Ficool

Chapter 5 - Chapter 5: 8 Years of Suffering (5)

Chapter 5: 8 Years of Suffering (5)

The cell smelled of iron and sweat again, a sharp, metallic tang that mixed with the faint rot of old blood baked into the concrete. The sound of flesh hitting flesh cracked through the stale air like a whip, followed by a muffled grunt and a heavy thud that shook the thin mattress on the bunk. Edgar Munsen stood over a man sprawled on the floor—another inmate, his face a swollen, unrecognizable mess of bruises and cuts. Blood pooled beneath his head, trickling slow toward the rusted drain in thin red lines, snaking across the grit-covered floor.

Edgar flexed his bruised knuckles, the skin split and stinging, but his breathing stayed steady, even, like the eye of a storm. His gray eyes stared down at the body, flat and unblinking. "Try stealing my fucking food again," he muttered, the words low and edged with ice. Then he glanced at the still form, the chest no longer rising, and let out a cold, rasping laugh that bounced off the walls. "Oh, right. You're already dead. HAHAHAHAHAHA!" The sound was hollow, jagged, pulling from somewhere deep and broken, echoing in the narrow space until it faded into the hum of the lights.

He wiped his hands on the dead man's shirt, the fabric rough and damp under his palms, smearing the blood like it was nothing more than spilled ink. He turned when a guard appeared by the bars, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the dim like a lazy cigarette glow, swinging slow across the scene.

"Hey, Munsen," the guard called, his voice half-amused, half-wary, like he was talking to a dog that might bite. He leaned against the bars, peering in with a squint. "Warden wants you in the dining hall. It's his birthday bash tonight. Also—congrats, man. You're officially free tomorrow. All cleared, innocent and everything." He paused, a smirk tugging at his mouth, though his eyes flicked nervous to the body. "Well, except for, you know… the guys you killed. Including those Crips who—uh—the ones who messed with you six years ago. Guess nobody's crying for them. Hell, some might even throw a party."

Edgar said nothing, his gaze unreadable, fixed on the guard like he was sizing up another meal. The silence stretched, heavy, making the guard shift his weight.

The guard continued anyway, trying for casual, like they were old pals swapping stories. "Anyway, hurry up before the others eat everything. Heard the warden went big this year—beer on tap, roast pig turning slow over the fire, even hired some prostitutes to keep things lively. Oh, and don't worry, as usual, he got one for you too. Special delivery, just like last time."

Edgar let out a quiet snort, the sound dry and without humor, his lips barely moving. "Copy that. Tell the warden I don't need a prostitute. The last one he sent was a crazy bitch—screaming and scratching like it was her job." His tone was flat, detached, like he was reading off a list of supplies. "Tell him I don't need any 'relief' this time. Just help me get rid of this body. And make it quick."

The guard hesitated, his smirk fading as he grimaced at the sight on the floor, the blood still spreading lazy. Then he sighed, heavy and resigned, like this was just another Tuesday. "Alright, alright." He stepped closer to the bars, careful not to look too long at the corpse, his boots scuffing the floor. "Man, you really don't mess around. One wrong look and boom—lights out."

Edgar's voice dropped lower, a rumble that made the guard straighten. "Hey, where's the rope I asked for this afternoon? Give it to me. Now."

The guard blinked, caught off guard, then reached into his jacket pocket with a fumble. "Here." He handed it through the bars—coarse hemp, coiled tight and rough, smelling faintly of dust and warehouse. "But uh, what do you need it for? You thinking of offing yourself or you want to make this guy look like he did it? Hang him up like a warning sign?"

Edgar's eyes met his, cold as stone, unyielding, pinning the guard in place. "None of your business. Now hurry up before I do to you what I did to that fucker. You want to join him on the floor?"

The guard swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like a cork. "Alright, alright! Damn, man." He forced a nervous laugh, high and shaky, stepping back a pace, his hand twitching toward his baton but not daring to grab it. "Your temper's getting worse every day—ever since your family showed up with their crying act. And that attorney, all prim and proper. Oh, and that hot blonde chick—goddamn, she was fine, curves like—If I wasn't on duty—" He stopped himself cold at Edgar's glare, the words dying fast. "Never mind. Let's just, uh, take care of this mess. Then maybe you can cool off before the warden's party, yeah? He doesn't want you blowing up on his birthday, starting a riot or some shit."

