inferno | 18+

I

"Et Tu, Brute?"
- William Shakespeare

ZAKARIA

They say when one of your senses is taken away, the others heighten. Is freedom a sense? He locked me up here 123 days ago. I haven't seen sunlight in that specific amount of days, haven't felt the fresh wind run through my hair. I haven't been able to light a cigarette for that amount of time. I look around in my room, looking at the floor that's scattered in books. Ernest Hemmingway. William Shakespeare. Jane Austen. Something old. Something that keeps me from connecting to the real world. Something that gives them the certainty that I'll remain insane, in this cage like an animal.

The door opens, and my eyes are instantly dragged up to the woman that dares set her foot inside my room. I observe her, letting my eyes fall down on her figure. She allows me to drink her in, every curve of her body, every strike on her face, every visible scar I am able to detect. The ring on her finger. A plain gold one. I would have bought such a beauty, a diamond. She wears her nude heels with confidence, and clings to her clipboard, as if that little piece of wood will keep her safe from me. I laugh. She narrows her beautiful brown eyes at me, and I instantly want her to keep looking at me, with something that looks like pure hatred.

Oh, how I love hatred.

She doesn't say anything, and I don't know if I want her to break the comfortable silence. She shifts in her stance, and moves her weight from her left leg to her right. I can't even think about hiding the utter amusement on my face. She finally looks at my floor, as if she's been giving herself a pep talk in her head before so. I follow her eyes and look down, at what used to be my floor. I look down at all the ripped out pages, I've scattered on the floor.

"Pages in a book are cells that are prisoning the words," I sound out, and a gasp nearly hacks in her throat. I can't stop the smirk that's urging its way out of me. I incline my head at her, "What's your name, angel?"

"It's Mrs. Baqri," she answers, her voice as angelic as her face.

"Your first name," I press. "Please," I add when I see her hesitate.

"Lilith," she answers. I laugh a short laugh, which causes her to scrunch her brows at me.

"Your last name," I tell her, getting up from my bed. "It's Azeri, no? Lilith Baqri?" I continue before I'm standing right infront of her face. "A beauty such as yours would have caught my attention before. Don't be ashamed of your ethnicity," -I turn my back to her, letting a smile come on my lips- "I, after all, have no right to judge."

"Devina," I finally hear her voice utter, and I close my eyes, letting her name savour on my tongue. Devina, I say out loud, testing it. I turn to her again, seeing an expression on her face that brings me nothing but joy.

Fear.

"What brings you here, Devina?"

She takes a look in my room, as if she is astonished to be inside of an insane man's room. It takes a full minute before she's looking at me. Really looking at me. "Your brother- Elijah Christ-"

A laugh edges out of me, and I feel her become less confident. "They already tried, doll. Matilda? She almost went insane by being here for too long." I feel myself walk closer to her. "I wouldn't want to waste such a beauty's breath, would I?" I ask rhetorically, and she takes a deep breath and holds it.

"Mr. Christ, I was sent here not to chit-chat with you about my co-workers, but to-"

"To what?" I cut her off once more, rather aggressively this time. "To fix me? Well, here's the thing sugar, there is no fixing me. I kidnapped my brother's girlfriend, in hope of making her fall hopelessly in love with me, I killed an infant, and much more. I am not a good guy, underneath all these layers, so stop wasting your breath, and tell my brother to go to hell!"

She studies me, before taking a look down at her shoes. "I thought you told Ms. Moore, you didn't kill your baby brother?" she asks, and I take a step back going through everything I just told her.

"I didn't," I whisper underneath my breath.

I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him.

I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him.

"I believe you," she finally says. "In fact, Mr. Christ, I believe you more than you might think, more than anyone on the other side of that door might. You never killed the baby, because he wasn't real. Your subconsciousness made him up, and why, I sadly do not know, but I am willing to find out if only you will let me get to know you-"

My hand goes around her throat faster than I'd ever imagined, and the clipboard falls to the floor, as she tries to claw my hands off her.

"Who are you," I grit out.

"Devina Baqri," she chokes.

"If I was you, Devina, I would grab that handy-dandy clipboard of yours, run for that door, and never come back in here. Because if I see your face in here ever again, I will take my sweet time killing you. And I'll smile as I do so. Are we clear?" I say, and she barely manages to nod before I let her go.

She does as suggested; grabs her clipboard, runs for the door, and doesn't look back.