Big Bill McGee was ready to get himself sentenced to another two life terms if it meant he could keep from having a cell mate. He'd made a name for himself on the block—men would rather spend a year in solitary than a day bunking with him. And the security had seemed content with the situation as well. . .until today.
There was a strange hush throughout the prison when the far door opened and the guards looked up from their various patrols. A shackled man, head hung low, was propelled at an inhuman speed across the hallway before pausing before McGee's cell. Bill crossed his arms, hoping that the bulging biceps would help convince them to move on to simpler pastures, but it was no use. One of the guards held up his taser menacingly while another unlocked the bars.
Bill took a step back, allowing them to rudely push in the new inmate. He looked him over judiciously as the guards locked the door back up. Scrawny thing, really. Shaggy brown hair all over his faces, and haunted brown eyes. Probably pled innocent, Bill scoffed. Probably thinks he is innocent.
"Oh, holy fuck," the man said when he finally raised his gaze to Big Bill's face. He liked that. Respect. At least the new man would be a pushover, maybe even a pleasant bitch. Bill's face broke out into a wide smile as he considered the new possibilities he'd been presented with. He reached down a hand to help the new man up.
"What's your name, dickweed?" he asked pleasantly. The new man blinked for a moment.
"Isaac," he said finally. "Yours?"
"Just call me Big Bill," Bill said, clapping a meaty hand to Isaac's back, hard enough that the poor kid stumbled forward.
One week later, Big Bill had decided that the whole situation with the roomie was pretty much crazy, after all. At least the kid left him alone, for the most part. The days were fine, when the guards were astute and paying attention. It was at night that things got kind of creepy.
It happened the second night. Big Bill woke up to a soft, almost squishy sound, the way his dead wife's head sounded after he hit brain. When he opened his eyes, he couldn't see anything, pure blackness. But the unnerving sound continued. Big Bill pulled the blankets over his head and resolved to go back to sleep.
When he awoke in the morning, nothing seemed unusual. He rolled out of bed, and looked around for Isaac. The younger man was cuddled under his blankets, resisting the irritating alarm of the jail. Big Bill squinted. There seemed to be some kind of a red design just behind the kid's head. . .he sniffed, smelling an almost coppery tone to the air.
The sound awakened him the third night as well, but this time he resolved to be fearless. He slowly crawled out of his bed, checking under it first to make sure there wasn't any kind of a monster. He then cautiously placed one foot on the ground, leaving it there for a moment before placing the other. He waited as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. There didn't seem to be anything. . .
He looked up at Isaac's bunk. The skinny kid was standing upright on his bed, wiping what seemed to be a ripped piece of bedding across the far wall of the cell. Big Bill took a step closer. The kid was drawing what seemed to be a building with some kind of. . .red ink.
Bill shrugged and crawled back into bed. So he had an artsy fart. Swell. Wait until the other guys heard about that. It wasn't until he was just beginning to fall asleep that he wondered where Isaac had gotten a hold of red ink.
When morning dawned again (supposedly, though there was no way to know for sure, with only the guard's watches hinting at a time) Bill burst out of bed. He headed over to the wall where his cellmate had been painting the night before. One quick glance assured him that Isaac was still asleep.
A red city stood before him, the tops of buildings dripping red, a sea of blood coating the bottom. One man stood in the midst of it, torn and bloodied himself, a dark shadow across his face. Dark scars marred his arms.
"What the fuck. . ." Bill shook his head, and reached out one hand tentatively to see what kind of ink the kid had used. It was still warm, not yet dry. He brought the ink to his nose, sniffed gently, then took a lick. He spat it out immediately, in disgust and horror. Blood.
"I'm telling you, I saw it!" Big Bill said adamantly to his cohorts, Skinny Steve and Scrawny Phil. "Blood. All over the wall."
"I don't get it. . ." Skinny Steve whined.
"People will kill for their art," Scrawny Phil said, a dreamy cast to his eyes. Big Bill ignored both of them. The truth was that they'd be better off in a mental ward than a rehabilitation station. Skinny Steve had attempted to rob a bank so that he could pay back his bank loan, and Scrawny Phil had held up a Salvation Army. They weren't exactly useful subjects.
Maybe, Bill thought, if he actually saw the kid painting, he would have some idea what was going on.
Riley O'Donovan did not appreciate being awakened in the middle of the night. She did not appreciate a squad of police cars pulling up in front of her apartment, sirens wailing. And she definitely did not appreciate being dragged to jail.
What Riley did appreciate was the sense of panic that the police were feeling, the strong emotions battering against her walls. So she went with them with a minimum of protest, though she did insist on putting on some clothing before they carted away. That was just what the inmates needed to see, she though wryly as she climbed out of the chief's car. Her in all her commando glory.
The minute she entered the compound she needed to catch her breath. Prisons always did this to her. The hate, the remorse, the guilt, the pain. . .but somewhere was confusion. She clung tightly to that emotion, straightened her back, and marched in.
"Where is she?" she asked the chief at her side. The policeman shook his head and pointed down the hallway.
"Not exactly my domain, sugar," he said. Riley shook her head angrily. This better be good, Isaac, she thought. She considered for a moment. Maybe he'd gone insane. That would definitely help their appeal, because right now they had nothing to work with.
Around the corner emotions died. Simply died. Riley blinked for a moment. She stared at the slack faces of inmates, all of whom looked ahead blankly.
"Sedatives," the police chief muttered, still at her side. Riley nodded her head. She turned to look at the scene on her right, and there he was. Bile rose in her throat, and she fought it down, hard. Beside her, the police chief was not as successful, and ducked to the side, retching and heaving.
The cell was completely covered in blood, ever wall, even the ceiling. A large, brawny man was rocking back and forth in one corner, grungy knees pulled tightly to his chest.
"His eyes are white, his hands are red," he was chanting, over and over again.
Riley's eyes scanned the cell, and it took a moment to find him. Isaac Mendez stood against the wall, one hand raised, a bloody rag clenched tightly in it. Blood was running down his arms, across his chest, and his back. His hand slowly dropped, the rag fluttered to the floor.
"Mr. Mendez," Riley gasped. At the sound of his name he turned around. This time Riley couldn't force away a slight scream. Rivulets of blood ran down his face, framing eyes that were glaringly, impossibly, blindly white. A moment later he blinked, and brown replaced. Riley found herself forced to her knees by the condemned man's pain. As her knees hit the cold stone of the prison floor, the fall was mirrored by the man inside, whose now-brown eyes rolled up in his head as his strength gave out and he collapsed bonelessly.