Unarmed and Highly Dangerous

No dialogue, just a faint glimpse of an idea jotted down at least fifteen years ago that would be expanded later and improved sufficiently to gain entry into a novel. This segment is still in its raw state and was written as a First Person Narrative which would be the first thing I changed.  

Unarmed and Highly Dangerous.

No dialogue, just a faint glimpse of an idea jotted down at least fifteen years ago that would be expanded later and improved sufficiently to gain entry into a novel. This segment is still in its raw state and was written as a First Person Narrative which would be the first thing I changed.  

The restless eyes of the man they’d sent to check on me flicked to and fro. He looked like a cornered fox with the pursuing hounds approaching; thin lips clamped so tight they resembled a razor slash across his lower face. I looked at him and smiled. It didn’t appear to have much effect.

I could see only his face, but he wasn’t one of the regulars. Drafted in from one of the other blocks to help out, I assumed, as they were short-staffed. Well, that was understandable. At least three of the ones who’d put me in here last night would require hospitalisation. I remembered how one had squealed when I bit through his cheek and swallowed the bloody flesh in front of them, enraging them even more. He’d need counselling, perhaps a total rethink of his career choices; so many possibilities from one single act on my part.

The man in the corridor turned away and snapped the cover back over the small observation plate. His prominent nose was undamaged; a rarity amongst security personnel. The likelihood was that he fought with his mind rather than his fists. A talker, not a fighter. Wrong choice for this block, this corridor, this inmate. They call us inmates here. Not prisoners, although we’re confined. Not patients, although we’re all deemed incapable of being fully responsible for our actions. Inmates.

The footsteps faded away, metal doors clanged and I could just about hear the buzz of conversation that started up beyond the barred gate at the end of the corridor. More than just a routine visit then. The scent of retribution was in the air. I grinned, pressing my tongue down hard on the broken teeth at the side of my mouth, feeling the warm, coppery taste of blood. I’d waited long enough for their return.

I pictured the face of the fat guard and a sudden visceral flash of pent-up anger erupted from deep inside. I gasped like a hound on the chase, jaw clenched, balling my fists tightly. The rage evaporated almost as suddenly as it had arisen. Heart pounding and with clammy palms I fought to compose myself. When I turned back to face the door, my face was a stony mask once more.

The fat guard wouldn’t set foot in this cell. We understood each other, he and I. He feared me, with good cause. He’d be the organiser, the General sending in his troops, but he’d stay well clear of direct contact.

I understood the power of fear. On the outside, before they put me in here, before I became an inmate, I knew all about fear and had become a rich man by understanding its power. Fear was the glue that bound the group together. The greatest empires in world history had been based on a ruthless leader. I’d known from the first that the punishment for failure had to be automatic. Cause and effect with a clearly defined link between performance and reward. Loyalty and exceptional deeds would be rewarded. Every soldier knew that if he performed his duties and remained loyal to the group, the rewards would follow. The penalty for failure was draconian and with no appeal process in place.

In here, I was alone. A lone inmate standing against all the system could throw at me. It was enough. More than enough. The staff members were constrained by their rules, their system. They were obliged to feed me, care for me, and preserve my basic human rights. Weakness. The equivalent of a fight to the death where one side went into battle with both hands tied behind their back. I had no such constraints. They were never going to let me out of here and I had no limitations on my actions. Not responsible. It said so on my medical file.

The room in which I was confined was cramped. Standing at a central point, I could almost touch all four walls. Cramped, soul-less and fetid, it was also perfectly suited to repel an assault. After I killed the doctor the warders had extracted a degree of retribution. Sticks and boots had rained down, but actual damage had been minimal. That duty of care issue again. I’d expected their mood to fester overnight, was waiting for them, even with a degree of anticipation. Unfettered by official constraints I relished the prospect of battle, particularly in this small room where numerical superiority would count for little.

I stood, faced the door at a sudden clatter of heavy boots in the corridor. I composed myself, made ready, adrenalin flooding my bloodstream. I was barefoot, clad only in underclothes despite the chill air. Part of the punishment for my recent deeds. The men who sought to restrain me did not understand my motivation. The idea of murder being a source of pleasure was alien to them. I knew what they’d see when they opened the door. A man hardened in combat, my loose-limbed gait suggesting the athlete I used to be.

Large coarse hands with bony knuckles, a shiny scar like knotted rope above my right eye glimmering in the harsh artificial light, I was the scion of a barrister and a dental surgeon yet had inherited none of my parents’ sensitivity. Lacking any trace of conscience, as it so tellingly said in my file, I was officially classified as a clear and present danger. How right they were.

