12. AURORA
The bruises on my abdomen shift from an angry, midnight purple to a sickly greenish-yellow. That’s how I mark time in Quo, not by a calendar, but by the fading marks on my own skin.
My father being dead hardly enters my consciousness. I’ve tucked the knowledge away with the rest of my unwanted thoughts.
I’m more concerned with the dull, familiar ache starting in my lower back and the heavy pull in my abdomen. Seems like my bruises are fading just in time for my body to start its next cycle of misery. My first period in a prison.
I imagine this is going to go great.
This is the first month of my teen years where I haven’t had a healer ease the cramping pain—or have a maid draw me a bath filled with lavender, peppermint and chamomile.
Instead I have a morning of heavy lifting and heat. I’ve a permanent role now at the steam presses.
I spend the walk to the laundry block trying to ignore the grinding ache in my body.
“Get to it, Barbie! Who the fuck gave you PTO?” Dot doesn’t seem inclined to coddle me. Fair enough.
“Morning, Dot,” I mutter, wiping my forehead before I’ve even started.
Circling around the twins, I head to my station.
Keisha and Alanna, of course, work in unison heaving the wet piles of fabric from one machine to another.
They’re always humming something under their breath.
Today I think it’s that fucked up "Happy Hanging Day" song again.
Keisha catches me staring. Pulling a wet towel from the basket, she rubs it against her cheek, grinning, then winks.
The cloth is absolutely covered in blood stains.
Delightful. So good to be back.
When I get to the steam press, I can’t see Candy, so she’s probably tucked away behind the giant dryer units. Her little hands clear the lint traps and debris, as she’s crammed into a tiny gap.
Talk of the tiny devil.
She crawls out with an armful of fuzz. I kick the trash can in her direction, but Candy shakes her head. “It’s for Dot,” she whispers, stuffing the gray tufts into her pockets. “She said I can have her bread tonight if I get at least a bucketful.”
“Why does Dot want lint?” I ask, my mind trying to find a logical answer and failing. Candy looks startled. “Rory, you shouldn’t ask questions, it’s bad.” Her eyes dart around the room, like someone is going to beat her for breathing.
It makes my heart hurt. “Hey, I understand that’s what you’ve learned to survive, but I promise you this. It’s always OK to ask me questions, anytime. Anything.”
Candy bites her lip, then nods, immediately goes back to harvesting the wool like it’s gold. Whatever Dot is doing with all that fluff, it’s a Digger secret I’m clearly not privy to yet. Maybe she’s just trying to make a softer pillow. Though “soft” tied with “Dot” is an oxymoron.
“Barbie!” Dot’s voice cracks like a whip from across the room. “The old industrial unit at the back is banging harder than a priest with his choir boys. Move your ass and hit the shutoff before the bitch finally blows a gasket. Now!”
“On it,” I call back.
Fearing an imminent appliance explosion, I skid round the corner into the dim, humid room at the far end. The vibration back here is intense, a rattle that makes my bones shake.
Stumbling to a stop, I freeze. Uh, what?
Sitting atop the oldest, most violent dryer in the block is Jolene. Her legs are spread wide, and she’s riding that thing like it’s a square, metal bronco. Her head tilts back, eyes squeezed shut and her moans join the chorus of banging and shaking.
The shut-off button is basically right between her thighs.
“Jolene?”
My voice is drowned out as Jolene squeals her release. A serene smile spreads across her face and she peels an eye open.
“The divine flow,” she whispers, her voice rasping. “Can you feel my life force? Hmm, you should try it. Find your sacred state.”
“Um, honestly, I need to find the off-switch, do you mind?” I gesture vaguely.
She smirks then jumps down. “Your loss, Princess.” She leans against the wall, rolling a cigarette.
I finally get the machine to turn off. The silence that follows is awkward as fuck, filled only by the hiss of cooling steam and the smell of hot oil.
“I guarantee you’ll be less uptight if you amplify your energy,” Jolene says as I stand again.
“I’ll bear it in mind,” I mutter, not looking at her.
“And the spin drive is nirvana,” Jolene calls as I beat a retreat.
Fuck my life.
I practically jog back to my station. Candy is still methodically stripping lint from a trap. I slump against the machine next to her and make sure Dot is occupied before leaning in closer. “I just caught Jolene having a very intimate moment with the industrial dryer.”
Her eyes go wide, her hands pausing in a pile of gray fluff. “What, like… sitting on it?”
“Legs-akimbo. Eyes closed. Talking about ‘divine flow’.” I shake my head, a hysterical little bubble of laughter rising in my throat. “I think she and the machine are officially dating.”
