Page 7 of Dangerous Beginnings

Unknown

The clock drags toward noon, but in this forsaken place, it might as well be midnight. The cell is a relentless icebox, the chill seeping into my bones and mingling with the cacophony of maddening noises that pierce through the oppressive silence. My body is exhausted, but sleep remains a distant memory, pushed away by the relentless voices gnawing at my sanity. The darkness here is not just outside; it festers within, an ever-present, suffocating force.

I know she’ll be working tonight, and the thought of her fuels a dangerous anticipation. It stirs something primal within me, something I can barely control. This cell, this confinement—it’s a bitter mockery of the freedom I crave. I’m trapped, a caged beast seething with rage, and I fucking hate it.

The capture was a blunder, a grotesque error on their part. They have no inkling of who I am, no grasp of the chaos I can unleash. That night, the line between control and madness blurred—I was high on cocaine, a reckless abandon leading meinto my downfall. They know nothing about the man behind the façade, just a faceless stranger with no past, no future. I’m biding my time, waiting for the moment my patience—something that rarely lasts—snaps.

Empathy is a weakness I can’t afford. It’s a death sentence, a grave dug by your own hand. To care for another is to invite ruin. I exploit everyone who crosses my path, using them as steppingstones before erasing them from existence. This is who I was molded to be, who I was taught to be. My upbringing was a crucible of brutality.

Here, in this frozen cell, I am a product of my past—a cold, relentless force waiting for the opportune moment to break free and reclaim my place in the world of shadows.

Isabella

With roughly three hours of sleep, I am woken up by my alarm. It’s pitch-black outside and cold, that does not motivate me to get up. I drag myself out of bed and immediately put warm clothes on, I make my bag and walk over to my tiny kitchen. I seriously need to get groceries; I am out of almost everything.

Sometimes I wonder how I am still alive with the way I barely take care of myself. The only thing left in the fridge is a little bit of leftover lasagna, and since it’s the middle of the night I decide to just snack on an apple I find. I take my vitamin pills and fill a bottle with water. I try to make myself look a little less dead, but my makeup skills are horrible, so I just put on some mascara. I then brush my hair and teeth. I check if the lights are out and lock the door, then run to my car and almost slip on some ice. I am, as usual, almost too late again. I start the car and drive off, the usual 20-minute drive.

When I arrive, I see Lea, she arrives at the same time as me. We don’t always work shifts together at the same time, but tonight we do.

“Hi, Lea!” I smile and wave at her as I lock my car. She walks over to me and gives me a smile in return.

“Hi! A long night ahead again,” she sighs as we walk inside. We chat a little bit before entering the steel doors of the prison. We are followed by a few other colleagues as we walk towards the open space, meeting Nick there. He is already standing up greeting us.

As we all gather around Nick, he starts to explain the schedule for tonight.

“Good evening, ladies and gents, tonight we have a few inmates who need to be nursed. We also have one inmate whose stitches opened again; Lea you are on that.” Nick says as he points at Lea. She returns him a nod as Nick continues the explanation of tonight’s schedule.

Nick’s gaze settles on me as he issues the evening’s instructions.

“Isabella, tonight you’re responsible for checking in on cell block 1, covering cells 1 through 5. Ensure that the inmates are healing properly and attend to those who are recovering in the hospital wing, as well as those who have been returned to their cells. We need to monitor their progress for about two weeks to confirm that their recovery is on track.”

I nod, feeling the weight of the task settle on my shoulders. The responsibility is substantial, especially for someone new like me. Still, with the current understaffing, it’s clear that my efforts are essential. “Lea will join you once she’s done with her duties,” Nick adds with a reassuring smile. “I have confidence in your abilities.”

His faith in me is encouraging, and I appreciate his trust as I prepare to tackle the evening’s duties. As Nick completes the schedule, we all head to the changing rooms. I slip into my scrubs and grab the notepad Nick has given me, a document meticulously designed with questions to assess the inmates’well-being.

I start with cell 1, observing Dimitri, who has been incarcerated for over a year. His file indicates that his release isn’t imminent. I complete the notepad’s queries as I peer through the small viewing hole. Each inmate has specific questions to address, and for the most part, I can fulfill these without entering their cells.

I work my way through the first four cells with relative ease. When I reach cell 5, a wave of apprehension washes over me. The dread I feel at the thought of this particular inmate is palpable. I swallow hard, the taste of coffee from earlier still fresh on my tongue. The notepad indicates no questions for this cell—only a note:Check his wounds, do not talk.

The sense of foreboding grows stronger as I approach cell 5. The guards offer sympathetic nods, their pity not doing much to alleviate my anxiety. One of them steps inside the cell to secure the inmate with handcuffs before unlocking the door for me.

An icy draft greets me as the door creaks open. The cell is noticeably colder than the others, and the bed inside is as uncomfortable as it looks—an archaic relic that seems to have been salvaged from another era. The man on the bed, hunched with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands cuffed in front of him, is the embodiment of menace.

As the guard exits and the door clangs shut behind me, the atmosphere inside the cell becomes suffocating. The only escape is the panic button at my side. I take a deep breath, attempting to quell the rising tide of fear, and address the man.

I steel myself, knowing that the sooner I complete my task, the sooner I can leave. I approach the bed, my eyes drawn to his hands—inked with tattoos, the skin marred and raw.

Crouching down to examine his wounds more closely, my heart sinks. The stitches have torn open, and the cuts are inflamed and festering. “Fuck,” I mutter, the expletive escapingbefore I can stop it.

The moment the word leaves my lips, his piercing green eyes lock onto mine. Despite having never met him before, I feel an overwhelming chill—a primal, visceral fear that seems to confirm my darkest suspicions. The man’s gaze is as cold and unfeeling as it is intense, and in that instant, I understand that true evil is not the stuff of fairy tales but embodied in the man before me.

Chapter 4

We Are All Sinners

Diable

Eyes, eyes everywhere. I have eyes beyond these walls, eyes that watch her every move. The stitches on my wounds didn’t tear by accident; they festered of their own accord, a small advantage in my favor.

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