Chapter 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.
Rogers was on watch here. Was being 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. Some accidental switch 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 in the 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 easy stride. 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.
Then on to the next cell.
The quick subdue, a crack of the neck. And then the fun resumes, coated in the clogging tang of coppery blood. Thick in the air it clings to the back of his throat, he is drinking the scent in. A flavoursome odour that leaves a coppery residue in his lungs.
A one, two, three, four.
The counting is necessary. Each cut is given to Satan.
He has four bodies to lay waste to, to carve his artistry into the sacrificial tapestry.
The Whytes gang members will be no more.
Unfortunately, Reni and Zidie are safe for now, he may need them so he’ll allow them to live.
At least until he is sure they are of no use.
It never hurts to have some contingency plans laid out.
By the end of these four sacrifices he will give Satan six hundred and sixty-six cuts. The three sixes. All for the true deity. The true ruler. Just like the tattooed numbers on the inside of each wrist, black inked sixes now honoured by blood.
Hail Satan.
Cut. Cut. Cut. He pinches two razors, one in each hand, and dances them over this sacrifice’s skin. No shirt in the way. A large expanse of exposed skin.
A one, two, three, four. Cut here. Cut there. Dig the razor in deep. Through flesh they go, creating sizable holes one could sink a fist into and pull out whatever slimy interior organ they grab first.
Sinn'ous pauses, head tilting, he watches the wounds seeping blood. Both razors clink as they touch the blood slicked ground. He digs his fingers into one of the deeper cuts by the right ribs, and pulls it apart, using more strength than he would have thought. In all his kills this will be a first, he’s never done what he is about to do.
He digs his hand inside, going under the ribcage.
It takes a few tugged out organs to find the one he wants.
He tries to pull the heart out from behind its bone cage, but has to dig the razor in and cut it from the arteries.
It pops free with an audible squelch, and he holds the human heart in his palm.
He ponders the decent heft and size. This is his first time holding a human heart. It’s different. Neither satisfactory nor inadequate.
The razors tip presses into the meaty organ, pressure is required to puncture and drag down. Opening the organ from proverbial stern to bow. A long line right down the middle splitting it open.
He makes a noise of thought. Then carelessly flips it over his shoulder, done with the lifeless organ. He goes back to cutting the cooling body. A leg. A face. A neck.
Cut.
Cut.
Cut.
And on to the next cell.
He strikes this time by covering the mouth and slitting the throat. Pinning the flailing body while it does its thing to fight for its life. A useless endeavour. His hand easily silences the muffled cries for help. It takes no time at all for his sacrifice to go still.
Another dead. Another sacrifice.
Hail Satan.
And so it begins again. A one, two, three, four. The dance of broken skin and sharp steel. Swirling and twirling.
Blood runs wild. Freed to slosh onto the bunk, then onto the floor. He cuts blindly while his eyes stay fixated on the floor and its growing river of blood reaching out for the drains by the cell’s centre.
All the while he continues to count each slice, adding up to the three sixes. And the red river continues. Glugging and rolling thickly over the grimy floor. All manner of dust particles, and hair, and dead insects, and hair that’s suspiciously rodent. All being swallowed by the thick red river.
And on to the last cell.
This sacrifice is awake and alert. Eyes wide to all of Sinn'ous’s blood dripping glory.
“What the fuck.” Is the breathy whimper released from his sacrifice’s vocal cords.
Sinn'ous can feel his own grin, wide and true, cracking his lips, baring his teeth to the room. Longer strands of his blood-soaked hair are falling into his eyes, he drags a hand over the shorter sides, the slick feel of blood could be from his hair or his hands.
“Your death can be fast, if you do not scream. A broken neck, and it will be over.”
The Whytes gang member’s eyes frantically bounce all over Sinn'ous and every ounce of blood coating his body, then out into the dimly lit corridor. Then back to the dripping red puddling under Sinn'ous’s prison shoes, footsteps marking his path into the micro sized room.
A shuddering resigned breath catches in the sacrifice’s throat, coming out in a coughed squeak. Then he turns and faces the wall.
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 with ease. 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.