Chapter 11

"Tell me—after my head is chopped off, will I still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of my own blood gushing from the stump of my neck? That would be the pleasure to end all pleasures."

– German serial killer Peter Kürten, known as the "Dusseldorf Vampire", murdered at least nine people before surrendering to police in 1931 and may have attempted 20 more killings between 1913-1929. He was executed by guillotine on July 2, 1931, in Cologne, Germany.

Chapter 11

My heels clinked against the hard stone floor as I made my way through the hallways. A distant scream echoed through the halls somewhere in the west wing. An odd feeling of déjà vu settled into the pit of my stomach. Not so long ago I had walked the same rout and heard the same scream before being thrown into a prison riot. I wouldn't be surprised if it happened again, knowing my luck.

I was, however, surprised to find my grounding lifted in the morning with a shopping list taped to my door. To the average person, that wouldn't seem like the end of grounding. But, for me, that was freedom on a sheet of paper. It meant that my mother was giving me permission to leave the house and, shopping or not, that meant she was sick of me hanging around the house all day. So, I had plastered a smile on my face and said a pleasant hello to her in the morning. She didn't return that hello but she didn't yell, so that was a start. She must have known that the only way to make me spill was to give me the silent treatment... so my days of solitude began.

I didn't know how she was coping with being fired as she had refused to utter a single word to me. Guilt continued to ebb away at the insides of my stomach, but I ignored it. I knew that being fired was not the worse case scenario. Worse case scenario was George and his framing for the murder of Harley James. That seemed a world more important to me.

When I dressed for the day ahead, I ditched the high heels for another day of sneaker filled comfort. My black slacks were loose on my legs, unflattering my already shapeless figure. I matched my look with a sleek black sweater, as to avoid the issue of possible bloodspot, and a tight bun to tame my mess of blonde hair. My skin was stretched like Botox as the hairstyle slicked back my hair to the extreme.

My tape recorder was placed securely inside my leg pocket, adjusted to perfection as to absorb every sound I heard, and those that I didn't. Sometimes I believed it had better hearing than a human on speed.

The smell of mold and freshly killed cow filled my nostrils as I neared the cafeteria. I cleared my throat before quietly coughing, disgusted by the bile that collected at the back of my throat.

It was lunchtime when I arrived at the doors that led to the feeding grounds. I could already hear the loud murmurs coming from within, building in volume with every step closer.  I paused, hand hovering on top of the large handle, afraid of what would become of me once I entered. I had not seen or spoke to any of the prisoners, well apart from Vans, after the brawl. I had no idea what had become of my fierce reputation; the 'woman who controls' might have become 'the woman who is controlled'. I couldn't let that happen.

I straightened my back to its full length, increasing my height to look dominant, and rubbed down my slacks, ridding them of any creases or dirt particles. I ran my hands over my hair, making sure every strand was elegantly placed, alluding to my intelligence. I breathed deeply and stretched out my hand, the cool metal handle calmed me and a small smile stretched onto my face. If I showed them that the recent events had not affected me, then they would have nothing more to say about the scared girl they saw when the guards took George away. It would be erased from their minds in an instant, gone like teenage gossip.

The door swung inwards as I applied force, the quiet 'swoosh' seemingly catching the attention I wanted. The heads of every inmate and guard turned my way. Some watched out of curiosity, others glared with silent hatred in their eyes, obviously intimidated by the power they knew I held. One word to my father and they were moved up on the list, dead within months.

That was the funny thing about being on the death row; some of the worst criminals spent their entire lives waiting out their punishment of death, whilst others, who may or may not have been more innocent than the first, could be killed in months, if given the push in the right direction. And the direction in this prison just so happened to be me. Truth be told, I didn't know why it worked the way it did. It just...did.

I tilted my chin upwards, my smile growing, and stepped into the cafeteria. The conversation quickly returned to the tables of inmates, only this time they were talking about me. My head scanned the crowd of tables, searching for one person in particular. The room was as large as an auditorium; filled with rounded tables (as to eliminate the possibility of inmates using them as pointed weapons) that were so cramped together it was surprising I could make my way between them. The food was distributed at one end, for half an hour only, and then the inmates had another hour to eat that food, socialise, and occasionally get their own visitor. I only had forty-five minutes before they had to go back to their cells.

I knew I wouldn't find George's face amongst the crowd. Whilst he was a suspect to murder he would only eat inside a double guarded cell. Instead, my eyes were drawn to the far right corner of the room.

