A single cell is standing lonely. Its prisoners are crying; its morale is far from hale, much closer to Hell. Its tears are silent and invisible, its actions stained with artifice.

And in that cell stands a black-haired girl. She’s nearly dead, but so far from G-d. She moves slowly, every move controlled by the Devil. She is naught but a puppet, and He stands far above her, in a realm she can only hallucinate about. And she does.

She hallucinates vividly, envisioning herself surrounded by roaring flames and fiery madness. She imagines herself planting a sin-kissed lip on the Devil’s forehead. And sucking, sucking the life out of the Devil.

And as he moves Her, guides Her bones, he sees through Her tinted eyelashes and into Her cold heart. He envisages a future where She serves as a slave to his will, and he believes that he will plant his blistering hands on Her mortality, and drain the cold out of Her, drain it slowly and let Her savor it as it vanishes. He will press his teeth to Her breast and press softly, killing Her innocence with mercy.

But for now, the black haired beautiful sinner remains miles away. She lays far away, in a cool cell, and cries. Cries for death, cries for sin, and cries for the Devil, standing far away in a fiery realm, she can only hallucinate about.