13 Murders

Unsuccessful Murder and It's Consequence

This chapter is dedicated to Niamh, who has always been with me in the writing experience, giving me ideas, inspiring me, pushing me to keep going and giving me feed back. She also made the awesome cover to your right, really this girl is awesom. Thanks Niamh, this one's for you.

CHAPTER ONE

UNSUCCESSFUL MURDER AND IT'S CONSEQUENCE

They say a successful murderer is not one that is able to kill. A successful murder is one that doesn’t get caught.

 I guess that makes me unsuccessful.

 I slump down the grey hallway. The walls are stained, with drips and splashes and blobs that can no longer be identified as anything. The rancid smell, however, tells me that whatever they are, it isn’t pleasant. Four wardens, each wearing matching uniforms, surround me. Unidentifiable blobs of grey in a building full of orange. I’ve always thought that orange was my colour, but I never thought it would be to this extreme. We make our way down what seems to be a never-ending hallway and I begin to grow slightly anxious. The idea of spending the rest of my life in a cement cubicle makes me feels nauseas. And I’m not looking forward to meeting my company.

But that’s what I get for murder in the first degree.

The disgust on the Warden that opened the big iron door at the end of the corridors’ face made me want to shrink back into my shell. How could people just go and kill someone like that? I used to think that.

Before I killed Jeremy Linden.

The door screeches open, only to reveal yet another empty hallway, this one slightly wider. The wardens shuffle me into the room. Along the walls, which seem to be splattered with a murky, brown gunk, are hooks each with a small metal box above them.

“Personal Possessions are not permitted, please place all items in the box.” One warden says whilst the other one slides a hook off the wall. I shake my head, resisting the urge to ask if they had ever met a prisoner being put in a special facility with an item that had not already been taken off them.

“Frisk search” A warden, who I have only just noticed is female because I had assumed that the beard indicated otherwise, barks. I stick my hands out obediently. I figure that submission is the key to survival in these places.

“Please, Please stop!” He squeals, but my hands are itching and the rope is already around his neck. His submission only makes me feel stronger.

I frown at the memory. No one takes any notice. Sympathy is not on the résumé of a prison warden. Before I know it we’re hurtling down another hallway, which is more gruesome than the previous. Bile rises to my throat. In this hallway, the blood splatters on the walls are fresh.

I wonder if it’s warden blood or prisoner blood.

Another iron door appears and I get a sharp pain in my chest as the sensation of a new place pulses through me. This is the door. I can feel it. I picture what is behind this door.

Perhaps a torture dungeon there will be a torture dungeon waiting for me, or a padded room.

Instead I see a massive, circular room that smells strongly of bodily fluids and Dettol. Around the edges of the room are cells, barred with dark iron. It’s too silent in here and it makes me nauseas. I’m beginning to regret taking that piece of rope to dinner. The wardens’ boots clunk on the floor as one of them marches over to a cell. There are thirteen cells around the edge of the circular room. That means my life will be spent constricted to twelve people.

Twelve Murderers and me. That makes thirteen, thirteen murderers in one room.

It’s going to be a long forever.

The warden pulls out a set of keys. Thirteen keys with the numbers 1 to 13 scrawled on them. She flicks for them, her expression fluctuating between bored and aggressive and then she shoves a rusty key into the padlock. The gate screeches open.

“In you go. Lights out is ten, wake up is six-thirty, dinner is served at six, and open gate hours are between nine and seven-thirty. You are under no circumstances allowed to leave this area in those hours unless accompanied by a warden.” She slurs in a monotone voice. Then she gestures for me to go into the cell, a hand in her belt, clutching to a pistol.

Maybe if I’d used a pistol I would’ve got away with it.

I don’t refuse; instead I take a step into my new home. Besides a small foam mat, a basin and a toothbrush that probably hasn’t changed since the last person left, the room is empty. The walls are just as stained as outside but the cell is less scary, I can see myself here in twenty years time. The door screeches shut and I think I see the bearded woman smile slightly.

That’s right, I know what you’re thinking. Murderers, filthy people, maybe you should be a little more worried about your politicians.

When the gate shuts I feel a euphoric sense of relief.

Just like I did when the last breath of air escaped his lungs.

The prison wardens leave soon after that, once they’ve scanned the room several times. It’s like someone’s dragging their nails down a chalkboard as they do so, the agonizing suspense making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

The door finally shuts.

There are a few seconds of silence before I hear footsteps. Soft enough to be disguise, but loud enough to know that whomever they belong to wants be heard.

A woman walks into view, her hips swaying seductively and her lips curled into a smirk. She’s wearing an orange jumpsuit like mine, but it makes her look curvy and attractive and her hair is almost too luscious, falling past her breasts in large brown curls. She leans against the gate hand on her hip.

“Welcome to hell.”