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Henry wasn’t quite sure how long he had spent in that cell so far. All he knew was that he was so, so tired. The prison was filled with complete silence, except for when the Keepers first came in to do their rounds. But, even that was rare. They seemed to have high expectations regarding the security of their holding cells, so constant surveillance wasn’t their highest priority. After a few weeks, their already scarce visits completely stopped, and the prison fell into silence yet again.
He wasn’t sure how many people were in there with him. There were at least five, he assumed. Henry had been listening eagerly while the Keepers did their security checks, and he noticed that they would knock on the glass of each cell, catching the attention of whatever prisoner was inside to make sure they were alert and proper. As they went around, tapping on each cell, Henry jotted down a dash for each cell they visited. One, two, three, four. Occasionally five. He could sometimes see one, just out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t really a cell; moreso a display case. A fish bowl, even. It was always fairly dark in the prison, but he could catch the faint outline of a projector head. Poor guy.
Sometimes, he heard arguing between a certain captive and whatever Keeper was misfortune enough to mess with him. It was from the opposite side of the room, so it was hard to make out exactly what was going on due to the distance and their somewhat noise-canceling glass. The Keeper would always end up sulking off, muttering something about demon followers. Henry had heard the other prisoner’s voice on occasion, though. He had a pretty decent guess as to who it was, as much as he tried to ignore it.
On a certain day, while he was just doodling aimlessly, he watched as a Keeper slid into the prison with a strange object in hand. Henry pressed his face to the glass as he tried to listen into the conversation it had with the other prisoner. Here, it had said. Due to your good behavior recently, Wilson has decided to reward you with… a banjo. Henry thought the prize was quite stupid, but the other man seemed happy enough. And that was when the noise started.
It was quiet enough to not annoy him, but loud enough to keep him company as he slaved his hours away on paper. The tune was just a couple notes for the first few days as the mystery captive tried his hand at tuning the weathered and old instrument. Henry assumed he also had to get back into practice if he truly had gone without it the entire time. After that, there was song. Real music. Henry had never been more relieved in his life. It made for the perfect background music whilst Henry drew.
Henry drew many things. He had all the time in the world, after all. He drew realism, semi-realism, abstract, cartoony… anything that would keep him busy. But more often than not, he’d draw things from his life. Reality. He’d draw his wife, Linda, and the house they lived in. He had to make sure he never forgot her. He had given up all hope for escape at that point. Occasionally, he tried to draw Bendy. He always ended up ripping it into pieces, though. He couldn’t bear to see that face anymore. He couldn’t accept that the face which came from his own pen was the same face that haunted his every step.
Then came the breakout. First, it was Alice. The broken Alice. She first asked the warden Keeper if it could come into her cell. She insisted she was injured and needed medical assistance, lest she die and be reformed by the ink somewhere else, leading to her accidental escape. Alice seemed convincing enough, so the Keeper unlocked her cell. That horrible, horrible laughter filled Henry’s ears as she ambushed the guard, stabbing it in its face light with a homemade dagger. The Keepers had a keen eye, but their sense of hearing was not so great in comparison. Alice was smart enough to know that if she stopped it from being able to see, she could sneak out with ease. So, she jumped behind the warden, making her way out of the cell like it was a piece of cake.
Of course, Alice couldn’t do anything without taunting her prey. As the Keeper tried its best to search for her, she made her way up to Henry’s cell. Oh, my little errand boy, she purred. I’m sooo sorry I have to leave you behind… better luck next time! And with a smile and a wave, she was gone.
The Keepers decided to up their security that day. Many of them now guarded the facility, and there was no entering into cells. They instead passed down necessary medical supplies through a small hatch in the wall. They of course had to keep the prisoners alive, lest they escape through the ink like Alice warned them could happen. But, of course, their security efforts were in vain.
