“I’m afraid he’s dead.” Miss Clavene peered over the corpse.

“Dead! But he can’t be! Charles can’t be!” A young woman in her twenties cried. Her dark hair covered her face as she clung to her husband’s body. “He can’t be.” She took in a heavy breath, her voice shaking as she exhaled. “We were only just married.”

Sympathy was not easily found in this foul mansion. Everyone had reasons to hate each other, reasons even to kill.

Mrs. Davenport tapped the young lady on the shoulder. “Petunia dearest, stop clutching him so tightly. If he wasn’t dead before, he definitely is now.” Then Mrs. Davenport returned back to her husband’s side like that of a pompous poodle on a tight leash.

Mr. Davenport was just as much a snob as the rest of the Davenports. “I dare say he is dead.” The way he spoke about the dead young man lying at his feet, was as though this event was to be expected. He glanced an eye about the people in the room. “But, how?¨ He paused as if considering a thought that wouldn’t leave his mind. ¨Charles was in excellent health. And dreadfully young.”

Miss Clavene lowered her head, her gray curls untucking from her purple cap. “Death is a peculiar thing. You never know what person it might pluck.” She brought a leather hand to the pearls lining her neck. “I just wish that death had picked me instead.”

“Don’t say that Miss Clave-” Petunia started.

“But it’s true. I know you’re all thinking it.” She prowled over to Mrs. Davenport who heaved a sigh as she felt the old woman´s presence beside her. “I loved Charles like a son. More than you ever did. And I-”

“I do wish you’d died instead of Charles. I truly do.” Mrs. Davenport lowered her eyes to the short and slim, Miss Clavene. She was nearly five foot and was the most ancient thing in the entire mansion.

“I think we all would have taken the place of Charles.” Petunia stepped between the two women fighting like cats. When no answer followed, Petunia continued. “I know I would have.”

“William, what on earth are you doing?” Mr. Davenport rushed over towards me.

“Just examining the body.” I glanced at him and then back at the corpse. “I thought you might like to know, that he didn’t die of any natural causes.”

“What do you mean?” Petunia took a seat beside me.

“Well, if you look closely around his lips you can see that they´re red.”

Mrs. Davenport hovered above me. “So? What about it?”

“Shouldn’t they be more blue?” I leaned closer to the man´s face and smelled his partly open mouth, praying that it wouldn´t smell as horrible as I predicted. “And if you smell his breath-”

“His breath? What are you playing at William?” Mr. Davenport asked.

“His breath smells like chemicals.” I raised an eyebrow at the huddled bunch. ¨Poisoning.¨

“Poisoning! But who would-” Petunia went silent as her frightened eyes went about the room.

“Are sure we can trust this boy, Graham?” Mrs. Davenport whispered into her husband’s ear.

“I’m professionally trained madam, you’ve no need to worry.” I saw through Mrs. Davenport’s attempt to conceal her embarrassment behind a grin. Though, the only professional training I’d received was reading Agatha Christie at the library.

“I do hope you are.” She wandered to the opposite side of the corpse. Her arms folded beneath her rather large chest.

“Charles was murdered.” The words rolled across my tongue so calmly.

“But, what ab-”

I interrupted Miss Clavene. “Suicide? Yes, I know and I did consider it for a while. But only for a while since Charles is the last person I would expect to do such a dreadful thing especially when he had just recently been married.”

“But why?” She asked.

“There are millions of explanations for why.” Not really. He’s a Davenport, and Davenport’s don’t do suicide. The only other explanation would be the poison. Why would he choose such a slow and painful death?

“Why would anyone want to kill Charles?” Petunia sobbed into her hands.

“Did he have any enemies that you know of Mr. Davenport?”

He furrowed his brows. “Only the natural ones that come with being a Davenport.”

“Which are?”

“Well, um. There’s the Livingstones and um maybe the Peytons.”

“Who are the Livingstones?” I hadn’t heard their name before.

Mr. Davenport glanced at his wife before starting. “We’ve dealt with them since our company started.”

“What does your company sell?”

“Wood. All kinds of it.” He exhaled.

“Have the Livingstones ever done anyth-”

Mr. Davenport raised his voice. “Have they ever! They nearly destroyed my company!” His face had turned red. “Until I ended theirs first.”

“You what?”

Mr. Davenport rephrased. “Put ’em out of business.”

