(North wing)

Lightning painted the heavens, creating luminous lines across the sky. The rain poured and slammed upon the prison's roof like an angry hail storm, drowning all the sounds from within the prison walls. The man dubbed Matador finally dislodged the screw from the old toilet bowl. His excitement was on a high. His heartbeat was so erratic inside his chest, it felt like a thousand hooves were constantly trotting from within his torso.

The sparking light emitted by a mirror from the cell across him gave the second signal he had been waiting for. Patiently, he yanked out the machete hidden inside the plastic tube connected to the toilet bowl. The smell of human feces immediately danced through the air, but no one seemed to care. The other prisoners and guards probably thought someone was busy taking a shit. Despite the stomach-churning scent that wafted through his nose, Matador kept his breathing and movement guarded.

Three Sparks signal the beginning. That was the instruction given to him. So he wiped the feces off of his machete and sat patiently at the edge of his bed awaiting the final spark.

***

(East wing)

Samson tried his best to calm down. "Those animals!" he screamed in frustration. Martin, one of the guards, tried to ease Samson's desire to kill a certain prisoner by forcing a bunch of porn magazines into his hands. "This might help clear your head, a bit." The man suggested.

Mason came up to him too and shoved a cold can of beer into his chest. "Drink it off," he mumbled before leaving the lounge.

Sheldon snickered, "crazy bastards," he scoffed while attempting to take the can of beer from Samson's hold.

"I think I need it," Samson answered, swatting Sheldon's hand away.

His action was met by Sheldon's arched eyebrow, eyeing him with disapproval as he said, "I don't think this will help," then took a second attempt to remove the beer from  Samson's hold.

Samson pulled away from his reach and walked towards the opposite side of the lounge. Using his finger, he opened the top of the canned Beer and downed its contents, eyes never leaving Sheldon, who at that time was shaking his head.

(West Wing)

"Protacio, we can continue with these letters tomorrow. I have to go check on the prisoners." Harold scoffed as he stood from his chair.

The warden did not offer a reply. He kept his eyes on the pile of letters on his desk.

"Clearly, this Maria woman didn't know 247, he made that known in his letters," The guard continued as he stared at the warden who seemed consumed by the letters on his desk.

Mark, on the other hand, kept fumbling with his cell phone. The signal bars were still clear of lines. He had been pacing around the warden's office trying to find a signal. He couldn't name it, but he had a foreboding that slowly crept within his chest, leaving goosebumps that tightened his skin. He was never one to believe in gut feelings or following instincts, but something truly felt off.

Harold was about to step out of the office when he noticed the internal battle written on Mark's face. "Don't let the weather get to you lad," he said before finally closing the gap between him and the office door.

"Start reading," the warden commanded to Mark when Harold left the room.

Mark, too disturbed to think of anything else decided to follow the warden's command and picked up the next letter.

***

Dear Maria,

How are you? I hope you're doing well. As for me, I feel like a tourniquet has wrapped itself around my wrist. Its hold on me is too strong, making me feel like a puppet, unable to do anything. Trying to loosen its grip would only result in my end. It feels more painful than the cuffs the police slapped on my wrist when I was arrested. Do you know why?

I have been forced to join a gang. I may have killed, tortured, and humiliated people, but had always been by the will of my heart. However, now, my hands are forced to do unimaginable things. My body received marks that can never be rubbed off no matter how hard I scrubbed on it. I'm tainted with inks that represent a belief that should not be a part of who I am.

I'm sorry Maria...

I feel so lost. It feels like the 28th of September once again. The day my father robbed the town's bank. The day he came home forcing me to pack my bags and shoved me against my will inside his blue car. The speed my father took that day drove my insides upside down.

After we left town, my father took away my Walkman, notebooks, and pen, then instructed me to never contact anyone from our place ever again. I was ignorant of why he was doing that because I was still innocent of the crime he had committed. It wasn't until I popped the trunk of his car one day, discovered a couple of bags with a bunch of bills in them, and heard the man running the Inn we were currently staying at about the theft done to a bank in our town, that I managed to put two and two together.

At that time, I felt so lost. My father and I kept moving and running, changing cars and living under old bridges and abandoned houses. Until we found a small town that he deemed safe for us to settle in.

I was never allowed to step out of the house Maria. Never got the opportunity to have friends or speak with anyone. He kept me and him trapped inside the small cabin he bought from a local man. It was hell my love. I had no voice, no reason, no heart, no mind. I felt like a lone sheep herded by him. I had to follow everything he wanted, leaving my thoughts and will be controlled.

I couldn't take it anymore. So one day, I took his gun and fired two bullets at his chest. He made no sound, no movement—all that was there, was a corpse. I thought I was free. But oh Maria. I wish I had never tried to free myself. Because what I learned after, was far more paralyzing. I thought I  knew hell, but no. What an ignorant sheep I was. I went through all the stages of true hell when I came back to our town.

You know what I'm talking about right? The day you lost your light.

That's how I feel now Maria. Must I shed blood once again? If yes, it won't take a single life to free me. The bounds on me will need a river of blood for it to dislodge.

Maria, I'm sorry it took so long for me to write. I have been in solitary confinement for two months. It was torture. The thoughts of you were the only companion that kept my sanity together. I want you to know that my letters might turn brief and contain less information about my experiences here. But don't worry Maria, I'm okay, as long as you're safe.

Merry Christmas love! How are you? Are the kids doing well? Have you taught them of our religion's beliefs and all? I bet you had. I know, you will survive raising them Maria, because you are unique.

Love Forever

Your Silent Knight.