Page 1 of Brainwashed
Idon’t necessarily believe inGod, nor have I ever believed in divine intervention.
But from the moment I laid eyes on Kieran O’Malley, I knew I was meant to kill him.
What set him apart from my other victims, you might ask?
Nothing in particular. He was a ruthless criminal, just like me. Maybe he didn’t suffer from the same afflictions… Maybe his tastes varied from my own. In fact, I know they did.
Because he did something to damn himself to this insufferable hellhole they call Alabaster Penitentiary that I wouldneverdo. Something betweenmycrimes and which I draw a non-negotiable line. Something that segregates him from those of us who wereborn this way, and those who take a different kind of insurmountable pleasure from killing.
He murdered the innocent. Achild.
In that way, I suppose he’s similar to many of my others. He was like most of the depraved lunatics who met my blade, in that he couldn’t control himself when it came to those who couldn’t defend themselves.
I’m not sure I believe thatconscience, or some minute form of empathy, is what separates me from them. There are people who do believe that… I’d certainly like to agree with them, but I’ve never been one to necessarily upend myself from what I’ve done.
Idoknow, however, that there isn’t a great deal of sport in killing someone who hasn’t even developed fully yet, cognitively and such. What does the Bible say, again? When I was a child, I spoke like a child, acted as one.
Still not religious. I’ve just read a lot.
No, what made Kieran O’Malley a different sort of kill for me was thehowof the matter.
The reasonwhyI wasableto kill him.
I’d only been residing in Alabaster Pen for four days before I met him. For some reason, the Warden made the decision to keep me separate from the rest of the inmates, but I don’t think it was necessarily because I’m more dangerous. It was almost as if he was keeping me on a pedestal; like a shiny new treasure, to be held in its own vault. And since I’m no simpleton, it didn’t make me feel special. It pissed me the fuck off.
I’ve always valued human interaction, though I’ll be the first to admit I’m not very good at it. Still, I’ve spent my life chasing it, like an overbearing, needy adolescent, and when I finally catch some, I usually end up squeezing too hard.
But that’s not the point we’re making right now.
I hate being alone, and my curse is that I always end up that way, especially now that I’m on this desolate island; loneliness personified.
I always assumed I’d end up in prison someday, but never in my wildest nightmares could I have anticipated a place like this. And because of the media circus surrounding me in my final days of freedom, I stepped into Alabaster Penitentiary like the new kid who just moved to town. The one with areputation.
All the other inmates were immediately itching to prove themselves around me. Prove they were harder, or more dangerous, I suppose. Maybe they wanted to impress me. Who’s to say? But it made my first few days here quite interesting.
One morning, I was dragged up from my private cell to the main cafeteria for breakfast. The guard yanking me along was gentle in his ways, which I had to appreciate. He was a large, rather attractive fellow. And he smelled good. I remember leaning in closer to him, stealing whiffs of his scent, peeking up at the mussy strands of golden hair, the darkness of his blue eyes, almost black in the unflattering light.
I was so busy staring at him that I barely even noticed all the commotion in the room at my arrival. Until he was using his large body to block me from sudden danger that pulled me swiftly out of my daze.
Inmates were jumping up and dashing toward me, screaming and hollering. It was a big mess.
I couldn’t help the smirk that settled on my lips as the giant, tattooed blonde man shielded me, giving me even more opportunities to sniff him, and feel his muscles grazing various parts of my body.
I felt like a celebrity. The attention went to my head fast, and I had to close my eyes to remind myself of the truth.
They don’t really love you, Felix. They’re pretending.
They want to hurt you. They all do.
A few of the other guards rushed over to contain the wayward inmates. And then the biggest guy, the one in charge—I now know him quite well as Officer Chevelle—commanded the room with a voice booming louder than thunder, Glock in hand, probably ready to shoot the next person who made a move.
That person was Kieran O’Malley.
But he wasn’t rushing over to me the same way the other animals were. Rather, he tackled the inmate closest to him, pouncing on him while throwing blow after blow to his face, before anyone could even react.
I remember being stunned at how quickly his fists moved. Rapid-fire punches swung from his arms like the wings of a hummingbird, a sick smile never leaving his face. It was fascinating.
By the time a different guard was hauling him to his feet, he had a Taser pressed to his neck. The shocks instantly racked his body as he seized and twitched, my wide eyes stuck on him in awe.