The next escape wasn’t quite an escape. It was more of an attempted breakout, by the other Alice. Allison, as Henry liked to call her. His memories of the event were fuzzy, but he remembered how she broke into the prison. She tried her hardest to free as many people as possible, starting with him. Henry recalled her coming up to his cell, trying desperately to get him out. The poor girl was almost in tears. I can’t leave you here in this horrible place! She insisted. But, the wolf came up from behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He motioned towards the door, where a group of Keepers were steadily gaining on them. She wouldn’t be able to get him out in time, and she knew that. Henry knew that, too. With a final apologetic look, Allison backed away from his cell as she promised Henry she’d come back for him, then disappeared altogether.
Three, then. Three left, if you counted the inanimate projector. Henry’s heart ached at the thought of the poor being’s fate. He prayed the creature was no longer conscious, that there wasn’t any soul left behind. Unfortunately, something deep in his gut told him that the being was still alive, still trapped within that rusty old projector. Still locked in that display case.
Henry looked over at the wall separating him from the other prisoner. He silently prayed that, at the very least, he could look at him. Know for sure he wasn’t alone. Alas, there was only the music to remind Henry that his companion was there. And so, Henry sat, silently waiting for a conversation that he thought would never arrive.
—
The prophet was incredibly bored. He was glad he had that banjo, or else he might’ve just melted from the sheer boredom of his prison. He felt like he was drowning in silence, like he was being pulled back into the puddles he had fought so hard to escape from.
The worst part was that the prophet didn’t even know why he was there. The Keepers just ambushed him one day, insisting he was an ‘anomaly’ that had to be contained. No matter how hard he tried to fight, they easily outnumbered him, so it wasn’t hard for them to take him captive. For the first few months, he was convinced that his Lord was coming to save him. That, one day soon, he would be rescued by his knight in shining armor.
Of course, that never happened. The prophet kept lighting candle after candle, performing ritual after ritual, praying that he would be rescued. He was willing to do anything to get out of that prison. Anything. His faith began leaving him by the day. My Lord has bigger plans, he assured himself. He will come. I’m sure of it.
Strumming a tune on his prized instrument, he drew a line in ink with his foot. It was awfully difficult, seeing as he himself was made from the stuff, but he managed to draw a decent pentagon. He propped his banjo up against the chair as he grabbed his remaining few candles. He wasn’t able to find a lighter, but there was one small thing he could use to create fire. Two small metal slivers lay in the pockets of his trousers, and when brushed against each other above a candle, he was able to spark it. It didn’t exactly make sense to him. After all, real fire didn’t work like that. But something was different about this fire. It was… unique. An ink fire, perhaps.
Either way, it worked, and that’s what mattered to him. He went around the circle, carefully lighting every candle. Once he was satisfied, he sat beside his pentagon, allowing himself to relax as he began one of his prayers.
“My Lord,” he whispered. “Please. I’m not sure how much longer I can last here. It’s… dark. I have only one thing to ask of you… I, your humble servant, beg for you to help me break out of my prison. Please. ”
The prophet didn’t want to sound desperate, but truthfully, he was. He waited patiently for his savior to get back to him. Moments turned into seconds, and seconds turned into minutes. Still, there was no response.
“Perhaps he truly has abandoned me,” he resigned with a sigh, rising to his feet. He leaned down to pick up one of his candles, but as his hand brushed the wax, a booming voice made him lose his grip.
Foolish prophet. You still call upon my name? Have you not learned your lesson?
The creature’s inky heart dropped into his stomach as he jumped back in a panic. He looked wildly around the room, trying to find the source of his Lord’s voice. It wasn’t long before a crackling sound interrupted his searching, followed by a flickering light. His gaze fell down to the ground beneath his feet, and he took a step back upon instinct. The fire from the spilt candle was rapidly spreading across the wooden floor, crawling steadily towards his chair. His banjo.
The prophet desperately stomped at the wild flames, ignoring the burning sensation upon his legs. He managed to stomp out the flame near the banjo, but another strain was marching towards one thing he had neglected to notice. His mask. Unfortunately for him, it was too late.
He advanced towards the mask as the flames began to engulf it. He tried his best to extinguish them there too, and he was able to get the flames to die down. Sadly, though, all that remained of his mask was an inky layer of charcoal.