Candy’s mouth twitches, and then she lets out a quiet, stifled giggle. “Well,” she whispers, stuffing another handful of lint into her pocket. “I hope she added a stain remover to the load. Divine flow can be a bitch to get out of twill.”
I snort. “Probably depends on how aligned her chakras got.”
Out of all the Digger girls, I’m most comfortable with Candy and Layla. And I think it’s mutual. The three of us have some weirdly fun times.
For the kid, it’s different when other people are around. Especially men. Any male makes Candy clamp up and hide immediately.
Wait, that’s not true, she’s good with Imran.
I guess that’s not surprising, a less threatening male doesn’t exist, poor kid. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but it’s bad.
Every night I fall into bed exhausted, muscles throbbing and various steam burns blooming around my body. But in the hour before the morning bell, while Taliesin goes for his “private time” running laps around the yard, I move through my pliés and tendus.
The concrete floor is gritty under my bare feet, and today, every extension feels like pulling against a lead weight. I’m mid-stretch, my forehead pressed against the iron bars as a cramp twists through my gut.
Taliesin walks in as I groan, his skin steaming in the hot air from his run.
His eyes narrow as they sweep over me. “You’re slow today, Princess.”
“My back hurts,” I mutter, not moving from the bars. “Fuck off and let me die in peace.”
Taliesin steps closer and doesn’t say anything at first, but then I see his nostrils flare slightly. He turns on his heel and marches out. What the fuck? Did he just sniff me?
Groaning again, I splash water on my face, feeling like shit, then collapse on my cot.
No, that doesn’t help. “Asshole,” I croak at the empty doorway.
Fucking stretching then. Every muscle in my back is so tight it could be twanged like a harp string.
I lean back against the cell bars, allowing the cold iron to press into the space under my scapula.
Wriggling from side to side, I can really get the pressure into the knots. It’s the only relief I’ve felt all day.
“Ugh,” I moan aloud, eyes fluttering shut for a second of bliss.
And then the world turns to shit.
A hand snakes through the bars, slamming around my neck. Before I can even gasp, the second hand reaches through, clamping onto my left breast with a bruising grip.
I twist my neck to find Officer Copeland’s face inches from mine on the other side of the steel. He’s grinning, showing his yellow teeth like a jackal.
“I heard your moans, Drakeward,” he mutters, his breath smelling like stale, sour coffee. “Seemed like you were asking for something.”
I don’t scream. My throat is locked too tight and anyway. Fuck him.
I shove my palms against the bars, throwing my weight forward with a desperate lunge. Copeland’s hands snag on my collar, the fabric tearing with a sharp rip before I finally break his reach. I stumble back until my spine hits the opposite wall, gasping for air and fucking FURIOUS.
Not today, asshole, not today.
He just stands there, wiping his hand over the crotch of his uniform pants. “I liked those groans, Drakeward. Keep up the good work.” Then he turns and disappears into the shadows of the hallway, the jingle of his keys mocking me all the way down the corridor.
Fuck.
Fuck him.
Fuck my life.
My left breast is throbbing where he’d grabbed me. That bruise is going to be interesting to explain away in the showers.
Though maybe not. Bruises where there should be none are an everyday event in Quo.
Fuck.
Tell someone. The thought flashes through my mind, but I kill it instantly. If I admit what just happened, I’m weak. I’m the victim.
Nope.
I smooth down my torn collar, tucking the shame into the same dark corner where I keep all the fucked up memories.
Nothing to see here.
Aurora Drakeward doesn’t break.
But she does curl up on her cot in a tight ball and wish she was a million miles away.
A few minutes later, something small and heavy flies through the bars, landing with a dull thud on the cot next to me. I nearly jump out of my skin.
When I swivel around, half-expecting Copeland to be back, I see the back of Taliesin’s head as he silently exits the block again.
I reach for the object. It’s half a bar of dark chocolate.
Holy shit!
On my bed is half a bar of chocolate.
When the sugar hits my tongue it feels like the best fucking medicine in the world. Copeland disappears, the bars disappear. It’s just me and the cocoa plant in happy harmony.
Two minutes later I come down from the sucrose-induced trance and try to get my bearings. Tally got me chocolate.
Seems like he and I have reached a strange detente. He’s still the Boss, the king of the sub-levels, but in this cell, he’s the man who teaches me to fight, reluctantly smiles at my snarky comments, and sneaks me emergency PMS candy.
“Shower?” Taliesin asks.
“Gods, yes.” I’m already moving toward the door. The only thing worse than a prison shower is a crowded prison shower, and the early morning is the only time the block isn’t filled with bodies.