Chapter Six
S hockingly, O’Malley only got one day in solitary for the cellphone incident. Still, the second he comes shuffling back into our shared cell, it’s apparent that it was a pretty shitty one.
But I don’t feel bad for him. Not even slightly.
That was all his doing. He made the executive decision to taunt Brenner and his butt-buddy Linetti, knowing full well that they’re both extremely short-tempered assholes who get off on watching inmates suffer.
And , he did so while also exposing the cellphone that Ren went out of his way to get and give to me .
It was his choice to be stupid, and he should have to deal with the consequences of his actions.
Not to mention, he put us all at risk. Because the guards aren’t as dumb as they look. They know O’Malley doesn’t exactly have the wherewithal to procure a cellphone himself. So who are they going to look at?
His stupid friends.
This is the exact shit I voice to him as soon as he returns.
“What the fuck is your problem, anyway?” I bark at him, pacing around the cell while he just sits on my bunk, hands folded in his lap like he’s being scolded by a parent.
“I mean, are you just that fucking certifiable??” He shrugs, and I stop, bending to line our faces.
“No… You’re selfish , that’s what you are. ”
He frowns. “That ain’t—”
“Not only did you lose something we hadn’t even had the chance to use yet,” I cut him off, “something we never fucking get in here… But you also put us, your friends , at risk! I swear to God, it’s like you don’t care about us at all.”
“Yo, mate, it’s not like that…” he mutters, finally seeming remorseful.
“Yes, it is,” I huff firmly, straightening and running my fingers through my hair. “I would never do something like that to you.”
“Aw, yea, big brother Byron is fookin’ perfect !
” he growls. “Must be nice to be a goddamn celebrity in prison! You, Luthor, Ren… yer all the fookin’ golden boys.
Meanwhile, yer tapped fookin’ friend is the black sheep!
The one everybody hates…” He grabs two fistfuls of his hair and starts yanking it visibly hard.
Hard enough to rip it out. Smacking himself in the face over and over.
“No one understands… I know I’m a worthless screwup, alright?
? I know that… Yeh don’t have to rub it in! ”
Staring at him, I watch his little meltdown closely, feeling the tiniest twinge of empathy. I know I’m not responsible for the way he feels. He’s a tornado of destruction, and he should have to deal with that, like the rest of us do.
At the same time, I understand where he’s coming from…
I was the black sheep of my family. The disappointment . I felt unseen in my own home, like he did. Granted, I never would’ve thought to harm any of them because of it, especially if I’d had a younger sibling, like O’Malley did…
I’ve never actually thought about killing someone in a way that wasn’t completely abstract. Certainly not an innocent child. It’s unfathomable.
But still, the reason I’ve bonded with Kieran is the rest of it. Being perpetually invisible.
And what he doesn’t understand is that I still feel that way now. Even here, with the occasional attention from Joy, and the inmates who sorta look up to me. With Luthor and Ren…
I’m still in the shadows. Begging to be pulled out.
Sighing out hard, I plop down next to him. “You know I’m not like that. I feel left out all the time…”
With them.
I don’t say the words, because I hate how they make me sound, to myself more than anything. Like I’m a whiny third wheel, a desperate, dejected prop in their epic, toxic love story. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling it sometimes. Okay, most of the time.
Always a supporting role… Never a lead.
When’s it gonna be my turn?
Kieran looks up at me, nodding, as if he understands. “You know I didn’t tell ’em anything, yeah? About the phone… where it came from.”
I nod in response. I know he wouldn’t do that. But it doesn’t matter.
“Did they even ask you where you got it…?”
He balks a bit, shaking his head.
Exactly. They don’t need to ask because they already know.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens,” I mutter, choosing to change the subject. I’d rather not stress about something I can’t control. “How was solitary?”
He snorts. “Fookin’ great. On my way back, I saw that preppy little creep… The Carver .”
“Felix Darcey?” My brows zip.
The infamous serial killer has been here for a couple of months, but we don’t see him much. They started keeping him isolated, since pandemonium tends to break out any time he’s around the rest of us.
Well, the crazier of us.
“Yeah. Got himself a cellmate,” O’Malley huffs.
Now I’m even more surprised. “Really?”
He nods. “Yeh know that new preck who came in the other day, then disappeared? Big, dumb-lookin’ fook…”
“Oh, yea…” I hum, thinking back to seeing the guy for two seconds, then never seeing him again. “His name’s Wilkerson. I just assumed he switched groups.”
