Chapter 4
SINN'OUS
Suffice it to say he had not slept a wink. Every time he closed his eyes all he saw was green eyes unblinking in a cold pale face. His hands covered in blood as he looked down at the unmoving body, while he positioned himself to slice Satan’s marks into skin already stained in crimson.
Which in turn made his cock ache, and he’d had to beat off multiple times. His cock could not take a hint, it just kept bouncing back to go again.
Good thing he has no cellmate or he would have kept them up all night with his tossing and turning. And masturbation marathon. Although, an available warm body might have taken the edge off more than his hand did.
The object of his obsession is currently being accosted by two rowdy inmates who have signed their death sentences. Mark and Harry are low in the hierarchy around here. Little vultures who pick at the leftovers. They should know better than to go after something that Sinn'ous has his eyes set on.
The boy is up above on the second floor, pressed in close to the rails while he is practically sandwiched between the other two. They stand so close their eyelashes might kiss.
Sinn'ous could step in, but he won’t. To do so now would play his hand, and he isn’t ready to reveal himself yet.
It’s not the right time. And besides, it will help win favour from his prey, the more untoward others act towards the boy, the higher it will paint Sinn'ous on the list of trust when he does step in.
Either way, Reni—the fake chivalrous bastard that he is—steps in and saves the day.
In turn, Sinn'ous has to battle his inner voice demanding he barge up the stairs, grab Reni by his smug face and bash his head against the rails until it’s nothing but a mangled soup.
Keep it together.
The loud obnoxious voices rising and falling from every direction are a backdrop he struggles to zone out of.
He’s never liked crowds, they’re too close, too lively, too tempting.
He’s never massacred a crowd, and the darker edges of his fleeting impulse control are tempting with their eager whispers for him to try it.
He has to remind himself he isn’t eager to spend more years behind bars.
Freedom is a delicacy he will not jeopardise on an impulsive whim.
His lips flatten and he slides deeper into the shadows, skirting the edges of the general population to exit their Wing.
He isn’t in the least bit hungry, yet he finds himself seated in the cafeteria waiting for a certain prey to walk in.
In his absence of mental function his mind skips over the objective to collect a meal tray, but before he can decide if he actually wants to get up to grab one, his prey shuffles in. Right alongside Reni.
His jaw ticks and his fingers tighten into fists. The level of self-control he exerts to stay in his seat is remarkable. They could study it to teach self-help classes.
The boy ignores him the entire meal. Sinn'ous’s eyes are locked on him the whole time and not once does he glance his way. It’s infuriating.
When the group stands and drifts to the doors by the kitchen, Sinn'ous’s interest flares.
The boy doesn’t follow, he stays at the table, eyes blank and unfocused.
But of course, Reni kills the mood, walking back and touching what he should not be touching. Ruffling his hand through the boy’s hair. Sinn'ous can do nothing but imagine how good it would sound to meticulously break each of those fingers.
They weave through other inmates to the group waiting by the doors and leave the cafeteria together.
He’s tempted to follow but that would be overzealous even for him.
Besides, he has somewhere else he needs to be
~~~
B-Wing, home to the racists and the nobodies.
The Whytes gang resides here and that makes it the area other Wings avoid like the plague.
No one wants to be near the swastika wearing, racial slurring rejects.
Everyone else in B-Wing is basically invisible, an outcast brought on by the mutual dislike of the Whytes—the prison’s most despised gang.
Whereas the prison fears Sinn'ous—not only because of what they think they know he’s capable of, but by who is backing him on the outside. They hate the Whytes.
If a vote was cast on who the prison wanted gone more it might be closer to a sixty-forty, leaning in Sinn'ous’s favour. After his plans are seen through it might just bump him up into the grudgingly accepted category.
Which brings him to his reasons for willingly entering B-Wing.
The cell situated in the central region is dripping in bald, badly tattooed men, snarling and frothing at the mouth in their uneducated stance on skin pigmentation.
Sinn'ous on the other hand will kill you no matter your melanin levels. He’s an equality enthusiast like that, equal opportunities for all in his long list of sacrifices.
Near impossible to differentiate one from the other, the only real tell of who is running the gang is the arrogant way their leader, Todd, carries himself. To add to the fact that he is lying back in a bunk as if he thinks himself king.
