Inmate 315

Note: this story was written for the Horror Story Prompt Challenge. I wish you all the best. Content warnings for talks of s****** and self-inflicted injury. Also content warnings for crude depictions of mental illness that are only there to further the story. These depictions do not reflect the opinions of Vocal or the writer and are no more than a work of fiction.

Thanks,

Annie

***

Inmate 315

The cleaner would eventually have to mop up all the blood was the only thought between the two officers who simply stared at the gory scene in front of them. Documentation, fingerprints of victims and a big, long report of what happened according to the CCTV.

In the middle of the night, one of their own had been murdered - his throat slit with the shard of glass taken from a mirror that was now shattered inside the cell. But this was not just a slit, this man had been nearly decapitated as the shard still lay sticking out from the jugular vein of his now motionless body. Rigor mortis had already set in so there was no point in trying to remove it. They both wiped their foreheads, mopping up imaginary sweat in a uniform performative sympathy for their fellow man and then made their way back to the evidence room. Several things had been strewn on a table and it was their job to shift through it all - blood-soaked or not.

The room was brightly lit and they began their job by first photographing everything they could: the newspaper, the pencil, the diary and a bloodied copy of “Paradise Lost”. Then, they decided on which one they should document first. Agreeing to embark upon the only piece of evidence that wasn’t coated in blood: they began to read the diary.

THE DIARY OF INMATE 315

Day 1:

I had only asked him to be quiet, but he berated me and shouted back from his cell that he could do whatever he pleased. I shuddered but eventually gained the courage to bang back upon the wall and ask as nicely as I could again for him to be quiet. He was shouting, disturbing the whole cell block. But as I looked around, everyone else was still fast asleep. He bragged about my attempted murder at the top of his lungs even though I still profess I have never done such a thing. But then, he would turn and berate me again for it only being ‘attempted’. I never wanted to hurt anyone and yet, I am still stuck in this cell hoping that one day they will come to the realisation that I have no memory of any of this. I had never beat anyone half to death with a metal pole. But he kept repeating it anyway. Sometimes it would be a shout and other times it would be a whisper, but it didn’t matter because each time I banged on the wall telling him that he was getting on everyone's nerves.

I eventually told one of the patrolling guards earlier in the afternoon, and even though I knew they didn’t believe me, they stuck it out anyway, waiting perhaps an hour whilst I listened to this mocking to tell me that they heard absolutely nothing. I then asked the officer whether I looked like someone who could beat another person half to death with a metal pole but he wasn’t allowed to comment on the situation. To this day, I have no idea how it happened. I know deep down though I had to have done it, though I have not got a single memory of even driving to the place where it happened. I had never even been there. Yet, there was CCTV of the whole thing from being on the freeway and speeding across a camera to arriving at the destination, to sending this poor newly wedded father of two halfway to hell. I wept. I admit it. When the verdict came through I wept. Not for me, but I wept because that was the only day where I had seen exactly what I had done to him. The CCTV showed me the crime, the man had to have his left leg amputated. I still remember nothing.

The voice mocks me still. It mocks my lack of memory. It mocks how I profess my innocence and yet, we share the same prison. I fear I may not sleep tonight.

Day 2:

I was correct, I hadn’t slept. The mockery continues. Every time I tried to fall asleep last night, I was awoken by the mocking and berating, the bragging and the stupidity. I eventually tried to distract myself by reading my copy of “Paradise Lost” but it didn’t work. I had even lost my appetite because of this mocking - refusing to eat breakfast and lunch with plans already in motion to refuse dinner. I have spent the day complaining to the guards who again try to humour me by sticking around but state very much so, that they hear nothing. The other man, he mocking voice calls out where the crime took place and details from the newspaper clipping on my cell wall. Details which he could not have seen unless he too, had seen it in the paper. I asked the voice whether he read the news, I got a reply of the fact that he didn’t need to. Bragging, yet again. But then how did he know? I shook it off, but the mockery continued. Only an hour before I was going to tell the guards that I am going to refuse dinner, hopefully to get moved to a different ward of the hospital wing to treat insanity and suicidal ideation - I snapped. I shouted. I still don’t know whether it was the hunger, the agitation, the edge I was kept on or what. But I belted out for the voice to shut up so loudly that the entire cell block stood as if on a feather. I clenched the bars of my cell and I repeatedly hit my head off the metal poles.

But someone had complained of my nuisance and instead of being taken to a ward for the suicidal, I was placed in a separate part of a prison, somewhat similar to solitary confinement but not as bad, really. My things were dropped off with me: this diary, my newspaper, my pencil and of course, my copy of “Paradise Lost” by John Milton. All I had was a bed, something resembling a bathroom (or half of it) and a mirror on the side of the cell. For the most part I was glad to be away from the man who was in the cell next to me. I was calm. I took a big sigh of relief and sat on my new bed.