O’Malley shakes his head. “He’s in a cushy, private cell with preppy boy. I heard the little nutter went on a hunger strike or some shit, demanding a cellmate. Velle must’ve caved.”
A breath puffs from my lips. “Well, that… sounds like a bad idea.”
But it doesn’t necessarily surprise me. Felix Darcey is a hot commodity in Manuel Blanco’s collection of twisted trophies. Makes sense that they’d give in to his every spoiled demand.
O’Malley laughs. “Put me in with him… I’ll fook ’im up. That boy ain’t shit.”
He jumps up and starts bouncing around, play-boxing while talking shit about The Carver. And I’m just shaking my head.
I dunno… You can never be sure what’s inside someone else’s mind, right? The kinds of secrets we hold…
Kieran O’Malley wears his issues on his sleeve. That’s one way of doing it, I guess. But I know for a fact there are certain things he refuses to talk about. Like his crimes, for example.
What he did to his little brother…
I’m sure Felix Darcey has done similar shit. He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.
Crazy doesn’t always look crazy.
Thoughts are cluttering my mind, and I don’t like it.
I need to get them out. Unfortunately, O’Malley is still prancing around, ranting about nonsense, and I don’t want to risk going for my secret stash spot while he’s awake.
He’s fucking nosy, and while I don’t mind sharing my toothpaste or the occasional cigarette with him, there’s one hidden item I can’t have him—or anyone else, for that matter—finding.
The sudden, clunking footsteps indicative of a correctional officer up the row pause my swirling secrets. Officer Hancock comes strutting over, then stops in front of our cell.
Odd… We’re supposed to be in for the night.
“On your feet, 62,” he says vacantly, then barks at O’Malley, “You… Over there. Hug the wall.”
I gape at him before glancing at O’Malley, who looks just as uneasy as I’m sure I do.
“What is this?” O’Malley places his palms flat on the opposite wall while I stand up slowly. “I just got back!”
“I don’t care about you,” Hancock breathes out, like he’s already exhausted by the sheer act of talking to us. He nods at me. “Turn around.”
What the hell??
Rather than arguing, I do as he says, despite my internal unease. There’s no point in fighting it. I’m most likely going to solitary, or to The Box… Somewhere they can torture me because of that goddamn cellphone.
Still, I make sure to shoot O’Malley one last this is your fault look while Hancock cuffs me and drags me away. In his defense, he does appear pretty guilty. But that won’t save me from whatever the fuck they’re about to do.
Nervous chills are rushing across my skin, and I can’t help it. As hard a shell as I try to build up around myself, it’s no use. This place has a way of breaking through even the sturdiest of barriers.
I’ve been here for nearly three years. Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent that time turning myself to stone. Other times, I’m just as scared, lonely, and sad as I was the day I woke up strapped to that chair…
“Wait a minute…” I mumble. Mostly to myself, since I know Herby Hancock doesn’t care what I have to say. “We’re not going down…”
“No talking, inmate,” he growls, unsurprisingly.
But this is weird…
Why are we going… up?
Why are we crossing over… to the West Wing?
For some reason, this is causing me to shake even harder. I expected solitary, the East, The Box. I expected torture . As far as I know, none of that happens on the west side of the prison.
You’d think heading in the opposite direction of misery would be comforting, but it’s not. Not even a little.
Inmates rarely come over here. Because it’s where he is…
Hancock brings me up some stairs— actual fucking stairs! There are no stairs anywhere else in the Pen. It’s bizarre as hell, made even stranger by the fact that there actually are stairs. Just not on our side, apparently.
God, this building is like The Labyrinth meets Kubrick meets fucking M.C. Escher.
It’s insane how much higher up I feel just from walking upstairs for the first time in three years. The altitude is making me high.
Hm, that’s funny.
Hancock stops me in front of a door, silencing everything in my head. He knocks, and I’m just standing, shivering , in place, with my hands cuffed behind my back.
I’m sure I know who’s on the other side of this door… But I don’t wanna think about it.
“Come,” the voice calls, and my teeth set, a long breath leaving my lungs.
Fuck.
The door opens, and I’m shoved through, into the middle of a wide-open space. Before me is a window displaying the ocean, barely illuminated by the setting sun. A desk, large and richly brown—something like mahogany.
And of course, The Ivory. Sitting behind it, his gaze focused on the screen of a MacBook.
He’s not even paying attention to me, but I’m fidgeting in place, feeling like I’m on display. The room isn’t huge, but it’s big enough that everything feels especially spread apart right now. There’s nowhere to hide.