text: It had been a week since the screaming had stopped. He was not grateful for that fact, as his neighbours ear piercing wails were the only thing helping him keep track of time down here. The walls of his cell were closed tightly around him so he could not move and, with the exception of what could struggle through the barred trap door sitting well above him, it was pitch black. He couldn’t see or move. He could smell just fine, but the only stench that penetrated the all encompassing wall of darkness around him was heavy rot and whatever bits of his waste didn’t dribble all the way down to the open pipe at his feet. Food came at random. Water came from condensation on the dirty walls, which he was grateful he couldn’t see properly since it allowed him to tune out any thoughts as to what he was tasting when he dragged his tongue along them. He still missed the screams though. He had, at some point before now, had a name. He had a home as well, and a job. That went away when he was sentenced. Harold Jacob Cobb, sentenced for three murders. Sentenced forever to the dark cells under the lords fortress. He was justified, he told them. The three he killed had been his property, that being his wife and children, therefore he should have been allowed to do it. Encouraged even, since his wife, the damned bitch, had been sleeping around. She denied it but Harold knew. Harold knew and she did too, and she would tell after he started yanking pieces. She never did, that’s why he was sentenced. Harold knew. He always knew. The trap door above him creaks open. He can’t even look up before slop is poured onto his head, his scalp cracked and dusty from previous maltreatment. If it had been done earlier he would have been furious, indignant even. Now, he just knew that now as feeding time so he scrabbled around with his clawing hands for anything he could reach as the trapdoor bangs shut overhead. When he finds something, a moist ball of meat, he stuffs it into his mouth greedily. How long since he’d last been fed? One week? Two weeks? When did the screaming stop again? He couldn’t remember anymore. Couldn’t remember his job or the names of his family either. He remembered what he did to his wife and that memory serves him well down here. He remembers the kids, how there throats broke under his thumbs, and whatever joy he received is transformed into grief. He needs to see them again. They can’t be dead, he never intended that. Harold knows he never meant to hurt them so badly. That’s why he needs to keep thin. Can’t eat too much or he can’t slide up the dirty walls of his cell. He can feel grief transform into something else as something like laughter wheezes through his lips. No more screaming. Just laughter. George hates his job. Hates listening the gibberish animals he has to feed. Hates going down to the dark cells because all the rich folk are to focused on their games. It pays, and he wishes it didn’t because he wants an excuse to leave. All there is to it. When he passes by that screaming blokes cell, he almost smiles. Finally rid of him and his shouting. At least the others knew to shut up. He didn’t even have them screaming their names up at him, just let him say what he liked. Screamer called himself Allen Wesley. George didn’t care. Fella next to him, he knew that one without any words, so his ease hardens into agitation when he gets to the WifeKiller. He doesn’t need to feed him, just has to watch him. The dirty fucker. Everyone knows what he did. No cause for it no matter what he said. Evelyn Cobb wasn’t the type to act how he said she did. George snorts through his nose at the mere thought of it. He stares down through the dirty, rusted bars at where WifeKiller oughta be. He’s not there. For a moment, George just stares at it, that empty spot centred with an open pipe slick with smeared shit. His mind doesn’t kick in to gear until a thought crosses his mind, that being of what may happen to him when this gets out. After that his brain is lobbing questions fast and hard at him as he scrambles to open up the trapdoor. The questions are all jumbled up and mush mouthed, going through procedures and scenarios and death fantasies that culminate when he has the door of the dark cell open wide enough that the man behind him starts pushing against his back. Where is he?! Gravity is dragging him down in the next moment, whatever minuscule light was hitting his eyes disappears as the shit pipe at the bottom of the dark cell meets the crown of his head. He can feel the moist walls beside him as he braces to stop himself, and he does only after he’s fully inside. He couldn’t even scream during the ordeal with how sudden it was. He didn’t scream even as he felt the funnelled opening of the shit pipe brush his temples before stopping abruptly. When the trap door above him clattered shut. That was when he started screaming. George screamed himself hoarse down there, upside down in the dark cell, the only ones hearing it long forgotten save one. The man who had once been called Harold Jacob Cobb, but who now held the name of WifeKiller. He tottered away on stick legs toward the light of the open door. He would see his kids, who Harold knew were still alive and not buried in the local cemetery, side by side with their dear mother Evelynn. He’d find them if he had to burn the whole city down, the whole country. He pressed on up those stairs, ignoring the begging of George no matter how much of it there was. Cobb was up the stairs and out the door long before the man in the dark cell would ever stop screaming.