Innocent One

From the prompt: "Death of the innocent one..."

(Warning: it's dark)

"Innocent One"

He sat at the desk, making random patches of shading on the paper, chewing one end thoughtfully before setting the pencil to work again.
The warden eyed DJ warily. He'd heard horror stories about this kid, this fifteen-year-old kid with shocking white hair and too-blue eyes. He was in the slammer for life - one count of murder two and two counts as an accessory to murder. Warden Michaels had heard rumors that the other juvie delinquents spread about the new boy. Rumor had it that young DJ could kill anyone with his bare hands. Police gossip was that he'd killed his own mother as well as his older twin brother.
An inmate of DJ's classification was granted few rights, but the detention center's therapist, Ms. Robbins, insisted that drawing would be therapeutic for the pretty-boy murderer. Gazing at the mass of grays, blacks and whites messily concentrated in the middle of the paper, Michaels wasn't so sure.
The guard knocked on the door. "Time's up, Callahan. Leave the paper and come back to your cage."
DJ set the pencil down calmly and rose up. The guard placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, leading him down the corridor. He squeezed painfully. DJ gritted his teeth, waiting out the pain and forcing out visions of splintering every bone in the guard's hand as they danced through his mind. He reached his cell and waited as the door was unlocked before he was shoved in.
He sprawled out across his bunk, listening to steel grind against steel as the bolts were shoved back into place. He'd memorized every irregularity on all six surfaces of his cell, and now had nothing left to do but wait.
Angel said he'd break him out, and as far as DJ knew, his master had always kept his promises. DJ shut his eyes and sighed. His life was over. It had ended the night Celia had died in his arms. He'd knelt there in the street, cradling her rapidly cooling body to his chest. He'd made no move to run as the police sirens pierced the air, just let them take him away. He was no longer living, simply existing in this body until it faded away. Ms. Robbins said he could tell her anything, and it would never leave her office. Did she think he was stupid? Yeah, Ms. Robbins, he thought, an amused smile curving his lips. I'll tell you every detail of my life, every last memory so that your children's children will have nightmares. I'll totally tell you. Yeah, right. The smile vanished, his brow furrowing.
He didn't know how it had come to this. He'd been surviving his life so well, and then... and then you caused the death of the innocent ones. Two, his mind answered. Richie, baby Richie with his brown eyes and curls and freckles. One moment DJ had him in a stranglehold, next minute his ears were filled with the sound of bones breaking as he snapped Richie's neck.
He bit his lip to keep from crying out as a wave of self-loathing washed over him. He curled up on his side, away from the door, wanting to shut the world out. He was sorry...
The guard peered in the small window, tongue darting out to wet hungry lips. The boy was young, pretty, sweet...

"Well?" Michaels asked, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Ms. Robbins flipped through the stack of scribble-covered papers. "I don't understand!" she cried. "He told me everything was in the pictures! I know he can draw..." She gestured to a sketchbook, so Michaels flipped through.
DJ's other work was simply breathtaking, but art therapy obviously wasn't working for him. Michaels told Ms. Robbins so.
"No, DJ's smart, and he's stubborn," she insisted. "He wants me to work for the answer." He set her mug down on the 'drawing' and frowned, thinking.
Suddenly she leaned over, peering at the mug.
"What?" Michaels asked, disconcerted.
Ms. Robbins' eyes lit up, and she pushed the mug aside, rifling through her desk frantically. Michaels was startled by her cry of triumph when she procured a tubular mirror. She placed it over the scribbles, then leaned over her desk to peer down the tube. Her breath caught.
"Oh..."
"What?" Michaels asked again. He peered down the tube and gasped when he saw a picture formed, a picture of a girl with curly hair and wide, pretty eyes. Eyes Michaels knew were golden. He'd seen the picture in DJ's file; the girl was Celia.
"He's amazing," Ms. Robbins whispered. "All his other drawings probably have to be viewed using a tubular mirror, too." She turned and started going through her file cabinets. What could all the pictures be?

DJ lay on the floor of his cell, gasping and sobbing, body broken and soul shattered. He knew that he wouldn't be able to walk for a while. He let the tears slip down his face, trying desperately to catch his breath. He just wanted to die. His mother and father had never been this brutal with him. The guard had taken what he'd wanted over and over again before he left.
He shut his eyes, still sobbing, and silently willed himself to die. He didn't want to live, didn't want to be if he had to feel like this. Once was enough to kill him; he didn't know if he could take it again.
Please, he prayed. Please just let me die. I'm begging whoever's out there to let me die. Please, please...

The Angel of Death was crouched in the shadows, watching as the detention center shut down for the night.
"Think he's ready?" Angel asked quietly.
The reply came out of the darkness, the person hidden in the night. "Would we be here if he wasn't? Use your head, Operations."
He chuckled softly. "You're right."
"I always am."
"Well, in I go, then." And he began a slithery path through the shadows.
He glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of curls, but the night closed in again, so he took off.

The pain had long ago ended, but DJ could still hear the thud of his skull hitting the wall as he sat in the corner of his cell, rocking back and forth. If unconsciousness were to come, he'd gladly succumb to it, but until then he'd keep hitting.
A cool breeze shocked his skin. He froze. He could only mean one thing - the guard was back. He began to rock faster.
"Queen Isis - no !" someone hissed. DJ heard someone cross the room, and suddenly he was struggling as hands tried to pull him back.
"DJ, stop it," a voice breathed in his ear, one he knew.
"Death?" the boy whispered feebly, his hazy consciousness swirling around him dizzily.
He barely registered it as strong arms closed around him to lift him up and carry him gently. The blackness came, and he surrendered willingly.
Angel crossed the road quickly, DJ's broken body in his arms. He cast a probing glance into the darkness, but he couldn't see his companion.
The voice startled him. "Get him in the van. Let's go."

Michaels found the body of the guard on the cafeteria floor. He'd been killed slowly, skin ribboned by thousands upon thousands of shallow cuts with powdered kitchen soap rubbed into them for added pain. Beside the body lay a paper smeared with blood.
Ms. Robbins checked the paper with her tubular mirror. The picture was of a little boy chained to a bedpost, done in astounding detail. The boy was a young DJ, maybe six years old. Written, by some miracle, across the bottom of the picture were the words: Death of the innocent one. Death of his soul long before the death of his body.

Angel lay DJ's body on the bed tenderly, horrified at what had happened to his young student. He was unconscious and in need pf medical care; Christian would see to him.
"I'm sorry," Angel whispered to the sleeping boy. "I'm sorry that your innocence is gone." Then he slipped out of the bedroom, shaking his head.
In the shadows, a figure became visible. She gazed at him with empty golden eyes, brushing raven curls out of her face.
"I'm sorry, Dylan," she whispered. "I'm sorry for what's going to happen to you." She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek before vanishing.
Angel was leaning in the doorway, watching with tears unshed shining in his dark eyes.
"She's not dead, DJ, and she's not the innocent one."

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