Welcome, and thanks for clicking on my story.
Let me be forthcoming and say that this story is going to strictly focus on quality, not quantity; meaning that more often than not, these chapters will be shorter and longer than others, meaning that they'll begin and end where it benefits the story. I'm not particularly fussed about the word count, but I can promise you quality, and if you can appreciate that, I thank you – it means a lot.
If you asked someone why they did the things that they did, what would their answer be? Would they be truthful in their response, or would they lie to cover up their true intentions? It's not a terribly difficult question to answer, one might think; but little do some people know is that their answer will most likely be the very reason for losing everything – including the reason why they do the things that they do.
It's difficult to say, you think to yourself. There are a million reasons why people do the things that they do, and a million more reasons why they might lie to you about it. So, how are you to accurately predict what their answer might be?
Whether they answer the question or not, their reasons all stem from the same motive: that they were doing it either for themselves or for somebody else, and more often than not, it's the latter; they say that they did those things – those awful, terrible things – in order to protect someone else, even if it cost them their own life.
And it was this very reason that resulted in my capture, and by default, my imprisonment.
I wasn't shy about my reasons for doing the things that I did; I knew that they were wrong, and was equally aware of how my past decisions had resulted in other people's deaths. But at the time, I didn't care; my reason for doing those things was still alive, and so long as it remained that way, they knew that I was willing to keep on doing those things for them – and more.
But ironically, I'm ashamed to admit why.
Well, to put it simply, I'm not yet prepared to wholeheartedly admit to myself why I did those things, nor why I choose to keep doing them. The people around me knew it, including whom I was doing it all for, but I wasn't yet ready to accept it. So instead, I ignored everything and everyone around me, therefore making it much easier to keep going and to keep doing the things that I did, which resulted in a rather questionable moral compass that would disgust and even frighten a past version of myself.
But like I said earlier, I didn't care. I still don't care, because even if I had the choice to reconsider my past decisions, I wouldn't; my reasons for doing what I did would still remain the same.
At the sound of footsteps, I opened my eyes, listening to the familiar metallic dance of keys, wondering briefly just how many damn keys were on that chain. Last week I guessed there were about eleven, judging by how heavy they sounded. Today, I changed my guess to maybe around thirteen, maybe fifteen, perhaps more. I'd never actually seen the keys before, so it was just an educated guess at the most.
The door then opened; the harsh scrape of metal against concrete causing the involuntary grind of my teeth, and the distaste of the sound made me feel suddenly dirty, like I could feel every single particle of dirt that was on my hands and face. The urge to wash my hands was unbearable.
The door seemed to open at a much slower pace than usual. Or maybe I was just tired. Either way, I didn't bother to see who had entered; they never stayed more than a few moments, anyway. A tray of food was usually placed by the door of the cell, and then they would leave. Sometimes I would eat, but on other days I couldn't even bring myself to reach through the bars.
It was always someone different; I could tell by their footsteps and the way they walked. They never once spoke to me, but I knew what they were after – and I briefly wondered if they knew that I wasn't going to give them what they wanted.
When the footsteps came to a stop, I didn't look up; I never had a reason to, and wasn't planning to start now. When no tray of food was placed on the floor, and was instead replaced by the sound of a chair being dragged to the centre of the room, I'll admit that I briefly entertained the idea of giving whoever it was the satisfaction of looking up, but I was smart enough to know where this was going.
And so, I waited for them to speak.
"You didn't eat yesterday," he said as the chair groaned underneath his weight.
"And I didn't eat the day before that, either, so what's your point?"
"So, you're ready to talk, then?"
"We both already know that I'm not going to do that," I said.
He sighed. "We can help you."
"I don't need help."
"Then you can help us," he insisted. "People have died – good people. We don't want anyone else to die."
"People die every day," I replied curtly. "It happens."
He suddenly shot to his feet, his tall shadow looming over me as the chair squealed harshly against the concrete floor. "But you can help us stop this – you can help us stop him. No one else has to die."
I let out a dry cough. "What makes you think I want to help you?"
"We can keep you safe," he argued, voice growing softer, almost pleading. "If you help us, if you stay, you'll be safe here. We won't let anything happen to you."
"You're wasting your time, Rick," I said slowly, finally letting my eyes lock with his and enjoying the brief flicker of shock reflected in his eyes.