The prophet fell to his knees, scooping up the burnt wood in his hands. He stared blankly at the charred remains in his grip. His shoulders sank in disappointment.
With a defeated sigh, he gathered up the remaining ashes, dumping them in the corner of his prison. He blew out the remaining candles, storing them alongside the remains of his once beloved mask. the prophet rose to his feet and angled his head towards the glass shielding him from the outside world.
“My Lord? Are you still there?”
No response. With a sigh, he let his shoulders rest, holding his head in his hand in annoyance. When he looked up again, his eyes landed on the glass.
He couldn’t stop staring at his reflection. It looked nothing like him. His hand remained at his face, fingers brushing against the ink coating his face.
He had hair once, he did. It was… beautiful. Blond, perhaps? Maybe even brown. He couldn’t quite recall. His fingers drifted over to his nose–or, the place where his nose once rested. He faintly remembered sporting reading glasses. They were small lenses that rested underneath his eyes until he needed to use them.
The prophet slowly walked towards his reflection. He wanted to tear his eyes away, but they stayed locked in place. He hated looking at himself. He was disgusting. The creature that he was staring at was nothing like who he was supposed to be; who his Lord promised him he would be. Something fiery grew in his chest as he placed his hand upon the glass. His fingers clenched in a fist, his shoulders rising as anger bubbled within him. With a shout, he slammed his fist against the glass. And then again. Then again. Then again.
The prophet didn’t know how long he was doing it for. All he knew was that his hand burned, and a thin layer of ink coated the glass that he was hitting. He sank to his knees, resting his head against the window.
And then, there was a voice. It was faint, but audible. It sounded tired. All it said was, “Are you okay?”
The prophet’s head whipped upwards at the sound. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. They didn’t need to.
“I know you’re out there. I’ve heard your music. Please, don’t hide from me.”
His hands trembled at the voice. It was familiar. Too familiar.
“Who are you?” the prophet asked, his tremble echoing in his voice.
“I’m Henry.”
Henry. Henry, Henry, Henry. The prophet knew that voice. He knew that name. “What do you want from me?”
The voice– Henry– went silent for a few beats. The prophet counted the seconds in his head. Nine seconds passed before Henry spoke again. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m imprisoned here, just like you.”
Something clicked in the prophet’s head, and he laughed. “I know who you are. You’re my sacrifice, aren’t you?”
The creature could almost hear the nervousness in Henry’s voice. “Yes, that was me. I’m surprised you remember that. Do you remember who you are?”
This question threw the prophet off guard. “Of course I know who I am. I am the Lord’s Prophet.”
“No,” Henry denied. “I mean, do you remember who you were before? Who you really are?”
Silence. He couldn’t answer, and Henry knew that. The ink being picked at his suspenders, trying to wring the information out from his memory. He dove as deep as he could. He remembered pulling his hair into a ponytail–it was longer than most other mens’. He recalled playing the piano inside his sanctuary, before it got moved to the band room. Someone else was there with him. He could hear a voice, one different from his own, but before he could see the face, he lost it. There was a woman in a recording booth. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he remembered how it made him feel. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.
And yet he could barely remember a single thing about himself.
“I… don’t know,” he said, voice soft. There was silence before he realized that, due to their distance, Henry likely couldn’t have heard him. “I don’t know,” the prophet repeated, louder this time.
“I thought so.” The reply came instantaneously. The creature had no chance to be offended before Henry continued. “Your name is Sammy. You know me–well, knew me.”
The prophet’s mind blurred and distorted as a sudden pain enveloped his body. He let out a gasp, clutching his head as he tried to force the memories to stop. Henry. Henry, Henry. I can’t trust him. I can’t trust him, I don’t know him. He’s lying. He’s- he’s…
“Henry… Stein?” the prophet– Sammy –asked. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
He could almost hear the smile in the artist’s voice. “There you go. See? You know me. We were friends. You can trust me, I promise.”
