the next rope, twisting it around his hands. It’s time to end this and get their bodies positioned.
Theyareon a time crunch.
Harry stays frozen, planted to the bunk the entire time Sinn'ous prowls closer. His fight is pathetic, the struggle little more than flapping arms and flailing limbs. Even the one good kick he manages to land does nothing more than hitch Sinn'ous’s breath.
It should be illegal to be this simplistic to kill someone. It almost takes the joy out of it.
Almost.
The kill is quick. Once the airway is cut off the sacrifice only twitches about for several more seconds. Give or take. He hadn’t been counting, only watching the panic turn into realisation in dirty bloodshot eyes.
Satan, hear me now, I gift you these sacrifices.
They may be unworthy humans in life, but in death they have a purpose. How they lived their lives is meaningless. The only meaningful thing they did is die.
Deathsare worthy of Satan. No matter whose they are.
He hangs Harry first, hoping the quick hang after death will disguise that the strangulation came from him being pinned to the bunk by a perfectly horizontalrope. Instead of the slight upwards tilt in bruising that is left behind by a true suicide from hanging.
Once both bodies hang suspended by their respective ropes, Sinn'ous departs their cell, and silently stalks back down the platform to his own.
The cell doors don’t click locked until Sinn'ous is back in his Satanic cell. The loud engagement of electronic locks sends out an echo. It bounces off the walls, and creates the equivalent of a cosmic boom in the near silent Wing.
And so, it is done. The building tension between uniforms and prison greys is solved. And Sinn'ous can thrust his solefocus back into Izz and the plans of manipulation he has in store.
No more distractions.
