Opal The Omega

The cell door screams in pain when the guards open it. Its hinges are rusty and out of practice. Inside, the inmate straightens up. A small smile quirks the edges of his lips. Maybe they’ve come to kill me, he hopes.

The prisoner doesn’t talk much or go outside much. The guards had noted many times that, unlike his fellow inmates, he doesn’t even complain much.

They think he’s deranged. His endless years in solitary must have driven him insane, they speculate. I, of course, know the truth of the matter. The old man’s thoughts are in perfect order. He retraces his life daily, mostly the mistakes he made that landed him in a cell minus both of his eyeballs.

That’s part of my job as Goddess. I must know the thoughts and prayers of my people. Reading the thoughts of prisoners is usually unpleasant for me. In this prison, the inmates constantly moan and groan. The pack government has wrongfully thrown many of them in jail. Others have unfairly long sentences for minor crimes. A young man serving fifteen for pushing a pack enforcer comes to mind. They spend their days toiling in front of sewing machines to make uniforms or manipulating metal into weapons. Blood Fang’s war with Dark Moon requires the work of every man, woman, and child, even inmates. Their only compensation for this constant labor is the privilege to see another day.

The old man is unique in two ways. He’s the only prisoner not forced to labor, and one of the few inmates who actually deserves his sentence. He’s earned his suffering and is never getting out. That’s why it comes as a quite a shock when two guards open his cell and pull him off his cot.

At his advanced age, he can’t keep up with them. They end up dragging him. The tops of his feet rub on the floor, collecting dust from the concrete as they force him through the prison.

Inmates clamber to the bars of their cells to watch the old man go by. The prison’s most mysterious convict getting dragged through the halls, what a show! Where are they taking him? The prisoners wonder. For punishment? What would they be punishing him for? Not that there really needed to be a reason for punishment at Blood Fang Prison. Most times when a prisoner lost outside privileges, meal privileges, or was beaten, it was because a guard was having a bad day.

The wardens usually spare the old man, though. If they try to beat him, his thin, frail body will probably break. They had been given strict orders for him years ago. Back when the old man’s skin wasn’t wrinkled and his bald, frail skull had been full of rich hazel locks. They could beat the man, starve him, degrade him anyway they saw fit, but they were not to kill him.

These common guards don’t know their orders not to kill come straight from the top. They don’t need to; that’s many steps above their pay grades.

They don’t even know what they’re taking him out of the cell for. Their curiosity burns, but they follow orders anyway, and deposit the man in front of the prison’s small interrogation room.

When the guards are gone, a burly enforcer dressed all in black opens the door. He grabs the old man’s wrist and pulls him inside.

The old man can’t see, so he focuses on what he can make out of the room. The air is cool and well air-conditioned against the summer heat. He registers the sound of breathing. Two people, the one who had pulled him in and another person somewhere. The most obvious feature of the room is its smell: Roasted rabbit stew with garlic and potatoes. The old man recognizes it immediately.

Across from him, the second person in the room sits at a metal table. The man at the table is young and attractive, with curly hazel locks and smooth coffee skin. His back is ramrod straight compared to the hunched over old man. Underneath his pristine, collared white shirt, his well-muscled chest and arms bulge.

“Demitri, help our guest to a seat,” The young man orders.

Dimitri pulls out a chair in front of the old man and helps him sit. In front of him at the table is a bowl of stew. Another bowl sits in front of the young man. He had been planning to eat it today. Now he wonders if that was a mistake. The old man’s face is crusty, and yellow puss surrounds his empty eye folds. The young man isn’t sure he’ll be able to stomach food while looking at him.

The smell of the old man is also disconcerting. Bathing has obviously gone by the wayside.

“Demetri turn our guest sideways please.”

Demtri shifts the old man’s chair so that he’s facing the wall. Maybe it will be easier to eat if he doesn’t have to look at the man’s wretched face.

“Give him the soup,” The young man orders.

Demitri tries handing off the bowl of stew. The old man’s weak hands to release it onto the ground.

The young man groans in displeasure.

“Can you not feed yourself?” he asks. “That was a question,” he snaps when the old man does not respond.

“Are you blind and deaf? Respond to him.”

Demitri pokes the old man in the shoulder roughly.

“Who are you?” the old man finally croaks. His voice is raspy.

“Someone you need to answer when they ask you questions,” the young man responds.

“Is that why you’re here, to ask me questions?” the old man asks.

“Yes.”

“What if I don’t want to talk?”

“Oh, Demitri here can find ways to make you talk,” the young man promises.

“And why does someone with their own personal muscle need to hear about my life? I’m just an old man.”

“Don’t lie! That’s another thing Demetri will not like. If you were just an old man, I would not be here.”

The young man narrows his eyes.

The old man makes no response to the young man’s comment. He only sits in sullen silence, refusing to say anything.

The young man sighs.

“Look, I don’t want to be here either. I really couldn’t care less about your life. But unfortunately for both of us, a power much greater than you or I has decided that I need to hear your story.”

I materialize then and place a hand on the old man’s chest.

“Goddess!” the young man jumps. “Why do you always do that?”

I ignore his comment, and aggravation with me, and focus on the old man. He’s clutching the hand I’ve laid on his chest. His lungs rise up and down rapidly. I know he’s feeling it. The power emanating from me. The mortals describe it as something like standing in front of an active volcano.

“It can’t be,” he says, feeling my arm. “Who are you?” he asks.

“You know me. You’ve prayed to me many times.” The old man’s hands move to the bodice of my white flowy dress. He feels me reverently with soft touches.

“Can we get on with this?” the young man complains.

He lifts a bite of soup to his mouth.

“What do you want from me?” the old man asks. He turns his head up to face me, even though he cannot see.

A lift a hand to his cheek.

“Just a story. Your story is all I ask.”

“I don’t have a story,” the old man lies. He leans forward coughing, and a splash of blood litters the floor in front of him. When he leans back up, his breath is wet and wheezy.

The young man rises from the chair and claps his hands together.

“Great! You heard it from him. He doesn’t have a story. Can we go now?”

“Sit Down!” I yell, summoning a breeze to knock him back into his chair. The young man clutches the table in fear.

“Okay, I will hear the story,” he concedes in terror.

“I don’t have a story!” The old man yells.

“Everyone has the story of their life,” I insist.

The old man turns away from me. I feel the stubbornness in his heart. He won’t tell me anything. He doesn’t like his story. I can’t say I blame him. It’s not a cheerful tale.

“Very well then, you will not have to tell me the story,” I say, rubbing the old man’s back to comfort him. “But you will hear it none the less,” I say to the young man. He looks at me in apprehension as I walk to him and press a hand to his cheek.

“What are you -” his words trail off, and his head lulls to the side. His eyes move back and forth rapidly under their lids, watching the past.

.