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|10th Jun 2009, 10:49 PM||Prisoners #1|
Join Date: Feb 2005
Author's Note: While this short story is related to the longer story I've been working on, knowledge of the longer story is not really necessary to enjoy this.
They had finally caught up with her. After years of defacing government buildings, organizing protests and demonstrations against the government, and even taking part in the murder of several important people, they had finally caught up with her. Now, she was being led down the hall, handcuffed so tightly the metal was cutting into her wrists, her black hair handing into her face in a snarled mess, a multitude of bruises forming on her face and body. Yet, even as she was shoved into the cell, it was not a look of guilt or even anger that appeared on her pallid face, but one of bittersweet triumph and victory.
Freed, at least for the time being, of the restraints, she rubbed a slim wrist, wincing both at the pain and sight of blood slowly easing through the wounded flesh. “Political prisoner” and “terrorist” is what the newspapers would call her; yet, she wasn’t necessarily seeking revenge on the government. No, hers was a far more personal battle.
A door nearby opened, and she looked up and saw, to her astonishment, the very cause of her actions walking toward her. His Eminence Dunstan Diggory and his wife, clutching an infant, both flanked by guards, peered into the cell.
Dunstan. He looked older and more worn than when she had last seen him, but it was clear that he was still as ruthless and cruel as she remembered him to be. His light blonde hair was streaked with silver, and he wore an expensive-looking black suit. Smirking, he remarked, “Well, we’ve finally got you.”
She did not respond, but instead turned her attention to his wife. Almost skeletally thin, wearing sunglasses that could not fully hide the bruise around one eye, clad in an expensive but long-sleeved suit, despite it being the middle of summer, it was clear that she was not being treated very kindly. She did not, or perhaps could not, raised her eyes to the prisoner before her, but instead looked down at the child in her arms. The prisoner stared at the child, who, with a crop of black hair and bright blue eyes, could not have possibly been fathered by the man standing before her. She knew who had fathered the child. For the first time since she had entered the cell, she spoke. Holding a hand against the bars of the cell, she asked in a hoarse voice, “Charise, what happened to you?”
The well-dressed woman did not speak, but she lifted her hand and reached out to the scarred, bruised hand. Immediately, Dunstan yanked his wife’s hand back and barked out to the guards, “Please escort Mrs. Diggory back home. This criminal has made her upset.” He reached into his pocket and produced a key. Unlocking the cell door, he added, “The prisoner must be punished, and it would only upset Mrs. Diggory more to witness it.”
“No, I--” came the feeble reply from the thin woman.
“Don’t argue,” scolded Dunstan, opening the cell door and stepping into the small holding area. “Anyone would be upset after seeing their cousin imprisoned for such criminal behaviors.”
The prisoner shouted after the well-dressed woman, “Charise, why? Why did you choose him, even knowing what he did to me, to both of us? S loved you. You could have had him. That’s his baby, isn’t it? That's S's baby!”
At this, the woman started to turn back, but was dragged away by the guards.
“Charise, why?” the prisoner screamed.
The door slammed shut behind the woman and the guards. Dunstan stared at the prisoner, then slapped her, snapping, “That’s enough out of you!” The prisoner did not cry out or show any signs of submitting.
“You monster,” she spat out.
“No, Miss Foley, I’m afraid you are the monster,” came the reply as Dunstan pulled a syringe and bottle of clear liquid from his pocket. “You’re an enemy of the country. Are you aware of how many lives you’ve ended and ruined?”
“Nowhere near as many as you have!” came the immediate response. “It won’t be long before someone sees the real purpose of your death cult. That’s right, I called it a cult. I know what happened to the old people and the people who were a threat to you and your precious government. You and your people killed them! Of course, that’s your solution to everything-- kill everyone you can’t control, and beat down those who you can! You’ve spilled the blood of millions of innocents, Dunstan, and I was one of the first.” The woman glared at him. “You’re weak, going after people who can’t fight back. Some man you are!”
While she had been yelling at him, Dunstan was filling the syringe with the clear liquid. Now weary of her accusations, in one swift motion, he thrust the syringe into her chest and push down on the plunger. She cried out, and her body began to convulse. With the last of her strength, she cried out, “Charise!” Then, with one last convulse, she went limp.
Dunstan knelt and felt for a pulse, but found none. He smiled to himself, please. His wife, hearing the cry, rushed in and gasped in horror when she saw her cousin sprawled out on the floor.
“Lia,” she wailed, trying to reach through the bars to touch the lifeless body. She stared pleadingly at her husband. “Please,” she begged. “Please, let me in.”
“No,” Dunstan replied, rising to his feet. “I don’t want you to become infected with her… her sickness.”
As he led her away, Charise began to cry silently, but whether it was for herself or for her cousin, she was unsure.