“Well, well, well. Look who’s shown up on my side of Sandstone. You lost white boy? Or finally seen where the truth lies, and you want to grovel and join in. You here to help us kill all the blacks?”
Sinn'ous never understood the need to single out someone based on their pigmentation. He kills anyone. He’s not picky, a warm body that bleeds is a warm body that bleeds.
“I have a job I need some of your people to carry out.”
“Yeah? Got a rodent problem? Fucking cockroaches stinking up the whole place. Needs a good exterminator to clean this whole place.” He snickers, a grading noise made worse when the rest of his gang echoes it. “Whole place needs a colour change, kill anyone who don’t fit. Too dark in here as is.”
Inwardly levelling his temper to suppress his want to sacrifice their leader, and the entire gang standing way too close at Sinn'ous’s back. A place he loathes anyone being. He flattens his expression and spits out the reason he came here.
“The new inmate, I want you to put the fear of—” forgive me Satan, “—god into him. Rough him up some. Send a message.”
Gross, that word puts a foul taste in his mouth. He congratulates himself for not puking from that offensive word. An utterance he wants to bleach his mouth over. Perhaps a whole bleach bath to wash off its entire existence?
It does the deed however, if the way Todd’s hand goes to the cross crudely tattooed on his neck is any indication. Thick black ink that could very well be drawn on by a marker pen.
But Sinn'ous is willing to place aside his needs for the moment. This is the best way to show his prey how harsh prison life can get. To snap the stick of fear, to implant his manipulation into the very pathways of activity in his prey’s mind.
A scared prey will panic. Will run. Will fall into a trap that would be otherwise seen. Blind panic to push his prey into a sense of reliance. The animalistic impulse to seek help from someone stronger.
And if he can pin this to Reni, or drag the man into it somehow, all the better. He has to get Reni out of the way so he can corner his prey. Two predators can not hunt the same prey. Even if their desires aren’t matched and they’re both seeking different uses out of the boy.
They can’t both get what they want. And Sinn'ous always gets what he wants. Always.
It’s time to kill two birds with one stone. Two outcomes from one small fight.
~~~
Each corridor overlaps the next, long windowless tunnels to funnel you from point A to point B. There are no visual aids to direct you from one Wing to the next. All you have are your mental maps and a stain on the wall or floor to mark the way.
This particular corridor however is broken up by shut doors, their plaques prominent in the otherwise white backdrop. Which highlights the bright nauseating orange beacon of solidarity stepping into the counsellor’s office and shutting the door.
Every angle Sinn'ous tries for, to lead the boy into his trap, are blocked by others planting walls in his path. And it does not help that his prey is stupidly unobservant.
By Satan what is wrong with the boy? Do his instincts not work at all? How can his senses not pick up on the vial vibe the counsellor exudes. Sinn'ous saw it a mile away at the first glimpse of the man. And here the boy is, closing himself off, alone in a segregated room.
He wouldn’t be so irritated if it was him the boy followed. But all these other men he keeps wilfully trotting after, like a lamb to the slaughter. It’s making Sinn'ous’s job harder.
And glaring at the inanimate plaque and its chunky letters isn’t doing anything but inciting the need to spill blood.
The door’s flimsy build is the only thing stopping him from kicking it in, because he can hear the conversation going on behind it as clear as if he was lying on the desk in the middle of it.
Every word from the counsellor’s mouth is slimy and rotten.
“. . . Okay, I’ll add you into the system to get you that job assignment.
Anything else happened?” The counsellor asks in a fake professional voice of concern Sinn'ous knows is full of so much hot air it’s singeing the man’s ass hairs.
“Anything noteworthy? Anything got you worried?”
The pause between question and answer raises Sinn'ous’s hackles.
If the boy spills his troubles it will put a damper in Sinn'ous’s plans.
He can’t very well push the boy if his efforts will be reported.
The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, like bile expelled from the mouth of a rotting corpse.
“No. Nothing. I mean, the mattress sucks. But no, nothing.”
His lips pull into a dark smile at the words. The brush off and the hidden truths. This is promising, leaving room for him to back the boy into unforgiving corners and not have to worry about guards getting into his business.