Chapter 36 Sandwiched in Jail
Sandwiched in Jail
I'm immediately hit by the weight of the air, thick with the scent of antiseptic and despair.
The cell is overcrowded with women of all ages crammed into a space designed for half as many.
Most of their faces are lined with boredom, while a few are bug-eyed and teary with fear.
Some lie on bunks, others sit on the floor, and a few stand, propped against the walls.
Space is a commodity here, and I've just become an unwelcome deficit.
They observe me, their eyes skimming over my form in quick, calculating sweeps. It's clear I'm fresh meat in a pen that's already overfull. There's tension in the low murmured conversations, and it coils in the air like a living thing.
The guard who escorts me—a bulky white man with a thick neck and a gaze that's too lingering, too assessing—leans close as he unlocks the cell. "You'll be safe here, don't worry," he murmurs, but his smirk tells a different story. It's a look that makes my skin crawl.
"You know," he says conversationally, as if we are having a normal chat on the street, "you are a little too skinny. Pretty, but skinny." He encircles my arm in his meaty hand. "If you’re a good girl, I could get you some extra food."
I know exactly what he means by "good girl." I chance a glance at his name badge. Saunders.
The press of someone else’s eyes burns into my skin like a brand, or maybe a bullet. I don’t know from where, but someone doesn’t like this guard taking exception to me.
The urge rises up to rear around on guard Saunders and snap at him that I’m a monster and if he doesn’t keep his distance, I’ll make him regret it. But I don’t want to make waves here. I force myself to remain in my cocoon of gray dullness.
I find a spot on the edge of a bench and try to shrink into myself, taking up as little room as possible. The women shuffle, making space, not out of kindness but to mark territory, a silent warning that I should stay within my invisible boundaries.
Then I see her—the one who doesn't shuffle or move aside. A Hispanic woman in her early thirties, sitting on the floor, her back against the wall. Her hazel eyes haven't left me since I entered.
She has frizzy, unkempt black hair and her top is scooped low at the neck in a blatant attempt to show off her generous breasts to near indecency. There's a hardness in her gaze, a cold calculation that’s mirrored by the flexing in her square jaw.
Saunders throws a smirk in my direction. "Make yourself at home. Tony will take care of you." I can only assume Saunders’ first name is Tony.
Then he locks his gaze with the hard-eyed woman on the floor. The look they share is one of familiarity, but there's an edge to it, a silent struggle of wills.
"Carmela," he acknowledges her.
She tilts her head and gives him a look as suggestive as it is dangerous. "Tony."
He lingers on her a moment longer before his attention trails back to me, and his lips curl up at the edges in a silent promise.
As the guard's footsteps fade away, Carmela rises to her feet. She moves with a predatory grace, stepping over the legs of others without once looking down. There's an economy to her movements, a purpose that tells me she's used to this dance.
Carmela stops before me, her shadow falling over my knees. "You're sitting in my spot," she says, her voice low and deceptively soft. But there's no mistaking the threat underlying her words.
I look around. The absurdity of the situation is almost laughable—there are no spots in a place like this, only shared misery. But the challenge has been laid out, and it's clear she expects a response.
I stand, not wanting to escalate things. "Didn't realize it was taken," I reply, keeping my voice neutral.
Her eyes narrow slightly and I can tell she's sizing me up, trying to gauge if I'm a threat or just another body to push around. "Everything in here is claimed," she informs me, her eyes flicking to the guard's now distant form and back to me. "Including favors from the guards."
The subtext is clear, and a chill runs down my spine. I'm not just in physical danger from the overcrowded conditions and the desperation that hangs in the air. There's a social order here, one that she's staked a claim over.
The other women watch, some with disinterest, others with a keen attention that tells me they're well-versed in the dynamics at play. This is a world with its own rules, and I'm an interloper.
Carmela steps closer, and I feel the heat of her breath. "Stay out of my way, and we won't have a problem," she hisses.
I nod, understanding the unspoken rules of engagement. But as she turns and walks away, the cell shrinking around me, I realize that even the smallest misstep here is dangerous.
The cell is cloaked in darkness, a suffocating blanket of silence enveloping the overcrowded space. I manage to find a spot on the floor to lie down. I’ve no doubt I’d be met with some kind of crude shank if I made toward any of the bunks my first night here.
My fingers drum over each other on my chest as I sleepily muse how it’s both similar and different to the homes I’ve been in.
A bunch of people stuck together full of rage, hurt, and fear—that's the same. The competition for resources—also the same. But I usually got a bed, and the food is crappier here.
