When You Wake up and Scream

"Connolly! Over there!"

Conán sighed and gave what he hoped would come across as a sarcastic thumbs-up. He didn't know what he hated more - being in his cell or being out of it. When he was in his cell all he wanted to do was get out, and when he was standing around mopping up the cafeteria floor all he wanted to do was go back to his cell.

Conán Connolly was twenty-three years old now, and had spent the last two years in a state of deep depression in prison. He had attempted suicide numerous times, but the guards watched him like hawks. They hated him for the most part, and wanted him to suffer as much as possible. Conán knew he deserved it. There were a couple who treated him as a person, but none that Conán felt anything towards. He was himself alone here, and he didn't have any emotions for anyone.

There had been a surprise about a year and a half ago. Naoise had visited him, as she wished to interview him about everything. Conán had been interviewed a number of times and could talk about his crimes easily, as he had a switch he could flick and he would desensitize and detach himself enough to practically be in the third person again. He had been worried about seeing Naoise, but for the most part they had gotten on like old friends. It had been painful to part, but Conán had managed to detach himself from that, as well. Apparently, she hoped to write a book about him. Conán had wished her luck, as he knew it would make her a small fortune. He was quite an obsession, his name right up there. He wondered when she would get around to it. She was busy in university, well on her way to becoming a psychologist, and so he thought it would probably come together quite slowly until she graduated.

"Connolly! Are you moving, or what?"

"All right!" Conán yelled back, going into the kitchen to mop up in there. He grumbled to himself as he worked. He grumbled a lot lately, and had gained a slight reputation for his appearance of constantly talking to himself. Conán didn't worry, though. There were people who were clearly more unhinged than he was - for instance, the other guy who had been put to work cleaning the counter a few metres away. He was a proper nutcase, in Conán's books. He was a serial rapist and had finally been caught when he had snapped and battered a poor girl to death. He had been caught straight away, mind. They'd found him staggering down the street covered in her blood. He barely spoke, and when he did it was to threaten or insult someone. People steered clear of him, but then again, people steered clear of Conán as well. Conán was, of course, the only serial killer in the prison, and there was a quiet feeling amongst the other prisoners that he shouldn't be messed with. Conán thought it was something like respect, but he dismissed it. He deserved nothing like respect.

The guards were surprised that he had lasted so long. He was known to be clinically depressed and suicidal, and they knew it was only a matter of time until he managed to do himself in. Conán was looking for opportunities such as the one he had now, although it was flawed by the presence of the guard. Conán knew that if the guard were to turn for just one second, he could grab a knife or something sharp ad stab himself through the jugular. There would be nothing that could be done then. They wouldn't be able to stop the bleeding and he would bleed to death before an ambulance could arrive. He planned to do it as soon as he could. He would be unconscious before he knew anything. It would be quick, over and done with. Perfect.

Conán carried on innocently mopping, all the whole keeping one eye on the guard. Suddenly, the guard turned his back to them and looked out of the cafeteria doors - someone had called him. It was now or never, and Conán was more than ready. He felt no nerves at all.

Before hye could do anything, something smashed Conán around the back of the head, sending him flying against the wall. He swore and blinked, dazed, before it hit him again. Conán nearly fell to his knees, but he caught himself just in time. Turning around, he saw it was the other man, the one who had been cleaning the counters. Conán couldn't recall his full name, but remembered that his first name was Emmett.

"What in Hell?!"

"You shut the Hell up you sick bastard! They're always saying they want you dead, everyone in the place! I'll do them a favour!"

Conán laughed in his face.

"Do it then, come on! DO IT! Are you a coward? I'll only do it myself! DO IT!"

Conán jumped at him and the two fell against the counter, by now attracting the attention of the first guard and the one who had called him. Before they could catch up with the fighting pair, Coná saw, out of the corner of his eye, Emmett grab the very knife Conán had been eyeing up earlier. Conán let go of the other killer and smirked.

"Come on, then," he whispered. "Do it. Do it if you're going to, and see if I care. I've got nothing to live for."

Emmett raised the knife and brought it down as he caught up with Conán. The blade embedded itself deep into Conán's chest, and Conán felt it pierce his heart. He gasped and fell to the floor, the knife still sticking out of his chest at a cruel angle.

In the very same second, the guards caught up. One of them pulled Emmett away, but Emmett had done what he had wanted to do, and went without a fight. Conán lay on the floor, gasping, his vision fading quickly. He was gripping the knife, which was still stuck in his heart so firmly that they exposed part of the knife oculd be seen juddering with his heartbeat.

Conán could see his vision fading and his gasping was becoming weaker. Dark spots were appearing before his eyes, merging together until he knew the whole world would go black. Everything came back to him, everything he had been repressing but no longer had the strength to do. All of the guilt, remorse, fear, horror, disgust, all of the flashbacks and everything he had ever done, and he smiled weakly as he realized that this was it - he would never have to think about such things again. If he closed his eyes now, he would be free from it all.

"Connolly!" someone was slapping his face as his grip on the knife became weaker, and the knife itself became stiller as the seconds went on. "Connolly, stay awake! Connolly!"

Conán made one last fight, clearing his vision. He smiled and flicked his eyes so they were fixed on the guard's own eyes, where he was kneeling in the rapidly growing pool of blood on the floor. Conán, with some difficulty, took in what was to be his last breath, and as he breathed out, he whispered:

"Thank God it's over."