We Are Afraid of What We Cannot See

The oozing inky blackness of his cell seemed to swallow any signs of hope. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be, he wasn’t supposed to end up like this. How had he become the villain? He shuddered as something cool and fleshy brushed against his leg. This void of solitary confinement nulled his senses, the darkness enveloping his body.
The day his mother left was a sunny spring day, the breeze happily rustling the green trees. He remembers it vividly, the scenery not matching the tone of their bleak household. The bruises on his mother's wrist, her shrill and his father's brash voices growing louder and louder. He remembers the slamming of a door, the rumbling of a car's engine. Then she was gone. 
The clicking of an officer's steel-toed shoes pierced the silence of his reflection. The footsteps paused, but didn’t come closer. The soft whispers of a cold, dead breath upon his neck made his hair stand on end. It was slowly getting closer. He wished he could find the strength to scream. 
A cold, hard rush of static screamed through his thoughts, numbing his mind and his body. An icy, bony hand caressed his cheek, slowly trailing its way down to his arm. He stayed motionless as another hand softly gripped his throat, his breathing growing faster. 
He wondered if he would welcome death or if he would cower, like a dog flinching at the harsh tone of his master. He wondered if he could go to heaven. He wondered if there was a heaven. Would his family mourn? Would they miss him? Or was he just another lost cause, just another criminal?
He remembered going to church, and remembered his father. He remembered being afraid, and the cold dark hallways, cloaked with grief. He remembered silence.
The grip on his throat tightened, and he screamed. “HELP ME, PLEASE!” The sharp nails of the hand began to dig into his flesh. “PLEASE HELP ME, THERE’S SOMEONE IN HERE WITH ME!” He began to scratch at the flaky, rotting flesh, its stench filling the cell. He screamed again, his most primal sense of fear surfacing, trying to keep him afloat. The darkness seemed more hostile now, malevolent.
It was all around him now, within him, beside him, behind him. He couldn’t feel his body, his mind running on adrenaline. He couldn’t breathe, both hands now enclosed around his frail neck. His vision began to fade, his lungs burning. He strained his eyes trying to see any speck of light, but there was nothing to be seen. It was too much for him, he could no longer persevere.
Later, the Presley family would receive a letter in the mail. “This letter is to inform you of the passing of the inmate Robert Presley. The cause of death has been ruled a suicide by strangulation. Due to his history of mental illness (paranoid schizophrenia) and the bruising and scratches on his arms and throat, it is believed that after a panic attack, he strangled himself within his cell in solitary confinement.” No funeral or memorial was held in his honor.
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Monsters
Category:Crime