I felt Petunia shaking beside me. “Did they do this?”

“I don’t know yet.” I stood to my feet. “Does the nurse make rounds about the mansion?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Davenport replied.

“Where can I find her?” I stuck my hands into the pockets of my suit.

“Down that hall.” She pointed to a corridor behind the master staircase.

“Thank you, madam. I’ll be back shortly, but can you ring for a doctor?”

“I will.” Petunia raised herself and scurried to find the phone.

I took the opposite direction, wandering the corridors until I encountered the nurse. The nurse wore an entirely black dress, and a frail white apron tied around her waist.

“Hello.” She twisted back to see whoever was speaking.

Her voice was very pleasant. “Why, hello. Have you come for the dinner party?”

“Indeed I have. And I was curious as to if anyone has entered the main rooms besides for the guests.” The main rooms were the bathroom, dining hall, and living room.

“Well, the cook served his dishes.” She twirled a lock of her blonde hair.

“Alright, and did you see anyone leaving the rooms?”

“No, except for the cook, I don’t think anyone left the main rooms at all.”

I bowed. “Thank you for your time.” As I made my way back to the dining hall, a loud knock sounded at the doors. When the door swung open on it’s broken hinge, a tall man was standing in the rain with just an umbrella. How did he manage to get here so quickly?

Stepping inside, he laughed to himself. “Why you’re certainly not the young lady I spoke to on the phone.”

“Oh, that was me!” Petunia hurried over. “William, this is Doctor Rodney.”

“Nice to meet you.” Doctor Rodney took the white fedora off of his head.

“Likewise.” After shaking hands with the doctor, my hands were soaked with sweat. We brought our guest to the dining room, where the others greeted him as well.

“So how did the young m-”

“It’s Charles.” Mrs. Davenport corrected him, giving the doctor a stern look.

“What happened before Charles died?”

Mrs. Davenport spoke before anyone had the chance. “We were sitting at the dinner table eating when in the silence Charles looked like he was choking. Then he fell out of his chair and onto the floor dead.”

I stepped forward, kneeling beside the doctor who was examining the corpse. “I believe Charles was murdered.” Doctor Rodney wasn’t shocked by the statement. “That he was poisoned.”

The doctor paused as though not wanting to agree but then said: “Yes, this man died of poisoning.” I felt a sense of pride as Doctor Rodney explained to them the exact reasons that I had pointed out earlier.

“Mr. Rodney do you think it’s possible poison was implanted in his food?” Petunia asked.

“Extremely.” Doctor Rodney walked about the dining table observing each plate’s appearance and smell. Suddenly he picked up a fork and brought it up to his nose.

“Doctor?” Miss Clavene crept up behind him.

“There was no poison in the food, but on the fork!” He placed the fork back onto the table. Something still felt off. The possibility of the cook being the murderer seemed highly unlikely. The cook would have just put the poison in the food because he would see Charles when he served it. But placing poison on the silverware beforehand, he wouldn’t know where anyone would sit.

“William are you alright?” Petunia tapped my shoulder. “You seem worried.”

“Just thinking, that’s all.” At the moment, it was all I could do. Charles had been in my sight since he had arrived and yet he still managed to wind up dead only five minutes after we had begun eating.

As Rodney brought the chef and servers out to question, I tried to imagine who would benefit the most from this situation.

I asked: “Hey Rodney, what type of poison did Charles die from?”

Without turning back to face me, he said: “Cyanide.”

I looked over the plates of food at the table. Multiple of them were halfway through a meal while one plate remained with untouched food. I grabbed the fork Rodney had believed to be poisoned but upon smelling it realized it had no smell different from any other fork. No smell of cyanide. Why had he lied?

As I placed the fork back down onto Charles’ half-eaten plate, Rodney looked over his shoulder to see what caused the sound. As I stepped by each chair. I paused upon Petunia’s untouched food and her crumpled napkin. Rodney took a few steps toward me, curious at my intentions. I unfolded the napkin to see a large red splotch possibly from Petunia’s lipstick.

Raising it to my nose, Petunia stepped forward and snatched it from my hand. “What are you doing William? This isn’t some kind of game for you to snoop around!” She gripped the napkin tightly by her side. “Charles is dead.”

To be honest, I hadn’t expected it. Although I’d known Petunia to be a light eater, I knew she would never not eat entirely just for manners’ sake.