Sammy shakily rose to his feet. He placed his arm on the glass to steady himself as he used his free hand to cradle his head. His mind throbbed, pain shooting throughout his body. He saw memories flashing through his eyes. He saw colors–real colors . It was all too much for him. He couldn’t keep talking to Henry. He had to leave, he had to go, he had to hide–
“Sammy? Are you there?”
He couldn’t respond. His breath got caught in his throat as he stumbled to the back of his cell, hiding himself in the shadows. He couldn’t speak. Sammy could not even think .
Henry called out for him, but the false prophet tuned it out. He collapsed to his knees again, head banging against the back wall. He heard voices calling him, soothing him, berating him. Then he saw black.
—
It had been weeks since they last spoke, and Henry was pissed. Not at Sammy. At himself. I was so close, he said. And I just had to go and mess it up. I was so close .
He buried his face into his palms, letting out a tired groan. The worst part about Sammy’s resignation was the lack of music. Henry couldn’t bear the silence that now haunted the prison again. He couldn’t stand it. It was torture.
Henry started drawing in ink on the walls. He wanted to save the little paper he had left for what mattered most. He kept his drawings small, making sure that no space was gone to waste. He painted beautiful murals of ink, tiny works of art that brought new life to the dead, cold cell. Henry painted his own face, using his reflection in the glass to remind him of who he was. He didn’t want to end up like Sammy, after all.
He was tired of waiting for the musician to wisen up. He needed to make a change, and he needed to do it fast.
Henry walked up to the edge of his cell, placing his palm on the glass. He took a deep breath before he spoke.
“I know you’re in there, Sammy. Stop hiding from me.”
He waited for a few moments, straining his ears in order to hear any form of response. None came. So, he called out again. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But you can’t keep doing this.”
Henry thought he heard a faint ‘shut up’, so he rolled with it.
“Can you play a song with your banjo, at least? I’m sick of the silence. I’m sure you can agree.”
Yet again, Sammy refused to respond. With a sigh of annoyance, Henry moved away from the glass, returning to his boring old stool.
Then it came. Like a hand reaching down from the heavens, the music returned. It was shaky and out of tune, maybe a bit off tempo, but it was music. It was noise . And good noise, at that.
Henry couldn’t help but smile a bit at the sound. Maybe, just maybe, this prison was alright.
—
Allison, Sammy thought. That must be Allison. He didn’t know how he knew the name. She just looked like Alice to him. But, something inside him insisted that was what he knew her as. So, he stuck with the name. It fit her. Alice, Allison. Alice, Allison. Alice. Allison.
The prophet sat in his cell, staring ahead at the second breakout attempt. That angel, alongside her wolf, was back. It felt like years since he last saw them, but he knew that was an inaccurate time frame. He hadn’t been trapped in the prison for years.
Hadn’t he?
Sammy glanced towards the exit, keeping watch for any Keepers that may be arriving. Allison struggled with Henry’s cell, trying to shatter the glass that trapped him inside. She was running out of time, and her weapon barely did any damage to the protective shield.
Sammy walked forwards, tapping on the glass of his own cell. Allison peeked around the corner to stare at him, confused. He gestured towards the bottom corner of the glass display, then mimed hitting it. Allison cocked her head to the side, but turned back to Henry’s cell, now aiming her weapon at the bottom right corner. She reared it back, then slammed it into the glass full-force. Just as Sammy had predicted, it shattered on impact. Henry immediately leapt out of his cell, taking in a deep breath.
“Thank you,” he said. “I might’ve gone insane if I had to stay in there any longer.”
Allison nodded sharply. “Glad I could get you out this time. But we have to leave. Now. The Keepers will be here any minute, and we’ll be dead if they catch us.”
Henry watched as she grabbed the wolf and made her way over to the exit. She glanced behind at Henry, eyebrows furrowing. “Are you coming, or what?”
Sammy sighed, turning away from the commotion. He had to pretend he wasn’t involved, lest the Keepers punish him instead of the escapees. He solemnly returned to his chair, grabbing his banjo. His fingers hovered over it, but before he could strum a single chord, the sound of shattering glass flooded his senses. He whipped around in shock, only to see Henry standing in front of his opened cell, Allison’s weapon in hand.
