Punishments

Jude Alcott doesn’t know how long he spends in that concrete block. It’s hard to count the weeks, months (years, he dreads to think), when they are all exactly the same. He wakes and he thinks, he thinks about everything he did. He receives few visitors, the most frequent being Acacia.

There’s an understanding between them. While he may not say it outright, there’s an apology under every conversation. On one of these visits, she brings a hammer. They don’t say much as she breaks apart the concrete, ending his sentence prematurely. Jude is not one for physical contact, so he shocks himself when he hugs Acacia.

He doesn’t stay, of course. He knows that his presence would be unwanted, but he walks around the Block one last time before saying goodbye. He won’t do it again, he can’t do it again. The hardest goodbye is to Lev. Their breakups are frequent but this one has an odd finality. There’s no shouting or screaming or blaming - just a solemn “Goodbye.”

There’s guilt, and there’s misery but there’s also hope. Who knows what a new Block will hold?

It takes some time for Philemon to convince the Block that he truly has experienced a change of heart, especially given his involvement in such depraved mutilations, but after only a few months of being trapped in a concrete slab, talking incessantly about “loyalty” and “fidelity” to anyone who will listen, the sincerity in his voice becomes difficult to deny, and the decision is made to let him go.

After being extricated from the concrete block, he begins taking up new hobbies to pass the time. No longer the recluse he once was, he begins collecting marbles and proudly showing off his hundreds-strong collection to anyone he comes across. He even starts a marble society within the Block, which meets daily, and members play with their marbles long into the night. Philemon seems to be the undefeated champion of their little tournaments, which pleases him to no end.

He doesn’t seem to have much interest in harming anyone ever again, and although he does occasionally still reminisce about his time in the war, it is with a much more regretful tone. He even offers to share his medical knowledge to anyone wishing to learn anatomy, although he openly admits that his skills are a little outdated and his anecdotes not for the faint of heart.

Though it can indeed contain a person, there has been enough pushback against further use of concrete to give pause, even in dealing with one such as Albert Wyre. Thus, it is in chains rather than stone that he is led, as they bid, into the Mists.

Immobile, the cannibal stands under the baleful shadow of Truth’s Light. It is not long before convulsions begin to pull on the bindings, but they hold firm; taut.

“What is it that these Mists show you, Albert?” inquires the Guide.

Silence is the only reply. It will ever be their only reply.

Shadow cannot dwell watching the barber for long, nor can anyone, for they would themselves be subject to the Mist’s effects before long, even in the shallows. But their return is frequent. If Albert were to learn something from this, he would not be left to suffer more than necessary.

But to capitulate would be weakness, would it not? Teeth grit. Mind endures. Memories assault. Until at last, the words are uttered in shame and defeat.

“Enough. Get me out. Anything is better than more of this.” The barber cannot even raise their signature tone. They are brought out of the Mists, not to freedom, but to less enshrouded bindings.

His internment is long, for it is hard to gauge the rehabilitation of a prisoner who won’t cooperate. His visitors are few, and seldom, save one persistent and many-faced experience of an individual. Albert must of course be released one day, but the Albert that walks away will be one that at least accepts that the laws of the land of the dead are different from the rules of the wastes.

There is a small, boring room at the end of an unnoteworthy corridor in a mundane building in a corner of Block 2845. You wouldn’t notice it unless you knew what was inside. Unless you knew who was inside.

Charlie exists there. For hundreds of years - for thousands of years, he exists. She doesn’t move - the concrete stops him. Zie doesn’t speak - no longer able to shout insults across the Community Hall. There is no one to perform for here. What’s a showman without an audience?

Occasionally there are visitors, but they don’t stay for long. Gradually, the visits fall away. People recognise a lost cause.

Every so often, she tries to pretend that they’ve reformed. But he’s out of practice now, hasn’t exercised xer social puppeteering skills in so long, that the visitors see right through it.

The void grows louder with every day spent deprived of distraction. It screams inside her brain. He never sleeps.

An eternity spent imprisoned with the person he loves most and hates most: zerself.