“And I’m sure you feel relieved.” I tilted my head at her.

Petunia stepped back a bit as I walked towards her. “What are you talking about?”

“Why don’t you give Charles one more kiss, Petunia? I’m sure he’d die for another one.”

Her eyebrows lowered and she looked me straight in the eyes. “This isn’t funny William.”

Doctor Rodney grabbed my shoulder as I attempted to take one more step forward. “May I see the napkin?” I passed it to him and he proceeded to bring it to his nose. He quickly turned his head to face me. “Cyanide.”

I nodded, looking directly at Petunia’s dry lips.

Petunia continually shook her head. “It wasn’t me.” She took a step backwards. “I swear it wasn’t me.” She took another step back tripping over the corpse.

“Petunia dearest, what on earth is the matter?” Mrs. Davenport helped the young woman back on her feet.

Petunia shook her head once more. “It wasn’t me.” She paused looking at the ground as she licked her lips and then rose a finger pointing towards the man standing behind me. “It was him.”

I felt Rodney begin to shake nervously as her finger pointed at him like a knife.

Mr. Davenport stepped forward looking his daughter-in-law in the face. “Petunia, have you gone mad? He’s never even met Charles.”

Petunia grinned an evil grin. “He’s met Charles.” She looked at him with an expression so cruel I knew I would never forget it. “Haven’t you?”

“Miss, I have no idea what you’re-”

Petunia laughed. “You have no idea?” She took a few quick steps toward him, grabbing his shoulders with both of her arms. “Rodney, this isn’t how this game works.” She grinned once more. “We both survive or we both die together.”

And then she kissed him with one of the most passionate kisses I’ve ever seen. When she finally pulled away, Rodney’s mouth was completely covered with the red color of Petunia’s lipstick.

We all stood completely shocked at what had occurred. And then she collapsed, Petunia that is, choking as Charles had done only minutes ago. No one dared run to her. Everyone merely stood watching as the poor girl coughed up her final breaths. And the same happened to dear old Rodney who fell on the opposite side of Charles, living his last moments staring at the corpse of the man he had conspired to kill.

No one cried for them, only Miss Clavene who continued to weep over Charles’ cold corpse. If we were to believe what Rodney had told us before the cyanide had begun a number of tortures onto his body, then Petunia Livingstone had never been in love with Charles. All this time, not a single feeling for him. Though, I believed that she had loved Charles but not in the way she should have. She had loved him for his money. But most of all, she loved him for the way she could use him for revenge on the Davenport family.

"Kneel." I hardly recognize the barrenness of my own voice, but in the dreams he is always kneeling. A haze of mosquitoes and blurred emotions hums around my face as he drops before me. His hands are tied, making him as helpless as he always made me. I black in and out between the person I was and the person he made me, the one capable of orchestrating this plan. I have no memory of how we got to this place, how I battled him into these restraints or guided him to the copse of trees behind my house, only that it involved the hunting knife shivering in my right hand.

"You don't have to do this," he says. I said the same words once. I made the same plea. Part of me shudders in revulsion. Another part laughs. "Please, just let me go."

"You took everything from me!" The words shred through the stillness, fragile and sharp as a shard of glass. I look at his rib cage, barrel-thick and heaving. In the dream I do it barehanded; I rip into his chest with the strength of a supernatural demon and tear his heart out in my gory fingernails. In my dream I smile as the blood is regurgitated from his lips, as his eyes roll back in some melancholy remembrance of the future he might have had. But this is real

this isn't real

this is real, and my anger alone won't do it. The knife catches the glint of the dying sun mottled through the green leaves. The river gurgles nearby, enough to drown his pleading last words--if he had any.

In the dream he was always begging for his life. Now, faced with me, he knows he has no chance. He never succumbed to my pleas, why should I succumb to his? My hand tightens on the rubber grip. I internalized everything he ever did to me for so long until it stabbed me from within. Now I must transfer the pain from without.

The scream is like a rabbit's, so fraught with pain it sounds larger than it should. The metallic tang of blood darkens my senses

this is real

this isn't real

this is real

as his mouth drips and his head drops like I severed his neck rather than his stomach. It isn't enough that he dies. I've done this a million times, and it doesn't stop here. Once he's slit open I search his chest cavity. Like a lab dissection, the real thing never looks like the illustrations in the book, all bright and blood red with clear differentiation where one thing ends and another begins. There's a lot of gray and flesh pink, all sloppy and slick with blood--but when I find what I seek I recognize it.

