The Prison

A foreboding explosion of thunder echoed through the forest, propelling off the demonic bulwarks and grey, splashing gargoyles into his eardrums, bringing devastation and blood. Leaves and branches shot and exploded behind him, signaling his tormentor’s steady pursuit. His lungs screamed at him, begging him to stop running and breathe, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Bodily fluids poured from his ears, from his nose, from his mouth, all splashing onto his flesh and the sticks and debris below. He ran. Pain eluded his senses, his brain too numb to feel any emotion but fear.
It was never supposed to be like this, and Mort knew it. It was more than just a plan gone awry; it was a forthcoming consequence to his foolish behavior, his naivety, and his inquisitiveness. But he couldn’t think about those delusions and lapses in judgment now, it wouldn’t aid him; it wouldn’t grant him anymore time, or any more life. Remembering would only hinder his odds and bring him a more abrupt death. Though maybe, he thought, death wouldn’t be so terrible. Perhaps death would suit him better, bring his agonies to an end, and bereave him of these evils and these thoughts that crippled and stabbed at his consciousness. So, with no end in sight, Mort contemplated death, convinced that a cannibalistic fate would suit him better than a lifetime of fear and worry.


It was four O’clock and the prison was empty and lifeless. It’s cold, damp, echoing halls moaned and creaked more than usual, at least for a night like tonight. Outside, rain splashed awkwardly off the siding and gutters, quickly filing every conceivable crack in the shingles and finding its way into my office, dripping uniformly every ten seconds, forming a puddle by the door. I could smell the mold; the damp, yellow stink eroded at my nostrils, burning the protective mucus and hairs that lined it. I really hated this job. I thought it would be fun, easy, void of stress, a good idea. Sure, it was easy, but I hated it with an aching, black hate. Good thing it’s just an in-between job. Formerly, a curious, throaty itch in my conscious to work at a prison, it now made me feel insecure and fragile, sitting here watching the cameras, watching men, watching them poop, watching them do abysmal things to one another, to themselves. God, it was awful, especially tonight. Something about the weather really vexed them, really built up a fury inside of them. It was unsettling to say the least.

I removed my glazed eyes from the monitors for a couple minutes; I needed some coffee. Slouched, I stumbled over and poured my self a cup, the isabelline moon reflecting and dancing off the glassware. Its shimmering body had ascended the heavens and was now loitering there, boasting its full-bodied orb off to the earth. The steel gate to the prison creaked. It startled me and I glanced over. Though nothing seemed to be there, I noticed the illuminating star gave just enough light to see the words arched above the damp, muddy entrance: “Aldorne Correctional Facility: Psychiatric Division.” I chuckled; correcting was the last thing we did. After all, I saw everything that went on here, being the security guard and all. I walked back to my seat, the breeze from my ample body slightly pushing my crossword off the desk, tumbling to the floor. I took a sip and bent down to retrieve my distraction. It had somehow managed to crawl to the back of the wall, far under the desk. Damn paper. A few grunts later, I retrieved it and came back up. I went back to scanning the monitors meticulously, but something didn’t seem right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I took another sip, damn hot stuff. Wait, screen 15. There was no one in the holding cell. No one banging their bloody face onto the concrete floor, no one chewing the metal shackles that bound their purple limbs like dogs, no one performing any type of grotesque bodily functions. I did a quick check on the computer for the detainee. Taman; originally incarcerated at age 17 for murder: dismembering and eating his victims, and particularly known for removing his victims tongues, all while they were still alive; currently age 34; medication: Zyprexa and Valproic acid. I tapped into the speaker for his room, fumbling the on-off switch from my profuse sweating.

“Taman…Taman?” No answer. Panic began to slowly sink in. I had read about this sort of stuff online. Psychopaths planning for years, and then one night, with low security, they break out and kill the guards. Thoughts raced through my brain; thoughts about how I abused prisoners, harassing and mocking them pervasively, shrouded my sanity. I slid over to the joystick and moved the camera around for a better angle, still nothing. Dammit, not on my shift. I called up Aurra, another security guard who was doing rounds, on her cell. “Aurra, I can’t see Taman on the camera…check it out, cell 17.” She moved down the hall lethargically. I followed her on the cameras, 12…13…14. She was almost there. Legs, impulsively twitching, I scanned Taman’s cell. Nothing. Suddenly, a face flew up into the screen; a macabre smile bubbled from his mouth, saliva spewing. A foul hissing cackle seeped from his deformed, phlegm-drenched lips, blood trickled down from his eye, and he boomed with laughter, a deep menacing guffaw that made me piss my pants. “Hello, Mort…” he gleamed with pride, he had scared me; that much was certain. No harm done I suppose. But before I could even complete the thought, he jumped back like a spider, quick and deadly and frightening, revealing a body lying in the middle of the floor. Blood streamed from a deep laceration on the man’s neck. His legs flailed and he coughed and gaged on vomit and blood and spit and piss. Taman walked up to the man, took out a shank, and as the man’s pupils bulged and pleaded for mercy, Taman began to slice the victim’s tongue out of his mouth, slowly and appallingly. Grisly amounts of gory, claret liquid and water spurted forth, and screams echoed copiously through the halls. I reached for my cell, dialed in Aurra. Ringing, ringing, ringing. I saw her on camera 16. Dammit! Pick up! I screamed, “Aurra!” I knew she couldn’t hear me, or the phone. Headphones. I dialed again but the line was still busy, taking a blank message that would never be heard. Camera 17 now, unlocking the door. Urine oozed from my underwear, dampening my pants and chair. I was about to watch a woman die. My heart pounded viciously, electric bolts of lightning shredded my brain to bits, my nails bit into the desk, engraving them with thick claw marks as if the oak was soap. Taman danced and laughed and flung the man’s blood as he gnawed on the severed tongue. The door opened. Aurra barely had enough time to react. Taman grabbed her and forced her to the ground. Her knees hit the concrete floor with a hard, splintering snap, like twigs, and then he stripped her clothes; her naked body gleaming in the florescent lights, quivering. Yellow-red fluid ran down her leg. Taman was pleased. I reached for the volume control, but was too late. The shrill vibrations resonated through my ears, slicing at my auditory nerves, bringing vomit and acid up through my mouth. The psychopath stroked her with the other man’s tongue, smiled, and quickly ended her life. He cantered up to the camera confidently, unrepentant, a bloody lump of pure evil, suffocating the lens with his face, a chilling smile twisted over his bloodied facial-muscles. “Prepare yourself.”