The door crashed back against the wall and I leapt forward, meeting the rush of uniformed men head-on as they sought to enter. Teeth bared, arms swinging, I was their worst nightmare made flesh. A man born to fight, born to kill and with the blood of battle in his veins. I wasn’t expecting to win this battle, but relished the prospect of doing significant damage, maybe even adding to my already substantial total of victims.

The restless eyes of the man they’d sent to check on me flicked to and fro. He looked like a cornered fox with the pursuing hounds approaching; thin lips clamped so tight they resembled a razor slash across his lower face. I looked at him and smiled. It didn’t appear to have much effect.

I could see only his face, but he wasn’t one of the regulars. Drafted in from one of the other blocks to help out, I assumed, as they were short-staffed. Well, that was understandable. At least three of the ones who’d put me in here last night would require hospitalisation. I remembered how one had squealed when I bit through his cheek and swallowed the bloody flesh in front of them, enraging them even more. He’d need counselling, perhaps a total rethink of his career choices; so many possibilities from one single act on my part.

The man in the corridor turned away and snapped the cover back over the small observation plate. His prominent nose was undamaged; a rarity amongst security personnel. The likelihood was that he fought with his mind rather than his fists. A talker, not a fighter. Wrong choice for this block, this corridor, this inmate. They call us inmates here. Not prisoners, although we’re confined. Not patients, although we’re all deemed incapable of being fully responsible for our actions. Inmates.

The footsteps faded away, metal doors clanged and I could just about hear the buzz of conversation that started up beyond the barred gate at the end of the corridor. More than just a routine visit then. The scent of retribution was in the air. I grinned, pressing my tongue down hard on the broken teeth at the side of my mouth, feeling the warm, coppery taste of blood. I’d waited long enough for their return.

I pictured the face of the fat guard and a sudden visceral flash of pent-up anger erupted from deep inside. I gasped like a hound on the chase, jaw clenched, balling my fists tightly. The rage evaporated almost as suddenly as it had arisen. Heart pounding and with clammy palms I fought to compose myself. When I turned back to face the door, my face was a stony mask once more.

The fat guard wouldn’t set foot in this cell. We understood each other, he and I. He feared me, with good cause. He’d be the organiser, the General sending in his troops, but he’d stay well clear of direct contact.

I understood the power of fear. On the outside, before they put me in here, before I became an inmate, I knew all about fear and had become a rich man by understanding its power. Fear was the glue that bound the group together. The greatest empires in world history had been based on a ruthless leader. I’d known from the first that the punishment for failure had to be automatic. Cause and effect with a clearly defined link between performance and reward. Loyalty and exceptional deeds would be rewarded. Every soldier knew that if he performed his duties and remained loyal to the group, the rewards would follow. The penalty for failure was draconian and with no appeal process in place.

In here, I was alone. A lone inmate standing against all the system could throw at me. It was enough. More than enough. The staff members were constrained by their rules, their system. They were obliged to feed me, care for me, and preserve my basic human rights. Weakness. The equivalent of a fight to the death where one side went into battle with both hands tied behind their back. I had no such constraints. They were never going to let me out of here and I had no limitations on my actions. Not responsible. It said so on my medical file.

The room in which I was confined was cramped. Standing at a central point, I could almost touch all four walls. Cramped, soul-less and fetid, it was also perfectly suited to repel an assault. After I killed the doctor the warders had extracted a degree of retribution. Sticks and boots had rained down, but actual damage had been minimal. That duty of care issue again. I’d expected their mood to fester overnight, was waiting for them, even with a degree of anticipation. Unfettered by official constraints I relished the prospect of battle, particularly in this small room where numerical superiority would count for little.

I stood, faced the door at a sudden clatter of heavy boots in the corridor. I composed myself, made ready, adrenalin flooding my bloodstream. I was barefoot, clad only in underclothes despite the chill air. Part of the punishment for my recent deeds. The men who sought to restrain me did not understand my motivation. The idea of murder being a source of pleasure was alien to them. I knew what they’d see when they opened the door. A man hardened in combat, my loose-limbed gait suggesting the athlete I used to be.

Large coarse hands with bony knuckles, a shiny scar like knotted rope above my right eye glimmering in the harsh artificial light, I was the scion of a barrister and a dental surgeon yet had inherited none of my parents’ sensitivity. Lacking any trace of conscience, as it so tellingly said in my file, I was officially classified as a clear and present danger. How right they were.

The door crashed back against the wall and I leapt forward, meeting the rush of uniformed men head-on as they sought to enter. Teeth bared, arms swinging, I was their worst nightmare made flesh. A man born to fight, born to kill and with the blood of battle in his veins. I wasn’t expecting to win this battle, but relished the prospect of doing significant damage, maybe even adding to my already substantial total of victims.