“Did you think I was just going to leave you here?”
Sammy stared at his companion. “Perhaps you should’ve,” he uttered, rising to his feet. “Are you… sure you want me to come with you?”
Henry glanced back at Allison, who gave him an affirmative nod. The artist turned back to Sammy and held his hand out. “There’s no time. It's your choice whether or not you want to come with me.”
Sammy couldn’t stay now that his cell was shattered, he realized. There would be no way to escape the Keepers’ wrath. He had no choice.
The musician took Henry’s hand after a moment’s hesitation. The artist helped him jump out of the cell, avoiding as many glass shards as possible. Sammy looked around the room, eyes landing on the display case near Henry’s prison.
“Wait,” he objected, stopping Henry on his way out. “That… thing. Is it still alive?”
The artist looked over at what Sammy was staring at, and his gaze softened upon sight.
“Why don’t you go find out?” Henry said. He then turned to the angel and the wolf, placing his hand reassuringly on Allison’s shoulder as he handed her the weapon. “I need you two to go now. We’ll catch up later.”
“No,” she said, giving him back the wrench. “Keep it. You need it more than I do. And– try to stay safe, okay?” Allison said. “You don’t have much time left before they come.” With that, she left, the wolf following close behind.
Sammy watched them as they left, a curious glint in his eyes. Once they disappeared around the corner, he made his way over to the display case. He held a cautious hand out, fingers brushing against the glass. As soon as they connected, a screech filled the room, and the projector’s light flicked on.
“Yes. Definitely alive,” he decided.
“I thought so,” said Henry. “Want to bring it with us?”
Sammy nodded, holding his hand out. The artist placed the wrench in his outstretched grip. He reared his arm back, aiming at the top of the glass box. He brought the wrench down with unholy precision, the glass shattering beneath his might. Another screech rang out, and Sammy carefully picked up the projector head.
“You better stay quiet, or else we’ll all die here,” he scolded. The machine’s light flickered in protest, but faded away in time. With a satisfied huff, Sammy handed the wrench back to Henry.
“Let’s go.”
With a sharp nod, Henry led the way out of the prison, the sounds of angered Keepers being left behind as they descended deeper into the studio.
—
Henry was truthfully shocked that his plan worked. So many things could’ve gone wrong, yet everything worked out in his favor. Perhaps it was divine intervention. Perhaps luck. Either way, he was glad Sammy was able to trust him, even after everything they had gone through. It warmed Henry’s heart to see that the musician had retained a bit of humanity after all.
“Why do you worship him?” Henry asked. Sammy turned to face him, not breaking his stride.
“Where is this coming from?”
“Curiosity, I suppose.”
Sammy hummed in response, kicking a stray wooden board from his path. “If there’s a being with immense power, power I could never have myself, I might as well. And besides…” Somehow, Henry saw a glint of a smile on his companion’s inky face. “He speaks to me. He tells me that, someday, he will come and free me from my mortal body. That he’s going to save me, and send me somewhere safe. Somewhere where I can be free.”
“That sounds like he’s just trying to kill you.”
“Pardon?”
The artist shrugged. “I mean, it’s hard to imagine that as anything other than him wanting you dead. No offense, it’s just… it doesn’t sound good. Has he ever
actually
done anything for you? Has he ever kept his promises?”
He fell silent, gaze falling to the ground. It was like Henry could stare into his thoughts; the musician seemed heavily conflicted. Henry was right .
“From the beginning of my very existence,” Sammy said, “I’ve worshiped him without a second thought. It was like second nature for me. He was my only consolation in a world of darkness. You mean to tell me… that was all for nothing?”
A frown made its way onto Henry’s face. “Hey, you don’t have to let some heartless demon determine your worth. You’re your own person, remember? You’re Sammy.”
A moment’s pause. Then, a shaky breath. After all this time, he had finally figured it out. Figured out who he was, and what his purpose in this world was. He wasn’t the Prophet.
“I’m… Sammy. Yes.”
Sammy Lawrence.