The man crouched alone in his locked room, darkness consuming the contents of it eerily as a soft, manic laugh escaped the thin scarlet lips of his. His eyes lay beneath his hair, the malice hidden from view. Before him laid an open journal, its tattered and bloodstained pages smeared in an unkempt scrawl which made up his handwriting. In bright crimson red, its words seemed to waltz. Of how that man had killed his wife. How he tortured him. A torn photograph of his wife lay tucked crisply beside the entry, the figure mutilated and marred.
“No…please..” he moaned, recollecting on the incident.
It was a grisly sight, being forced to watch as his beloved wife was tortured and killed slowly, unable to even move from his seat, bound onto it. He was a loving a husband and did no harm to anyone, yet there he was, helpless as he watched his wife’s life slip away, murdered by a man he didn’t even know.
His ears were grated upon with horrendous screams of mercy and agony, his eyes coerced upon the view of a butchered lady he once recognised, her soft and angelic complexion scarred entirely, pleading for hope. Hot tears bathed his cheeks as he arduously tried to writhe himself free from the binds which held him strongly, to no avail. His wife, her figure too gruesome to look at, engraved a picture which was not to be forgotten in his mind so readily. The fingers on her gentle hands which once held him were gone, headless stubs taking their place.
As the man brushed a finger across his face, he felt a scar, one left by the cold-blooded killer. It stretched from his lips, marring his face completely. He remembered the searing hot blade slicing gleefully across his cheeks, agonising him thoroughly under a slow, epic torment which altered his mind forever.
Whip marks and deep wounds coated his body, making the widowed man wince in extreme pain with each step, the angry wound oozing out scarlet blood, sending him further in agony.
He could not remember what happened after the incident. His memories were now distant and selective. Each night, he woke up, drenched in cold beads of perspiration, the vision of his wife appearing again and again. His ears were always filled with the unheard pitiful pleas of mercy and help from her.
The man was a shadow of his former self. His steps were increasingly slow and paced, his state dishevelled beyond description. All that could be deciphered from his slurred speech were the utterings of his wife, attracting sympathetic looks from others.
The ill man turned away from the journal, his unstable thoughts preoccupying him. He looked through the cold, unyielding grey bars which provided him the only light source in the room. Before him, he watched as white coats hurried to and fro across the linoleum corridor, passing other rooms like his. The sickly, overpowering stench of blood stained his jacket, his arms restrained by it. He was never going to be released. A soft, silent mournful cry sounded through the halls as the man lay on his bed, surrounded by stained messages which littered his cell walls.