About an hour ago a guard had walked into the room and told me that it was his job to look after me each night to make sure I didn’t try to kill myself. I asked him whether this is where they lock up the rowdy prisoners, and he said no - it was where they locked up those suspected to be mentally ill before they could send them to the wards. It was nice to know I was finally getting out of here, but I didn’t like the thought of someone watching me whilst I slept. This officer was probably twice my size as well, so if I tried anything even remotely out of the ordinary I knew he would probably beat me up quite badly to say the least. It was pretty intimidating to think about and so, I sat back down upon my bed after pacing thoughts pushed me across my cell for a few minutes and I got on with some reading.

Of course, I was being optimistic for it has come back in whispers. From within the walls, if I were to put my ear against it now, I can hear the constant murmuring of the cellmate, the blinding echoes of a madman, telling me I’m worthless because my murder was only ‘attempted’, telling me I am evil, telling me I am a joke. It’s never stopping, is it? He’s here right now, isn't he? I call for the guards but they say I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get any social contact as I was a nuisance to the other inmates. Can’t you hear this?

I know I’m not going to sleep, not really. So I decide to stay up and fight the good fight. I will tell this voice what I really think of him if I haven’t made that clear already.

Day 3:

10am

It has been at least two days since I knew sleep and food, I have yet again refused to eat in hopes that I will be removed from this cell. Understand me when I tell you this - I will not rot in here and I will not let this constant whisper get to me. With my trembling hand I will write this diary and I will document this madness. I will let the world know how these officers stood by and did nothing to help me whilst I was tortured by what seems like a practical joke.

11am

I threw my lunch at the guards and I was tossed back into my bed. I shouted at them and they didn’t appreciate it. They said I sounded demonic.

1pm

I have seen the face of evil. I decided to wash myself as I hadn’t done in a long while. My request for a bucket of water should have been a request for a bucket of warm water, but nonetheless I washed in front of the mirror. That’s when I saw it. The face staring back at me was not my own but instead the warped face of one already dead. The stretch of long elastic skin held back smiled the grin of insanity.

1:30pm

My legs went from beneath me and I awoke ten minutes later on the floor. I have yet managed to escape the stare, but the voice is still ever-present. The face explained to me that we are part of the same entity, the same cell. We are one of the same. It spoke without moving its mouth or blinking its wide, black eyes. I have no idea what is happening but I think I now understand how I committed an act of attempted murder.

3pm

After a long nap from exhaustion (and I thank god to have it), I walked back over to the mirror and saw the face yet again. He explained that he would let me sleep for a few hours, I thanked him. But then I would have to do something for him. At 9pm I would have to take my copy of “Paradise Lost” and hit the spine lightly and quickly against the glass of the mirror to produce shards. Then I would have to take one of the shards and kill the guard watching me every night. I asked how this would be possible if he was supposed to be watching me. The face told me not to worry about it. And so, thankful for it going away for a few hours I agreed and went back into my bed. I’m writing this from the bed. In case anyone finds this now disturbing report of events, I’ll keep it beneath the pillow. I am sure to have the best sleep of my life. Good night for now.

9pm

Reality glitches as I wake up. I don’t remember getting out of bed, but I’m already breaking the shard of glass from the mirror whilst the guard is apparently fast asleep. It falls into my hand and I tell the remainder of the face in the shard that there’s no way I can do this.

9:01pm

But I already have.

He’s cut and bleeding. I’m basically holding his head in my hands as it has almost fallen off from his neck. I pull him against the bars of my cell, backwards to smack his head off the pole, I hope to end his misery quickly but I don’t. I drop him to the ground as he twitches with every last inch of his life.

9:03pm

It seems like the drop was quite loud as I’ve been hearing people talking from beneath me. I’m trying to explain to the armed guards who have entered the room that it was the demon. Blood coats my hands whilst I exclaim the face, that face, that face…

But I choke as I put out my hands and the sound of triggers go off.

I am dropped like an empty vessel into the ocean of the unknown.

END OF DIARY

Epilogue

“Jesus Christ, this guy is insane!” One officer looks at the other with a horrified and pale expression. “I want to believe this is just some ramblings of a mad man but…”

“But what? That’s all it is…” The other officer, a few years more experienced and so, less sympathetic, grabs the diary and puts it back on the evidence table. “We have a lot more to document and much more to get through. We still need to inform the families, remember. That’s priority number one.”

“You didn’t…” He replied.

Annoyed, the more experienced officer looked back at him from the table. “I didn’t what?”

“You didn’t find it strange that he wrote his own death into a diary which was found underneath his pillow?”