Chapter Text
A prison. One might call it that. Yet, even the word seems far too shallow. For it extended far beyond the mere iron bars of a cell, weighed heavier than any manacles upon wrist or ankle. It is… something else entirely.
Days and nights had long since twisted into a single, inseparable knot, time itself rendered meaningless. Darkness enveloped him like a shroud, seeping into every fissure of his consciousness. Whether his eyes were open or closed, there was only emptiness.
The silence deafened, cutting deeper than the most piercing scream. No sound, no living soul. Only the echo of phrases, words, whispers, and mutterings. A dance of ebony shadows upon the walls, born of sleeplessness and starvation.
And to think, once all had been so very different… No accusations, no sensational headlines. Only the blaze of a hearth fire, the crackle of logs, the comfortable armchair, the music of the violin, black tea with bergamot, the purling tendrils of smoke from the cherished pipe…
Home… Oh, blessed home.
Now, it was but a dream, a mirage of some other, happier life. The life of one who no longer existed. He was murdered. Murdered. Murdered, murdered, murdered - or did he murder? Were his hands covered in blood to the elbows, or were those tears?
Memory betrayed him as relentlessly as his body. He could not be certain if he blinked, if he moved, if he breathed, if he was even still alive.
To scream was futile: his ruined voice bore witness to that. To flee - where? From whom? To what end? To surrender? He possessed neither the strength nor the inclination. He desired nothing, not even oblivion. It did not exist for him, nor did any escape from this place. Not for him.
Basil was too late. Perhaps Ratigan is right: he himself was to blame for it all.
Dummy.