Edgar gave a slow nod, his face a mask. "Fine."

Together, they dragged the dead inmate toward the back of the block, the body heavy and limp, heels scraping trails in the dust. The guard muttered curses under his breath—low swears about the weight, the smell, the hassle—while Edgar stayed silent, his grip firm, his thoughts somewhere else entirely, churning like dark water. 'Freedom tomorrow,' he thought, the word tasting like ash. When the task was done—body dumped in the shadowed corner where no one would look till morning—the guard wiped his hands on his pants and clapped Edgar on the shoulder, too quick, too light. "See you at the party, Beast. Try to smile or something." He left with a mumble, the door clanging shut behind him.

---

That night, the prison was alive with noise, a rare pulse of life in the dead stone. Laughter boomed from the dining hall, rough and slurred, mixed with tinny music from a battered radio and the echo of bottles clinking like cheap toasts. Celebration for a man who ruled the cage with a grin and a gun—the warden's birthday, marked by extra smokes and blind eyes turned to the chaos. The guards were drunk already, sloshing beer from red plastic cups, their shouts blending with the inmates' restless cheers. Somewhere beyond those high walls, fireworks cracked the sky in distant pops, painting the night with fleeting colors no one inside could see.

But in Cell 9B, there was only silence, thick and pressing, broken now and then by the faint drip from the sink.

Edgar sat on his bunk, the rope coiled beside him like a sleeping snake. His eyes traced the ceiling cracks, then the small hook he'd fashioned weeks ago from stolen scrap metal—bent and hammered in secret, strong enough to hold. Freedom was waiting for him tomorrow, they said—his name cleared on paper, his sins against the law erased like chalk in rain. But the word "freedom" had become nothing but another kind of prison, a hollow promise for a man already dead inside, carrying the weight of two broken lives.

He stood slowly, the bunk creaking under his shift, and dragged the wobbly stool beneath the beam. His hands worked with quiet precision as he tied the knot, fingers threading the coarse rope with the same care he once gave to spreadsheets and reports—the life of a man who had once believed the world was fair, who trusted smiles and handshakes. Now those hands were scarred, steady from years of survival, looping the noose tight and sure.

He looked around the cell one last time—the gray walls that had become his world, scarred with scratches from desperate nails; the cold floor that had held his tears in the dark nights, his blood from the beatings, his rage in the quiet ones. The thin blanket, threadbare and stained. The sink, dripping its endless rhythm. "At least this time," he whispered, his voice trembling but steady, rough from disuse, "I decide when it ends."

He slipped the noose around his neck, the coarse fibers rough against his skin, biting into the scars there. The air was still, heavy with the scent of bleach and finality. For a moment, he almost smiled—not with peace, but with the satisfaction of final control, a small victory in a game that had stolen everything else.

Then he kicked the stool.

The rope snapped taut with a sharp creak. His body jerked hard, convulsed against the pull, legs kicking air. The world began to fade—colors draining from the edges, sound thinning into a distant roar. His lungs burned like fire; his heartbeat slowed to a thudding echo. As darkness crept in, slow and inevitable, memories flooded sharp and unbidden: his parents' tears turning to silence, his boss's apology cracking under his slap, the faces of those who had betrayed both Edgar Munsen and Kaizer von Heldmort—the heroine's weeping condemnation, the prince's cold order, the guillotine's shadow.

With the last of his breath, he forced the words from his throat, ragged and venomous, each one a blade flung into the void:

"I curse everyone who made me suffer!!! I curse my family, my boss who didn't believe me! I curse those people who looked at me with disgust! I curse the world that destroyed me! And I curse those who betrayed me in my first transmigration and second life as Kaizer! I CURSE THEM ALL!!! I CURSE THEM ALL!!! I CURSE THEM ALL!!!"

His voice cracked into silence, the final echo swallowed by the cell.

The stool lay overturned on its side. The cell hung quiet, save for the faint sound of celebration echoing through distant walls—laughter, music, and the sound of the living, unaware that one of their ghosts had finally found his own release.

More Chapters