Tag, You're It

one

The most prominent feature of this place was the amount of rust. Each railing was flaking with rust, bringing a more real danger into play, alongside all the psychological ones. I was very careful with where I chose to step, out of fear the floor would collapse beneath me. It wasn't dark, but gloomy. The sunlight penetrated the building with ease through its bullet holes and crumbling structure, but the shadows it created were fear inducing. It was hard to see when engulfed in the darkest of shadows. The disturbing scenery almost made me forget that high profile criminals used to be held at this place. Almost.

Amongst the most notorious were Scofield and Burrows - the masterminds behind the escape of 2005. After the Fox River Eight got out, the prison slowly fell apart. It lost its reputation and, after three of the convicts were killed and four were exonerated, the prison was lost altogether. The only convict that was never seen again was Theodore "T-Bag" Bagwell: serial rapist and murderer. No one knew where he went or whether he was even still alive. Theodore Bagwell is but a legend these days.

There was no deep meaning as to why I was at the old, abandoned Fox River Penitentiary; I was simply a teenager who was bored and decided to go exploring. However, I admittedly underestimated how scary this place would be. There were still traces of the horrors that occurred in the prison a decade earlier: blood and graffiti on the walls, shanks lying around, torn clothes and unmade beds. It was all so surreal. I also underestimated how big of a role my mind would play in the fear I felt. I was quickly disorientated and constantly jumping at imagined movements and noises.

It grew darker and I decided to test my courage and set down a blanket to spend the night. I thought the prison was scary during the day... the night was making me feel physically nauseous, but I was determined to prove my bravery and tried to get to sleep.
After what felt like around an hour, I was in the drowsy state between being conscious and asleep, when I heard a terrible banging sound; so loud I was now wide awake. Shaken, I turned on the torch on my phone and chose to investigate.

Walking up a set of stairs, onto the second floor of prison cells, I heard the banging again, debunking my underlying suspicion that I imagined it... which I was kind of hoping was true. I gingerly walked down the runway past all the cells, looking in each for any source of the noise; a rat, a mouse, a bird... anything to dismiss my fear. As I peered into cell 40, my heart skipped a beat, my eyes widened and my blood ran cold as I heard a thick Southern drawl speak, "I like your style. Neo-gothic."
I turned around to see, sat on a cell bed opposite number 40, is none other than Theodore Bagwell.
"Excuse me?" I said, slowly inching towards him. I was terrified, but I couldn't let him know that.
"I like your style; I like the black." I was wearing a black hoodie tucked into a black skirt with a thick double-grommet belt; I dressed in as much black as possible so not to be caught trespassing. My chest was too tight to speak, so Bagwell continued talking.
"We match," he said, smiling sweetly. I forced a smile back at him, examining his clothes. They looked a little too big for him. He was wearing dirty cream trousers and a white vest underneath a black shirt; sleeves rolled up.
"Theodore Bagwell," he said, extending his hand toward me through the bars of the cell. He was apparently locked in.
"Uh, Grace Hollander," I said, feeling a bit more secure knowing he is imprisoned. I stepped forward and shook his hand. It was rough, but I really liked his many gothic rings.
"Now," he said, kissing my hand lightly before letting go, "what's a pretty little thing like you doing in a dirty old place like this?"
This was a man - no, he was no man; he was a murderer - who was 21 years older than me, calling me pretty and kissing me. I had heard all about his crimes against children, and I was not about to become a victim to him.

Without thinking, I turned and tried to run down the stairway, but before I could, Bagwell's hand struck like a viper and grabbed my arm. He was squeezing so tight. With his other hand, he gripped my throat and pulled me against the bars of the cell. He was choking me, from behind, through the bars. He had clearly done this before.
"Where do you think you're going?" he hissed, his accent teasing me, "Oh, you thought you were going to get away! Nah, sweetheart, you're not going anywhere."