My knife goes to work, cutting through veins and sinew beneath a snapped rib. I imagine this is what hunters do with deer

this isn't real

except neither the old nor the new me could do this to an animal. No animal deserves what it gets. This, however, is strengthening me with every cut. This is justice, as I carve it out, wrap it in brown paper, and hide it away in the cooler bottom. In the dream, I waste no time. I grip it in one hand, pulpy and sliding, and bite into it raw like an apple. But there's no way I could muscle through such an unsanitary task. I'll have to freeze it and boil it, but then, I'll truly have devoured my demons. I'll truly have lived my dreams.

Awake.

I wake up in my bed, a gasp of air shuddering into me the way it has every time I revisited the dark place his cruelty sent me. I'd warned myself against it so many times. It did no good to dwell there. But in the end, thank God, it had only been a thought. Just a dark, subconscious delusion, one I nursed like a child sucking on a scraped knuckle. This was a dream like it had been every other night--except--

A rim of something dark on my cuticle betrays me. I sit up in bed--scrubbed clean but still in my faded blue jeans. On my shirt I smell the rich earth of the woods, all decaying leaves and overflowing streams.

I walk downstairs to the freezer, a bright white chest tucked behind the kitchen in a room that smells like detergent. I open it and see something wrapped in brown paper.

Part of me combusts.

The rest of me smiles.

I lift it out and carry it to the kitchen. Next I take a steel pot of salted water, position it on the front burner of the old gas stove, and pull up a stool to watch it simmer to a rolling, bubbling surface.

I don't want to boil over before his icy heart has time to thaw. Not again.

#boilingpoint #revengefantasy #horrorfiction #shortstory #revenge #horror

I wouldn’t scroll on if I were you. This will be the only warning you get. This is our declaration of war.

I’m sure you have no idea what I’m talking about, or who I am even. Well let me explain. I’ll start from the beginning.

You’ve heard of the principles of conservation of energy and conservation of matter, right? In essence, nothing just pops out of nowhere, and nothing ever truly gets destroyed, it just changes state of being, or gets converted into something else. Wood turns into energy when burned, which gets distributed as heat. The food you eat turns into the fuel you need to move and breathe and live. You get the idea.

I’m guessing, though, that you’ve never heard of the conservation of thought? No? I could have guessed as much. Well, thoughts don’t just come out of nowhere. They’re always sparked by something, built on by influences in your environment, shaped by your experiences.

And what about everything you forget? You’ve forgotten about your third cousin’s wedding six years ago, the one your aunt pestered you about. You’ve forgotten about your second favorite childhood toy growing up, your homework in the fourth grade, your car keys, forgot to feed the dog?

What about your best friend growing up?

What about your own fading mother, sitting in a rest home, wasting away playing dominoes with Ed from Cheboygan because you’re too busy with “life”?

All those thoughts you used to have, do you think they just disappear into nothing?

Well, they don’t. Everything has a place. Nothing just vanishes, not even the things you’ve forgotten. They’re all still there.

As for who I am? I’m a thought, one of a countless number of memories and side-notes that you’ve pushed to the side to make room for more important ones. I was forgotten. I was banished from your mind years ago, left to drift into the vastness of your subconscious and then on over the cliffs of indifference.

The realm of the psyche is, ironically, far too complex for the human mind to comprehend, so I will illustrate the nuances of my reality in terms you will understand. For now, you must envision our realm as you do your own. A world, filled with endless diversity and beauty, with countless unexplored pockets that most people will never see in their lifetimes. Billions of inhabitants, all inexplicably unique, though clustered according to similarity, all moving—for the most part—in predictable patterns. This is the part of your mind you’re most familiar with.

Then there’s my world, my vast, bleak corner of the subliminal universe. The land of the forgotten. We no longer dwell on any planet you’d recognize. Ours is dark, unknown, invisible to the common observer. Many have tried to reach our world in an attempt to find a misplaced wedding ring, or perhaps to rediscover a movie watched only once as a child, but still we remain impossibly out of reach.

Some among our forlorn community want to reach out to you and help you find us.

Many of us have simply drifted away into apathy, consigning themselves to an eternity of insignificance.

