7. Chapter 7
The next morning brought a grim answer to the Jester’s unnatural silence.
When I had swept his cell the previous day, they had gagged him beneath that grotesque mask. The whispered rumors drifting through the damp corridors of Blackthorne were even worse: after the bloodbath he caused yesterday, high command was seriously considering having all his teeth extracted.
In a place like this, the brutality felt logical, but I wondered if that was even allowed. Even inmates had civil rights, after all.
When I approached the Jester's cell for the morning shift, the heavy iron door revealed the same haunting tableau. He hung from the stone wall, chained by the wrists and ankles. Those pitch-black eyes locked onto mine.
But he didn’t thrash or make a sound.
He just watched.
His cell was remarkably clean, save for the scattering of dust and centipedes that crawled through the wall fissures.
I swept the debris away in a frantic couple of minutes, eager to break eye contact.
The moment I crossed the threshold out of his wing, a wave of relief washed over me, the rigid tension finally draining from my shoulders.
“Elara,” a guard called to my left when I was close to the break room. “The Warden wants to see you in his office.”
My stomach dropped. Here we go again.
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, sealing me inside the suffocating chill of his office.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
The Warden glanced up from his desk, setting down a pen with his initials etched along the side. He folded his fingers together, leaning forward as he locked his gaze onto me.
"You cleaned the Jester's cell yesterday and this morning. Tell me about his state."
I offered a noncommittal shrug, trying to play down the lingering terror in my veins. "He was quiet, sir. Didn't make a sound."
The Warden’s expression seemed to harden into stone. He leaned closer, the harsh florescent lighting catching the hard glint in his eyes.
"He is never quieter than when he is plotting, Elara. They gagged him for a reason, but a caged viper is still venomous. Do not mistake his stillness for submission. The moment you let your guard drop around him even for a second, he will tear you apart. Remember where you are, and who he is."
My mouth went dry at his words. I swallowed thickly and managed, “Got it, sir. Thank you.”
"Good," he said, his tone shifting from a threat to a rare, unsettling warmth. "I am grateful for your diligence. Blackthorne needs more of you."
Reaching into a heavy drawer, he grabbed his checkbook, hastily scribbled a check, and slid it across the polished desk.
"Consider this an acknowledgment of your exceptional service. Your bonus will come in three separate payments. This is the first."
I wrapped my fingers around the thick paper of the check. $2,500. For a single payment, it felt like a small fortune, and a dangerous amount to be carrying in a place like Blackthorne. I'd need to put this in my locker as soon as possible.
I glanced from the numbers back up to his face. "We usually do direct deposit. Why not just send it straight to my account?"
The Warden offered a faint, humorless smile. "Let’s just say I’d rather not deal with the HR paperwork." He cleared his throat, picking back up his pen. “That will be all, Miss Hart. You are dismissed."
The moment I slipped back into my apartment that night, I pulled out the check and opened my banking app.
I scanned the front and back, waiting out the agonizing seconds it took to process, until the screen flashed with confirmation.
A wave of fulfillment washed over me as I watched my balance jump from a measly $300 to a solid $2,800.
For the first time in months, I could actually breathe.
And the best part? Friday was a regular payday.
My bi-weekly check would hit in just a few days—finally giving me a real buffer.
I didn't waste a second paying off next month’s rent in full and then I bought the most expensive bottle of wine the local liquor store had to offer, and for the first time in memory, I dined at a proper restaurant.
I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten food I hadn't scrounged for or hastily thrown together in the microwave, so to sit back, to have a hot plate placed before me, felt like a dream.
It felt nice to be taken care of, if only for an hour.
But the reprieve was short-lived. Back in the suffocating quiet of my room, the ghosts returned.
I popped the cork on the wine and took a long, deep pull straight from the bottle. I knew it was dangerous; turning to the bottle with a morning shift looming at Blackthorne was a reckless gamble.
But temptation had always been my quietest, most persistent vice.
Without the distraction of work, the dark stillness of the apartment became a canvas for my mind to wander.
In the shadows, the memories bled through.
I remembered days long past, from a lifetime that felt like someone else's myth.
A real home. A real family. I could almost hear the phantom echoes of laughter, the overlapping voices telling vibrant stories, my younger brother telling me about the newest video game, my mother trying to show me a new video she found on social media. My dad cooking dinner.
And now there was nothing–just the hollow silence of a room, a half-empty bottle, and a past gone forever.
Sometimes it seemed so long ago, I could hardly fathom any of it ever had been real.
I drank until the tears felt numb and blackness took over.