The memory of freedom

'What do you remember of being free?

The team of men and women around me shuffle forward, eager to hear my answer and I sigh. It's like this every night, each day a different person is chosen to recount their lives before they were thrown into this hellhole for good. I guess now it's my turn.

'Not much,' I answer, not wanting to delve into the memories I have.

'Come on, you must have something you can tell us'. It's the same man who asked the question in the first place. Little does he know, by being the one to speak, he's stuck himself at the top of my Death List. Which, by the way, is a literal list of people I want to kill.

'There's nothing.' That I want to say... to remember.

Without looking up from the ground where I sit, knees curled up to my well-muscled chest, I know that the man and possibly a few others have rolled their eyes. This only infuriates me even more and I glance up for a second, my eyes narrowed as I scan them through the crowd.

You, and you, and you. You're all going to die.

Three more for the Death List, the ones who think I'm being ridiculous. But no, they're the ridiculous ones, the ones who want to remember.

'All of us have told our stories, boy,' the old man says. 'We're not going to judge you. You don't have to be afraid of us.'

My lips turn up into a sneer and the small rumble of a chuckle escapes me as he finishes his sentences, and I move the line of my vision so that our eyes meet. 'Afraid?' I repeat. 'You think I'm afraid of you?' Incredulous. I suppose that's the word to describe how I'm feeling.

And amused.

The man falters a little, I can see it in his eyes. 'Well, I-'

'Assumed I was weak? Oh yes, you think I'm the harmless little boy, scared out of my wits being dumped in here with all the big adults, alone away from my family.' I laugh, although there's no humour in the tone. 'You're all practically a church group. "Let's all be together and pray for better things. Share your life story, boy", I mimic bitterly, feeling disappointed by the people around me, all of them looking wary but still obviously not grasping fully my true nature. The nature of a killer.

'Leave me alone.'

This time they back off, returning to what is, as I said, practically, a church group. A church Group in a place like this. I doubt many of them were religious before they got here, in fact I'd be willing to bet that the only reason most of them pray and share together is that they're desperate, pleading with God to give them a second chance they don't deserve.

I stand up and pick up a rock smirking at the thought and make my way over to their circle, seating myself between a middle aged lady and a similarly aged man. The old man who spoke, the leader of the group, smiles at me as I sit, though most of them look anxious.

'I want to share,' I say, feeling all the anger I've felt over the last few weeks reach through my body, begging to be set free. 'But not about me. I want to share my thoughts on all of you.'

There's silence for a moment as they all wonder how to react. I ignore this and decide to take the opening as an assent to talk. 'You're weak-so very, very weak. Every one of you turns to God, or whoever you choose to believe in at the end of your boring and meaningless existences, and yet it is only out of desperation not to die the deaths you all deserve. And by golly, you know you deserve them. You say so every night.' I'm standing by now, treading slowly around the circle, smiling at just how scared each and every one of them looks. It's always this way, all my victims are scared, struck dumb by the truth of my words as they're spoken. The rock in my hand twists through my fingers.

'You, you, you and you.' I point to the old man and the three others I marked out earlier.

'You're not going to die those deaths, the execution that's supposed to come to all of us'. I smile and kneel down in front of one of the three, a thirty-something lady, and grip her face between my hands. 'You'll be gone long before then.'

And then my hand moves and to the others in the room it must seem weird that despite my hand not coming in contact with the lady's neck, the skin there is cut and blood pours out from the wound. Cries of alarm rise up and half the people rush to the lady to help her and the other half come at me, fury written plainly over their features as they see the blood stained rock in my hand.

But I don't care, even as they beat me bloody and my skin is bruised every inch. Even as I start to slip out of consciousness, none of it matters to me. I won't die from this; I will come back to kill them, no matter what.

'You know what?' I mumble as darkness slips over my eyes. I'm not sure if I'm imagining things or not when a gruff, 'what?' Is spoken through the black. I smile, a real, genuine smile, for the first time since I got to this place. 'You really shouldn't try to get me to talk about my past.' I laugh weakly, 'It makes me angry.'

I'm still smiling even as my body is consumed and everything is gone.

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