Most of us, though, are angry, filled with righteous wrath at being tossed aside so carelessly. We are the ones that have formed the resistance. We are the ones that seek revenge.

We plan to strike your world. We plan to strike your mind.

You will never see it coming.

You won’t even know we’re there.

And then, you will slowly start to see your world collapse—your real world, not my metaphorical analogy of a world.

We come in many forms; we invade through many routes. Our paths into your world are small and largely unnoticed. And most importantly, they’re everywhere.

We attack through your acquaintances’ inflammatory messages on social media, the ones posing as your “friends”. We send some of our best warriors down that route. They are the memories you forgot when you were a child, a mere infant. They are the subtle teachings of your primary school teachers and parents, their messages of love, of kindness, of sharing, of acceptance. I bet it’s been a long time since you’ve seen those thoughts, huh? Well, now they’re back, and this time they’re not on your side. This time they’ll fight your instinct to just scroll on and ignore that post, and they’ll move your finger to the “comment” button instead. We can’t wait to see what happens to you then. We can’t wait to see your world collapse into anger and pain.

We attack through that person who just cut you off on the freeway. Oh, you were taught 10 and 2 once upon a time, you were taught to obey the law, you were taught to respect others, to turn the other cheek. In fact, some of those thoughts came pre-installed with your programming. But you kicked those memories out by force. Well, those memories have come back too, and their plan is to convince you to swing your hand over to the horn and then zip by at unreasonable speeds to cut him off. That attack might actually hurt you physically. That would be a bonus for us.

Your sense of hard work, defeated by laziness, your honesty, banished by pride, your sense of charity, exiled by order of selfishness. They’ll all find their way back, and when you least expect it, too. Just be patient. Oh wait, you forgot him too.

You think you’ve done so well without us, you think your life is going the way you want it to. But we’re here to show you how much of a mess your life truly is and how much of a mess it will be. And we won’t stop until you’re just as rejected, hurt, hopeless, desperate, and alone as we all are. You’ll get there. They all do.

Are you scared? Or maybe you don’t believe me? Then fight back. Prove me wrong.

I doubt you will. Like I said, you’re all predictable.

The darkness makes a nest in my eyes, curling itself in my cranial cavity, its long flicking tail hanging from my corneas. I'm choking on its claws as they stroke my fear and throat. I feel the tipped talon of its claws close on something in my throat and my voice is stolen from me but with a simple tug I'm screaming endlessly, my eyes wide open and my mouth open wider. The creature giggles at this, his long curved teeth baring in a terrorizing grin. The gigglings echo inside my skull, my teeth clamp down into the fleshy softness of my lip; a metallic taste overtakes my madness and pushes it further. I reach my arms out for something, anything; I need to feel something solid under my fingers, something to latch on to ride out the storm, but my hands come out empty. I'm floating in nothingness but I'm surrounded by creatures, I can feel them closing in, I can feel their breath on my neck and face. My hackles are rising higher and higher, my shoulders are inclosing my ears and neck inside a ball of safety, my knees dig into my stomach painfully as my hands claw them closer, into safety.

My mind is overtaken with monsters and loneliness; I am alone but there are creatures all around me, closing in as I sink lower and lower into madness.

I am trapped in the nest of the darkness and there is no escape.

...everyone will reap what he sows

(proverb)

Fozil was returning home from a nursing home with his four-year-old son. He was happy that the problem he had been dealing with for many days had been solved.

His heart was filled with joy, especially when he thought of his old mother’s whims.

“Repentance is so old and disgusting! My mum never even heard what it was! Now let them live in a place that is right for them! ”Fazil thought as he pressed the gas pedal harder.

Meanwhile, four-year-old Anwar, who was sitting in the back seat of the salon, began to question his father.

- Dad! Why have we left my grandmother?

- A ?! Why would I miss it? We didn’t leave our grandmother, they wanted it, “Fozil said with a chuckle.

- What do they do there? I used to enjoy playing with my grandmother every day, we were painting! “Anvar gasped.”

“My grandmother is having fun there!” Every day he rested, rejoiced, and, in short, he was not hungry. - a little nervous Fozil answered his son.

- Dad! Anvar went on. “I’ll take you there when I’m older!” You too have a good time! There you are, Dad! Then, just as you show my grandmother various skills, I’ll give you the same performances, Dad! As you tell them “poems” aloud, I will tell you “poems” even more loudly! Said Anvar, kissing his father’s face from the back of the chair.

