Caffeine and Magix

writing-prompt-s:

You’re an immortal 30-year-old-looking serial killer who was sentenced to 1,000 years in prison. After 100 years people started asking questions, but now it’s been 400 years and you’re starting to outlast the prison itself.

“Why do you stay?” your new cellmate asks. They’re younger than you despite the wrinkles carving into their skin. They watch you straightening your bunk with thinly veiled unease. “You’re not dumb. You could have escaped by now.”

You hum and focus on getting the corner of your sheet exactly right. It’s taken this cellmate three weeks to believe what you are and another week to ask this question. Braver and quicker than the last. You don’t mind. You’re not trying to hide what you are. You ask, “Why should I?”

Like their predecessors, your cellmate is wrong-footed. “Why? To live your life. To see the sun. To– to be free.”

Free. Your lip curls unconsciously. Free is a word that’s become almost meaningless to you over time. “As you pointed out, I could escape. I’m not trapped.”

A lot of things have become meaningless over time.

The sun is already below the horizon, not that it matters. you’re in an east-facing cell. The shadows are deeper in here and the thin slit of a window is pitch black. A fence twinkles a good 300 meters away and you know the guard in the tower is already asleep. A newborn at home, keeping him awake, awake, awake.

“Okay,” they say. They take a deep breath as if, somehow, they’ll be able to sniff out the right question to ask you. “Say you can escape. Say you don’t feel trapped. Why here? Why don’t you–I don’t know. Sit in a cave somewhere?”

“I did do that,” you say. You wrinkle your nose. “No one tells you that caves stink.”  You turn away from your bunk to look at them. They’re leaning against the door to your cell, shoulder blades pressed tight to the metal as if hoping to phase through it. Now that the weight of what you are has settled on them, their instinct tells them to run. Your lips twitch at the feigned nonchalance on their face. “I decided it was better to live in society.”

They grimace at your answer. “This isn’t society.”

“This is a consequence of society,” you agree. You fold your arms and think how you’re going to explain it this time. “There’s a right and wrong in society. What’s categorized as wrong is put here.”

“The prison system is bloated, corrupt, and inhumane,” your cellmate says. “We’re people. We’re not wrong.”

“You’re not,” you agree. “Mortals are reactionary, aren’t they? One step out of some imaginary box of good behavior and they throw people like you away. Out of sight, out of mind. No need to adjust their world view when they can lock any outlier in here.” You cock your head. “Unless you did something unforgivable?”

Your cellmate’s lips thin. “I made a mistake.”

“It’s always a mistake,” you say and wave a dismissive hand. “But you did something. What did you do?”

“I sold drugs,” they say. “Only industry that stuck around when the government closed the mills.” Their eyes flash in challenge, daring you to judge them for keeping their family alive. “What did you do?”

“I killed 115 people in 1588,” you say. You smile when they freeze. “That was the first unforgivable thing I did. In that moment, as I looked over the colony, I stopped seeing people as meaningful.” You pause, enjoying the struggle between belief and disbelief on their face. You lean forward as if telling a secret. “But that’s not the reason I’m in here. That’s just the moment I became wrong.”

“You–” Their mouth opens. Closes. Opens. Closes. Their skin is pale and clammy and there’s a noticeable tremor when they finally find their tongue. “You killed 115 people?”

“Why is it they always ask me to repeat that?” you mutter to yourself. It always breaks the rhythm of the conversation. You sigh. “Yes. Roanoke, 1588. Do you need some time to look it up? Verify my story?”

They flinch at the irritation in your voice. “N-no, I believe you. I believe you.” They lick their lips. “If you’re not in here because of that then why…?”

“I’m sure I would have ended up here for that,” you say, rubbing at your chin, “if they’d caught me. Or if prisons had existed back then. It was more of a fine or execution in those days. No, I imagine I wouldn’t have ended up here at all if I’d stopped at Roanoke.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” you agree. You look at the palms of your hands. They’re smooth and un-calloused despite the years of exercise in the yard. “As I said, that was when life became meaningless to me. I stayed away from people for a while, but…Boredom is a horrible thing.”

“You’re a psychopath,” they say. Their hands shake until they press them back against the door, once again trying to phase through the metal. “You’re saying you killed people for fun.”

“Sure,” you say, shrugging. “If that’s what it takes for you to understand. For the record though, it wasn’t fun. It was…something to do. A numbers game. Kill 50 people in each state. I kept that game going a long time. You can blame the government for a good portion of those, if you want.” You smile. “They kept adding more states.”

“Fuck,” your cellmate says. Their fingernails grate against the door. “Fuck. Why am I in here with you? I never–I never–” They choke on their words.

You understand. “You want to say you never hurt anybody, but you have. You want to say you never killed anybody, but even if you didn’t, the drugs you sold did.” You aim for a more comforting tone. “Don’t worry, you’re not like me. As I said, I’m wrong. You?” You laugh and it’s too sharp in the echo of the cell. “You’re just human.”

“Why are you here?” they ask again.

“I could have kept up with my numbers game.” You fold your arms and look to the ceiling, imagining what that might have been like. Your mouth twists. “But numbers…they don’t mean anything, do they? Not until people assign them a value. I couldn’t escape the spread of complete and utter meaninglessness. When the first prison was established in 1829, I saw a way out at last.”

Your cellmate swallows, hard. It’s loud enough to bring your attention back to them. Their eyes are so wide you can see the whites of their eyes all the way around. “I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t,” you say and there’s condescension in your voice. You rub the bridge of your nose. It’s not their fault they don’t understand. “In very simple terms, humans are the only creatures on the planet to assign value to things other than sleeping, eating and fucking. That’s society. A set of arbitrary rules enforced on the general populace. I was nothing when I wasn’t part of it and I was tired of nothing. I wanted to be subject to those rules. I wanted to be a person.”

“Something like you isn’t a person,” your cellmate says and then moans at the realization that they’ve said it out loud. “I–I’m sorry I didn’t mean–”

“Exactly,” you hiss. At last someone understands. Someone gets it. You step forward, uncaring of their terrified whimpers, and press into their space. “I’m not. I’m wrong. Society has a place for things that are wrong.”

“No,” they say when one of your smooth hands find their chin. They thrash against your hold, clawing at your wrist, but you’re strong. “Stop, no, I won’t tell anyone–”

“I stay here because my existence means something here,” you continue as if they aren’t pleading for their life. “After 1588, I knew I could never be right again. It was…relieving to know I could still belong here. Still have meaning here.”

“This is fucked up,” your cellmate says. Tears run from their eyes. Their cheeks are a mottled red. “I’m not evil, I don’t deserve this just–let me go, please let me go, I’m not–I’ll stop all the bad shit, I’ll serve my time, I’ll do anything–AH!”

“Sorry,” you say and nearly almost mean it. You release them and step back, allowing them to drop to the floor. “Your jaw is fractured. It’s been a while since I’ve had a cellmate.” You frown. “Nearly fifty years I think? The note in my file must have been lost with the tech upgrades.”

They cradle their jaw and scramble backwards, but there’s nowhere to go. Cells have only shrunk and shrunk and shrunk over the years. 

“Don’t worry,” you say in your comforting voice. “Computer records means they’ll be even less likely to forget that I’m supposed to have my own cell. It’s in my interest to keep you alive for a long, long time.”

Somehow your cellmate does not look very comforted at all.

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