Amid fitful sleep and the soft murmurs of the restless, the jangle of keys and a beam of a flashlight cut through the dark.
Blinking against the harsh light on my face, it takes a minute to make out who it is.
The guard from before stands at the bars near me, his silhouette a hulking mass against the faint light spilling in from the hallway.
"Smith," Tony hisses, sliding a wrapped package through the bars. "Special delivery."
I sit up, squinting at the unexpected offering. It’s a sandwich, a little squished but intact. My stomach growls loudly.
Crap.
"I’m good," I say, trying to beg off.
"Take it," Tony’s voice hardens, brooking no argument. I'm not sure what he’ll do if I deny his gift, but I suspect it will kick up a fuss. I don’t want his favor, but I don’t want to wake up or disturb a bunch of my cellmates either.
My fingers reluctantly curl around the sandwich as I pull it between the bars.
At the last second, he strikes, his hand gripping my wrist tightly, his thumb caressing my skin. He leans in, breath reeking of coffee and something darker. "You'll get your chance to thank me later," he murmurs.
Fucking fabulous.
I don’t respond, I simply hold his gaze until he releases me and retreats. I tuck the package under my pillow, knowing full well the kind of thanks he's expecting.
Do I have "dick me down" tattooed on my forehead?
Again that simmering anger boils up like ichor, but I try to keep it under control so I can relax back onto the floor.
Somewhere between dreaming and restlessness, a hand grips my hair and yanks me up. I shout, my hands reaching up to stop the pulling even as chunks of my hair separate from my skull.
It's Carmela, her face contorted with jealous fury. Guess she saw her boyfriend sneaking me food.
Before I can react, her fist connects with my cheek. My head snaps to the side as my brain is jolted violently within my skull.
"He won't want you if you look like a bruised peach," Carmela sneers, delivering blow after blow. "I’ll snap you like the toothpick you are until you are too broken to take his dick, you little slut."
I end up curled into a ball on the floor, trying to protect myself, but her kicks find their mark. My ribs explode with pain, and I can’t find my breath as the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
No one moves to help me.
"Are you scared, you little bitch?" she spits out, "Because around here, I’m the monster who will make your nightmares a living dream, 24/7."
That chasm that broke open earlier today widens enough so a dark rage gathers in my chest, spreading outward like a cancer. A laugh bubbles up, bitter and bloody.
She thinks she's a monster?
I spit out a mouthful of blood onto the concrete and begin to laugh, the sound hollow and mirthless.
"You think I should be scared of you?" I manage to gasp out between hushed laughter and sharp intakes of breath. "I sleep with monsters, real monsters. You can't even begin to fathom what truly scares me."
It sure isn’t as fuck her.
Carmela pauses, her fists clenched. The shadows in the room begin to stir, to coil and twist with a life of their own. My laughter grows, a manic soundtrack to the encroaching darkness.
"I've been through hell," I continue, my voice gaining strength as I push myself up to my feet. I wobble on my unsteady legs, pain lancing through my stomach and chest. I likely have some bruised ribs, but I welcome the familiar discomfort right now. In the well of injury, I’m only stronger.
"I've seen things, felt things... You're just a bully in a cage. But me? I'm the one who dances with demons, who lies in the arms of shadows." The more I speak, the more confidence fills me.
Confusion and uncertainty creep into Carmela’s eyes as the darkness in the jail thickens, an unnatural cold filling the room. The other inmates stir, a murmur of unease rising like a tide. My back is to the corner of the cell that is now empty of women, but fast filling with shadows.
"And the thing about monsters," I whisper, my voice steady as the air pulses around me, "is that they look out for their own."
The bars rattle, a low growl emanating from my corner, the sound of a nightmare made flesh. Carmela backs away, her bravado crumbling in the face of the true horror that approaches.
The air thickens, darkness converging, and then he's here—Shadow. His presence fills the cell behind me, a solid promise of vengeance and protection. My monstrous guardian.
Carmela’s mouth flaps open and closed, her eyes widening until they are saucers filled to the brim with fear.
A dark delight dances in my heart when she begins to tremble.
Claws wrap around my throat as I’m pulled back against Shadow’s chest. To anyone else, it might look like he’s about to strike me dead, but the way he possessively holds me to him is a lover’s protection.
His chest vibrates against me and I recognize the pitch of his growl. A glance upward and I see his horns have elongated and twisted back into infernal spires. He’s been feasting on monsters, and now he's hungry for human hearts.
And I’m more than willing to let him feed.