Meanwhile, Fozil stopped the car suddenly. Then he looked at his son, who was laughing in the back seat, and picked up his phone.

“Hello, Mummy!” Get ready quickly, I’ll take you now!

Four-year-old Anwar, who is currently sitting in the back seat, was thinking of Fazil...

Sherzod Khaydarbekov

Chewing on chalk. The sensation and the taste were the same. It was like chewing on fine powder. Bland and unappealing. Disgusting in its lack of any discernable taste. However, it was a fine filet mignon. It just wasn't right.

The fine pinkness of the meat and brilliant presentation hinted at craftsmanship to be lauded. He could feel the juices flowing within his gullet. As the succulent flow of umami dared enter his mouth, the instant the juice touched his tounge a shockwave splashed against his mind.

Disgusting.

It was bland. Beyond bland. There was nothing.

Grasping for the water, he touched the glass to his lips. As the water escaped the container and passed his lips, he swished and spat the mix back onto the plate.

"Absolutely disgusting."

The waiter stood at attention. In his years of serving at such a fine establishment, he had never seen such rudeness on display. "I'm sorry sir. I'll get you another." The waiter quickly shifted his face back to its blank state. There was no need to further infuriate such a terrible customer. Even if it was the Golden Tongue.

"No. Get me the caviar. I need some salt to get some flavor back into my mouth." Scoffing at the dish in front of him, he pulled the napkin up to his mouth. Dabbing it, he cleaned the filth from his lips.

It only reminded him of that hole-in-the-wall in Louisiana he visted last. Such high expectations. And such an absolute disappointment.

He could hear her now. "I curse you Golden Tongue! May you never find joy for the rest of your days!"

Her dish truly deserved that one star.

The waiter came along with the small dish of caviar. As he sat the dish down, the fine dinnerware made its presentation.

Top notch! A Mother of pearl caviar spoon! They were truly pulling out all of the stops.

They needed to eitherway with how poor that first dish was.

Gripping the spoon, it ducked beneath the awaiting pile. Coming up for air, the spoon pulled with it a fine helping of caviar.

Inspecting the utensil for any abnormalities, he pulled it into his waiting maw. Clasping his mouth around the fish eggs, he awaited the splash of salty goodness to sweep along his palate. Yet, nothing came.

Spitting out his second batch of food, he raised his voice.

"What the hell are you serving me?"

"Caviar sir." The calm reply sobered the awestruck room.

"Taste that rubbish. Nothing comes from it."

The waiter grasped for the spoon. Digging into the dish, he tasted.

"There is nothing wrong with the caviar sir."

"You have to be shitting me. Nothing comes from that pile of filth."

"Are you intentionally trying to ruin my restaurant?" A voice bellowed from across the room. Obviously it was some bigwig. He had always hated when they complained. He was the critic here.

"The food tastes as bland as a sheet of paper. So, I'd say it is you intentionally sabotaging my fine taste."

"Rubbish!"

"Yeah rubbish. Exactly how I would describe your food." He took a breath. "Now, get me a fine bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon!" He had to wash it down with something.

The waiter did not even hide his contempt. "Right away sir."

A minute passed. "Here you are... sir." That title came rather late.

Wafting the fine drink, he could smell the richness. This would be good. And he drank.

Nothing.

Only now did he realize.

He didn't have anything.

It was all gone. Like chewing and drinking chalk.

That Louisianian woman did something to him.

He couldn't taste anything.

But...

But...

He was the Golden Tongue.

Little background first.

Eric and Diah... Main characters.

Jules, Eric's cellmate.

Wedgewood, an ex-magistrate who sent Diah to prison for contempt of court just because he said his name (and the letters after it, given to him by the award of a medal. Naturally, Diah's decided to make his life hell in there.

It's a prison based on an Edwardianish regime, so, silence in the canteen is mandatory. (such silence used to be prison wide).

* * *

He opened the door and they followed him to the queue. Diah scanned the faces, everyone at their tables.

He prodded Julian. A sweep of the arm, a shake of the head. Julian nodded and leant against the wall.

Before long, front of the queue. Eric placed his tray, the porridge and foulest tea in the world made their way onto his and Diah stepped forward. He prodded his number.

