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skonen_bladesBeaten to death with a floorboard. It’s a guy thing. I wouldn’t even say that it was spur-of-the-moment. I wouldn’t even recognize the term. The charges were spun out of wool, the jury was deaf and mean, and three consecutive life sentences later, they still don’t know why I’m not dead.
I made a deal that turns these cell bars into a xylophone for tin cups. The grandson of the judge that sentenced me sits on the bench now, following in his grandfather’s footsteps. Black hair, eager-eyed and ready to practice some law. He should have made shoes for horses. He has the arms of a blacksmith and no head for law.
He has this idea that right and wrong had a place in the courtroom. He was going to be ground down over a lifetime.
My room mate was a barrel of muscle, barely contained by the orange jumpsuit that we all wore. He was thick where I was thin. I knew that if he took a mind to make me more than just a friend, I wouldn’t be able to stop him. However, he never talked and he never laid a hand on me. It was five weeks into his sentence and I still didn’t even know his name. I liked it. It was like a game.
We learn to do without clocks in here.
The thing about deals with demons that need sacrifices is that they usually screw you over, genie-style. Here I am, immortal, and I’m in jail. To keep being immortal, I need to sacrifice a soul to the Dark Minion every six years. Coincidentally, I am also up for parole every six years. I know that this has been arranged by forces beyond my control and that there are smug smiles in Hell.
One day before my scheduled parole hearing. I need to say the prayers, recite the words, sharpen a toothbrush, walk into the courtyard, and kill someone. The actually killing doesn’t need to be complicated, it’s the words beforehand and the trance that are important.
If I don’t do it, I will age centuries over the course of a couple of days and turn into dust. To survive, I need to totally screw any chance of parole.
Hilarious, right? Yeah, I think so, too.
I’ve read everything in this library. I’m starting to think of this prison as my house. The guards keep coming and going as do the judges. By keeping my head down, no one has noticed me. I think that it might have something to do with the incantation as well. If anyone noticed that I wasn’t dead and it had been over a century, they’d probably do experiments on me and treat me like a savior. Hell will keep me from being noticed.
I listen to my cellmate snore.
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I made a deal that turns these cell bars into a xylophone for tin cups. The grandson of the judge that sentenced me sits on the bench now, following in his grandfather’s footsteps. Black hair, eager-eyed and ready to practice some law. He should have made shoes for horses. He has the arms of a blacksmith and no head for law.
He has this idea that right and wrong had a place in the courtroom. He was going to be ground down over a lifetime.
My room mate was a barrel of muscle, barely contained by the orange jumpsuit that we all wore. He was thick where I was thin. I knew that if he took a mind to make me more than just a friend, I wouldn’t be able to stop him. However, he never talked and he never laid a hand on me. It was five weeks into his sentence and I still didn’t even know his name. I liked it. It was like a game.
We learn to do without clocks in here.
The thing about deals with demons that need sacrifices is that they usually screw you over, genie-style. Here I am, immortal, and I’m in jail. To keep being immortal, I need to sacrifice a soul to the Dark Minion every six years. Coincidentally, I am also up for parole every six years. I know that this has been arranged by forces beyond my control and that there are smug smiles in Hell.
One day before my scheduled parole hearing. I need to say the prayers, recite the words, sharpen a toothbrush, walk into the courtyard, and kill someone. The actually killing doesn’t need to be complicated, it’s the words beforehand and the trance that are important.
If I don’t do it, I will age centuries over the course of a couple of days and turn into dust. To survive, I need to totally screw any chance of parole.
Hilarious, right? Yeah, I think so, too.
I’ve read everything in this library. I’m starting to think of this prison as my house. The guards keep coming and going as do the judges. By keeping my head down, no one has noticed me. I think that it might have something to do with the incantation as well. If anyone noticed that I wasn’t dead and it had been over a century, they’d probably do experiments on me and treat me like a savior. Hell will keep me from being noticed.
I listen to my cellmate snore.
tags