Static. The screen was grey, no movement, and no sound. I trembled. Shock took over my body utterly. My muscles twitched with anxiety. I ran to the door, locked it. Sweat flew down my hands like a waterslide, and I hurried to the fire escape, opened it, and jumped out. The glassy metal refused my feet traction and I fell down the first set of spiky, iron grates. I clawed wildly at the handrail and continued to the ground, running thoughtlessly into the forest. Rain and thunder, pounding and sweat, blood and death and regret impaled my mind. I tore through the snapping, pricking thorns deep into the forest’s stomach, as if it could hide me from this demon. Long burning gashes in my skin spewed blood on the trees, clearly marking where I had been, marking my life with an expiration date. The sylvan, lumbering beasts that stood around me were swaying fiercely in the wind, and I took shelter beneath a fallen one, about thirty yards ahead. A tolling, metal boom echoed through the forest. It was Taman, the ward’s large entrance doors shutting. I squinted towards the bright floodlights on top of the building. Still, I saw nothing. Sable air and forestry hindered my sight. Oh God. I had a child, a wife. They say that memories of your life and loved ones consume your last thoughts. It doesn’t happen that way. Instead, brutal possibilities engaged my brain like the storm around me, and a thick sludge seemed to shroud my senses. Crunching leaves splintered my thoughts, as if they it was five tons of dynamite. My heart literally skipped three beats and I gasped for air. Sweet, tangy life filled my lungs, but at the expense of possibly giving up my position. I exhaled. Shit. I slowly crept up and looked above the maroon bark, worms sheathed its skin, their squirming bodies glistening from the moonlight. And then, the leaves ceased their commotion.
Taman roared. “MORT.” My esophagus clenched and all the saliva in my mouth soared down my throat in one lump. I choked slightly, emitting a small squeak. He was close. I rose slightly further, and as my head neared it’s peak, a rock plunged into my knee. Dammit! I turned around wincing with pain. Taman stood fifty feet away. I rose and climbed clumsily over my cleft backwards; a flailing branch scraped and drove into my wound, pulling out the rock, and with it, hair, blood, and flesh. Taman laughed at my agony. Soon he would have me, but I ran nevertheless. Floundering around with no sense of direction, sharp gorgonian teeth seemed to extend from the trees and gnash at me. The moon gave little light to guide my feet, and I soon hit a brick wall, the perimeter of the prison. I turned around Taman walked laxly towards me. He knew I was done for; he needn’t rush. He would enjoy the pain, he would make it last. I turned and the wind burned through me, revealing every open wound on my face. I darted right, reflexively, away from the wind’s direction. I couldn’t give up now. Rain drenched my clothes, flogging my face and skin with their small, stinging pellets. The black, uniform jacket slapped and sucked around my body. I unzipped it while running and flung it backwards hard, attempting to hinder Taman’s tantalizing pursuit. My mouth was dry and on fire, I needed to stop running or I would collapse and die. A foolish thought, I would die anyway. As if the world read my mind, the shreds of flesh and cartilage from my punctured leg gave out. The muscles limped and strained to continue my evasion, but to no avail. I plummeted to the ground with a soft thud, splattering mud everywhere. Taman’s footsteps thundered around me until his shadow encased my cowering body. I tried to plead with him, but my mouth only gurgled and choked in response. The loathsome callouses from his hands slid over my face, his foul breath from his black, decaying mouth cascading into my nose. I gaged, and as if he took offense, gouged my eye with his shank. GAGGHH! This time my mouth responded with wild hollers and pleads. NO! NO, please!! He cackled madly in my face and spit into the hole he had just created. Tears streamed out of my good eye and I tasted their bitter sting. Taking pliers, he pulled on my tongue, his sharp un-human fangs stained red, shown from his agape mouth. Death would indeed find me today, a realization that pierced my innards as Taman toyed savagely at my extremities. I forcefully withdrew my tongue and spat in his face, “kill me! Do it!” He pulled at my hair, bringing his mouth close to my own. Licking my face, he complied with a slight nod. The steel pliers clung to my tongue so fiercely a chunk was torn off and he had to reposition the cannibalistic tool. I could taste nothing but blood and sweat and tears and saliva, intermingling to form a thick muck. He slowly hacked and sawed at my tongue, occasionally penetrating the top of my mouth and slapping my face to keep me conscious during the occasion. Bits of pink organ flew onto his face and he consumed the remnants with pleasure-filled groans: deep and satirical and evil. And then, with my tongue in his claw he arose triumphantly, brushed himself off and left me to die.


One Response to “The Prison”

  1. Cool scary story. You did a good job on the descriptions especially when you described how Taman hunted down his victims. Such a horrific fate for those who encounter a wild psychopath, but then, again it’s part of their job in a nightmare prison. Also, I like how you didn’t just begin with the working in the office part.. you actually provided a picture for the readers that foretells the protagonist’s future. You’ve made good use of the 5 human senses or perhaps 6? Keep it up. Good luck.

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