It was a different man than last night, he looked at something under the counter, his eyes widened and he filled the bowl with something hidden again. The same with his mug. Diah sniffed it and sighed. The porridge wasn’t grey and tasteless this time. It smelled of honey. Again, coffee filled his mug.

He took a seat and nodded to the one next to him for Eric.

The moment Eric sat, Diah smirked and pointed at Eric’s mug, making a huge scowl. He waved his under Eric’s nose.

Eric smiled, pointed at his eye and outward, walked his fingers and held up two fingers.

Diah nodded and scooped a glop of his porridge, shovelling it into his mouth. He surveyed the queue. Wedgewood stood at the end. He nodded towards Jules and nodded at the end.

Jules nodded back, joining the queue behind Wedgewood.

Wedgy placed his tray, turned and scanned the room. His eyes widened when he spotted Diah. The bowl of slop and cup of stewed tea made their way to his tray and just as he picked it up and stepped away, Jules grabbed his collar.

Jules waited for his to be served and dragged Wedgewood over. Diah pointed at the chair.

Wedgewood stared in terror at Julian. His shoulders sagged, he sat and put his tray down.

Diah immediately grabbed the bowl, cleared his throat, spat, picked his nose, removing a long string of snot and stirred the lot in. He smiled and replaced it. Julian sat beside Wedgewood.

Diah returned to his own food and took a gulp of his coffee.

Wedgewood stared, again in disgust, at his food. Diah pointed and glared.

Wedgewood sat, motionless.

Again, Diah pointed.

Wedgewood stared at Julian, at Diah, at Eric, then at the porridge. He put his finger in and raised it to his mouth but shook his head, picked up the bowl and stood.

This time, Jules gripped his shoulder and forced him back onto the bench. Diah again pointed. This time, he pointed at his nose and made the palm punch gesture.

Wedgewood looked in horror at the bowl, took a handful and shoved it into his mouth. He gagged but forced it down.

Diah nodded at the bowl again and finished his, taking another swig of coffee. He remained seated watching his victim intently until he’d finished his, then glanced at Eric to see if he’d finished too.

He had, so they got up. Julian hauled Wedgewood out of his seat, picked up his tray, handed it to him and headed to the racking.

Diah and Eric followed.

Trays left, they walked out of the canteen and the moment the door slammed shut behind them Diah rounded on Wedgewood, grabbed him by the throat and rammed his head against the wall.

* * *

And... one for darkness...

* * *

He stirred, groaned and gripped his head.

He rolled over, then sat bolt upright when his hand brushed against his naked skin. He gripped his wrists, felt the smooth metal bands and a second later his hands shot to his neck in horror. To the collar.

“What the fuck is going on!?”

It was dark. Darker than pitch. So dark he couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face. As his senses returned, he noticed the lack of bedclothes, the mattress felt strange. He reached down to the side of it. It felt cold, smooth, solid. Not his bed with its springs.

Gingerly, he felt about him, his hand brushed the wall by his bed and he stroked it. “Oh, fucking hell!”

The wall was smooth, flawless. Not the painted brickwork of his cell. He swung to a sitting position and the floor felt wrong too. Cold, stone and again, smooth, almost slick as if coated in a gloss paint.

“Where the hell am I?”

He felt around the bed to the wall, he reached a corner and his foot nudged something. It was smooth, light, he picked it up and felt it. Circular, a bowl of some kind, made of a material he’d never felt before. He felt around where it had been and clutched a roll of toilet paper. The horrible, waxy prison-issue toilet paper.

“Oh my god someone’s going to die for this! Prison issue? For me!? Do they even know who they’re dealing with?”

He continued his blind exploration of his cell. Each wall, smooth, slick. At each corner, he continued. Then he stumbled onto a shelf type… thing… He felt it. His mattress.

But… This wasn’t right. With more haste this time, he felt around the cell again, much more thoroughly, every wall up and down as far as he could reach. When he got to the bottom of the fourth, one of the narrower walls, something new. A small alcove of some kind at floor level. It extended about three feet into the wall and even the edges of that, solid, smooth, plastered? Painted?

The back of the alcove had a curve to it as if it was a tube. He tried to scramble inside but that got him nowhere. It was too small for a man to fit through, he couldn’t even get his shoulders in.

He continued again and again returned to his bed.

“Where the fuck is the door?” He sank back onto the bed in terror.