Vans perched on a small white chair, resting his back against the wall. He was slouched forwards, fiddling with something in his hands. His dark waved hair fell into his eyes, which were staring at the object in his hands. I frowned as the butterflies began in my stomach, pressing up against my core, warming my insides. He dropped whatever was in his hands and slowly bent down to reach it. As he sat back into his chair, he noticed me staring, a sly grin forming from his pink lips.

I held his gaze as I began to walk towards him. Inmates pulled their chairs inwards as I passed them, parting like the sea. Upon noticing my approach, his smile broadened, lips drawn up to his cheeks like the Cheshire cat. My own lips responded, tilting upwards, his ecstasy contagious. I surprised myself by feeling not a single thread of hatred towards him. In fact, all negative feelings had been throttled by an unknown force. It like something—somewhere didn't want me to hate him.

"Did you get Botox or do you just lack the capability to properly smile?" He stated once I stood a bare meter in front of him. I frowned, taken back by his greeting. I believed I was smiling at him, but then again, my hairstyle was so tight I wouldn't be surprised if it had restricted my facial movements.

"Sorry." I said, looking down at my feet. I was suddenly overcome with embarrassment, butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I looked up at him through the veil of my lashes, insecurity flaming my cheeks red. He chuckled deeply and lent back into his chair, the legs squeaking in protest. He beckoned me closer with one hand, gesturing for me to sit in the empty chair opposite him.

I could feel the air thicken as the guards nearby visibly tensed, ready to ponce if he made a move against me. Where were they when we needed them the other week, huh? I ignored my conscience and sent them a small smile, telling them that it was okay.

I slowly slid into the seat, weary as to not make any sudden moves.

"Told you that you'd come bac—"

"Shut it!" I seethed through my teeth, a blush creeping onto my cheeks. I knew what he was going to say, and there was no way I was going to let my feelings get in the way of my pride. "I'm here to talk business."

He smirked, obviously pleased that I had come crawling back to him for information. He knew he was the only one I could go to and that is why he was hanging it over my head like it was a treat and I was a dog.

"Lets talk business then!" He said, leaning forwards on his elbows and placing his head in his hands. "Ask away, Emily." I shifted in my chair and he chuckled at my discomfort. For a moment, I observed how he sat in his chair, smiling at me toothily, and I couldn't help but think of how childish he looked.

"I want you to tell me who killed Harley James." I said, honestly.

Vans stared at me for a second, face washed clean of emotion, before he burst into a fit of laughter; cackling like an old witch. I furrowed my brows in confusion, wondering if what I said sounded like a joke. After a moments thought, I came to the conclusion that it wasn't funny and Vans was just simply insane.

"Come on, Vans. Don't joke around, I know it was an inmate and I know you know who they are." I said, irritation slipping into my voice. He looked up at me, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, giggles making his chest jump.

"Oh, princess. I'm not even sure if you want to know." He said, the smile never fading from his lips. "Do you even realise that you're surrounded by killers? How do you ever expect to differentiate them if you don't even attempt to open your eyes to the bigger picture." He sighed, leaning back into his chair once again, and draped his hands behind his chair.

"What do you mean 'the bigger picture'? And of course I know you're all killers, what kind of question is that?" I said, raising my voice. I didn't like how he was treating me like an idiot. I wasn't an idiot. I passed school with straight A's.

He rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed that I didn't understand.

"The bigger picture is all your possible suspects. And as far as I'm concerned, you're stopping yourself from ever seeing it by only looking at the people that you can already call murderers." I raised my eyebrows and crossed my arms in front of my chest, but I didn't say anything. I was willing to listen to what he had to say. When he realised that I wouldn't protest to what he was saying, he continued on. "You think that the inmates are your only suspects, but what about the other big guys that are just itching to get rid of some of us? The guys who call the shots...?" He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, expecting me to say something. I shrugged, not knowing whom he was talking about. "Come on, Emily! Don't make me spoon-feed it to you. Who are the only people in here with a keys to every door, every exit and every cell?"

I slowly sat up in my chair, unfolding the arms from my chest. It couldn't be... Could it?

"The guards." I whispered, the realisation dawning on me. They were the people I never thought to investigate—the people I never thought to suspect. How could you be so stupid...? I asked myself. Now that was a question that I didn't know the answer to.

To be continued...

-

-

-

-

-

Hey guys! I apologise for the slow update, I've been so busy with my end of year exams (my year ends this term) and I've still got two more weeks of them!

Thanks so much for sticking with me on this!

Who do you think is responsible for the death of Harley James? The inmates or the guards?

Comment your prediction ;)