Ishmael’s Prison

An abuser cannot control his own actions towards his victim. He hopes to save her and looks for redemption, but the gods look down upon him as an unworthy. (Written for the Prisoner’s Prisoner Prompt)

She lays on the matted cot, frayed and sullied with aged dust. Recognition plays in her eyes as she hears my even footsteps ridding the remaining distance between us. 

Her figure tenses and straightens. Cautiousness, I understand. It is necessary when dealing with me, the Ishmael of the gods. 

My shadow engulfs her figure and the limited light does nothing to qualm her worries. 

I do not pride myself on my EQ, yet I can see her fear. There is no other interpretation. Her eyes have widened, and there is a mild shaking to go with her slight frame. Petrified and unable to make a sound. 

I am expressionless and stolid in my continuous approach. I understand the logical motion is to bring comfort. Yet, I make no move to bring a cup of calming tea or a blanket. 

I am the terror which haunts her dreams. There is no doubt in my mind. 

She is my only confidant. A person I can trust. Who could not turn her head away in distaste; If only for fear of my temper. One who listens to my nonsensical mutterings with no comment. 

I clear my throat, the sound echoes through the basement. She inches away subconsciously. 

A sense of foreboding lingers in the air, but it is not mutual. I feel cathartic, an opportunity to reveal my true feelings about the world. 

“I hate this great cesspool we call modern life!” 

The sounds cuts through this tense silence and hurts her ears, but I do not lower my volume. 

I need to get this out, a preventative measure for display of such uncouthly behavior in front of my coworkers. 

I garner no response, but she is afraid. Yet again, my rage at the world is directed at her, and she has no way out. 

“We are a backwards race, the reliance on phones and lack of appreciation for the world is revolting! Not even the Neanderthals were such conceited creatures!” 

The anger continues to ignite in my blood. The need to hurt courses through my brain. It is the only way to put a stop. I slap her harshly. It echoes loudly in the stark basement. 

I wish I could take her pain away. Perhaps it is less cruel to put an end to her misery, and let her Rest In Peace.

“I’m sorry.” 

It is only a whisper, but I am sure she heard it. She turns away. 

It is silent, but I hear a dirge in my head. The lament of desolation. 

She cannot escape. It is not as if she hasn’t tried. She has broken, as they all do after such abuse. She has been banished in a prison of my own creation, an unpredictable darkness countering even the diabolic misery of the Hadalpelagic zone. 

It is as if my soul is a reincarnation of Loviatar. The only one possessing mirthless enough to spread a plague like the Black Death to such innocence, as I have done to her.

But is is not as if I don’t understand her pain. I too am a prisoner, both victim and abuser. The mind of Lucifer guides my very being. 

I cannot stop. I cannot cleanse my hands nor atone for my sins. 

I dream of fitting into society, to live amidst a world of unhinged souls without a second thought, but I cannot. 

There is no hope for redemption. 

Perhaps in the scheme of eternity, the gods may shine a divine light upon the pure, when the supreme deity casts a grace upon the truthful and loyal. 

Perhaps when my corrupt soul bearing crime and atrocity in my name is sent to decay in the blazing fires of hell. 

Only then, if she has not fallen too far, can she live. 

Author's Note

This story was fascinating to write. A Prisoner’s prisoner is a great prompt. Hope you enjoy!

Reviews

[Vertigo Cat1111]

This was so fun and interesting to read. A really deep, excellently written story. The words you use express so much emotion without needing to say it. The way you write I noticed, seems so professional and like an older, classic book, it's very refreshing to read!

'I am the terror which haunts her dreams. There is no doubt in my mind.'

This is a very chilling, extremely well-written line. You wrote the perspective so well, and so is the last line. We get a feel for these two and still, even in the perspective of the abuser, he's still despicable and he knows it. We all know it and if only he would give himself a chance to get better. I hope I get to see more of your writing!