Chapter Fourteen
G etting a proper grasp of how I’m feeling is proving difficult.
By all accounts, I’m fucking fuming. I don’t want to be here.
I shouldn’t be here. The Warden flat-out admitted that I didn’t need to be locked up in this shabbiest of shabby prisons, miles and miles outside of civilization, but that he’s decided to keep me here for his own personal gain.
Not that I even understand what he wants from me, but I can already tell he’s not the most transparent of individuals.
I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m not alone… If there are others like me, who aren’t the worst criminals ever, rather poor blokes who wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Nonetheless, my mood has flat-lined, and it could be due to the all-time-low dopamine levels. But I’m choosing to believe it’s more the fault of The Ivory… and his pal , Dr. Love.
As far as I’m concerned, they’re both responsible for my current predicament. Though, if we’re being candid, I blame Dr. Love way more.
Manuel Blanco is just a sociopathic monster. But Dr. Love isn’t . He’s a regular person, a doctor ; a professional caregiver. And yet he threw me right underneath the bus without a second thought.
That, as far as I’m concerned, is inexcusable.
Despite the unhinged sense of betrayal I’m feeling, thanks to my former psychiatrist, I can’t deny that being here isn’t all that different from some of the other places I’ve existed—a sad notion in its own right.
Of course, the setting itself is more rundown than even the worst fleabag motel I’ve squatted in.
But I’m not exactly picky , nor have I ever been in a position to turn down four walls and a roof.
There’s freedom that comes with giving up. Wearing all of those masks Dr. Love convinced me to wear was exhausting. Working menial jobs for practically nothing, stressing myself just to pay the bills—to afford a studio apartment that was barely bigger than this bloody cell.
Fighting to deny my urges and be a good guy … It was a lot of work.
Letting go and just being me , degenerate or not, has rid me of that heavy burden. And now I’m just… breathing.
Manuel Blanco gave me my own cell in general population, a few halls down from the others, meaning it’s a bit more secluded. It’s still a prison cell, so it’s boring as all get out, but the bed is actually more comfortable than the cot I was sleeping on in Bangkok. So… that’s something.
One thing they haven’t relayed yet is whether there’s any sort of commissary , though I’m assuming there isn’t, based on the state of this place.
For as loud as it can be at times, it still seems like there’s barely anyone here.
They don’t appear to have an office, or much staff.
Just the guards. Which, once again, has me wondering…
What exactly does Dr. Love do here that’s so enthralling?
For my first official day in general population, I can’t stop moving.
My body is still achy and tired, but when I try to lie down, my limbs are too restless.
I have to get up and move. I wind up pacing the entire circumference of my cell dozens of times while singing miscellaneous songs.
Anything to distract from the boredom and my brain’s beckoning pleas for narcotics.
Just as I’m launching into my tenth straight rendition of God Save The Queen , I hear footsteps.
The excitement is instant because I haven’t interacted with another person since a guard whose name tag read Peters dropped off some food for me last night.
I say food , but really it was a bottle of water and four of those little packets of soup crackers, sans soup.
I know. I’ll alert the Zagat.
Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing either him, or C.O. Chevelle, or maybe some other Officer man-candy, because so far, they’re all unreasonably good looking.
Could that be the draw? Worst prison in the world, but the guards are so hot it doesn’t matter?
The clomping ends up belonging to someone else—also not ugly, thus proving my point.
Equally large—as seems to be the standard—but not dressed in the same uniform that Officers Chevelle and Peters were wearing.
This man is in simple black garb, yet still properly tailored.
He has a bronze complexion and light hair…
A stern face with a no-nonsense air about him.
Either this is a requirement of working here, or working here makes them all like this.
Regardless, I’m not paying much attention to the man, because I’m distracted by what he’s carrying—a giant fruit basket. And I mean giant .
It’s the size of a Buick.
“What’s this now?” I huff as he struggles to get it inside my cell without dropping it.
“A gift,” the man rumbles on a breath. “From The Ivory.”
I feel a sparkle in my gaze, and a timid smile pulling at my lips. “Well, isn’t that sweet…”
Advantage: Blanco.
Dr. Love never gave me a giant basket of treats.
“Enjoy,” the man says, with dead eyes and a blank tone, as if he doesn’t care whether I enjoy it or not. “My name is Kent, by the way. I work directly for Mr. Blanco, so if you need anything, send for me.”
My brow cocks. “How? Via carrier pigeon?? How am I supposed to contact you?”
He gives me an emotionless stare, and I simply exhale.
“Thank you. Much appreciated, Kent. Can I have some liquor?”
“No.”
“Cigarettes?”
“No.”
“A cellphone?”
“ Hell no.”
My jaw tics. “Well, what can you give me that isn’t in this Moby-Dick-sized basket??”
He actually thinks about it for a moment before ultimately mumbling, “I’ll get back to you.”
And then he leaves.
Ah, sod it. At least I have this beautiful gift from my good pal Manuel Blanco to entertain me.
And entertain , it does. The basket is chock-full of delicacies.
Mostly food, various fruits and chocolates, gourmet cheeses, crackers, and olives.
There are even two small cans of some sparkling soda-like drink.
Non-alcoholic, of course. But once I get through the edible layer, I find things that allude to this basket being custom-built.
There are toiletries, like soaps and lotions, toothpaste and a toothbrush— thankfully, because I was beginning to wonder…
And then I notice some bottles of nail polish. Dark colors, black, red, blue, purple, but without any of the other mani-pedi accoutrements that would make it like a bridal shower or Mother’s Day gift.
Understandably… They’re obviously not going to give me anything sharp.
I do find some pens, though no paper, which is frustrating. But then I stop in my tracks, eyes lighting up when I reach something amazing .
A pair of fuzzy socks… with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on them.
“Oh…” I pick up them, instantly giddy, like I’m a child again. Only this time, my parents weren’t raving fuckholes, and they actually cared enough about me to give me a proper gift they knew I’d love .
“Papa?” I call out, glancing around.
Is Manuel Blanco watching me??
How the bloody hell would he know I love the Turtles??
And the more burning question… Will he be my new Daddy?
It’s all rather odd, but I’m too elated to care. This is quite the sweet gift…
But a frown swallows up my grin. I wonder what he wants from me.
What he’ll expect in return…
Shrugging it off, I go back to playing with my gifts like a right simpleton, eating grapes and sniffing lotions. Distracted only by more footsteps roughly an hour later. Lighter ones.
I peer up to find a female approaching my cell this time. I’m momentarily taken aback, until I remember that I’ve also seen her before, the day I arrived.
There are female officers? Color me intrigued…
“On your feet, inmate,” she gives a command, as surly as any of the men. Maybe more.
I’m instantly swooning.
Doing as I’m told, I watch her closely while she opens my cell, but doesn’t come inside. She simply nods for me to come out, which I do.
“Walk,” she barks.
Alright, I’m obsessed with her.
“What’s your name?” I ask while we stroll the halls. She’s power-walking, and I’m striding to keep up, easily since I’m much taller than her. “Mine’s Trevel.”
“I know,” she grumbles, but doesn’t answer my question.
I check her name tag. “Officer Jameson…?” I murmur, and she peeks at me.
She reminds me a lot of Officer Chevelle. They’re like Prison Guard Barbie and Ken. I wanna smoosh ’em together and make them kiss.
Wondering where she’s taking me, but opting not to ask, since she’s clearly not much of a talker, I just continue to walk with her through the halls, until we reach what appear to be the showers.
Good. I’m dying to wash my biscuits.
“Go on,” Officer Jameson says firmly. “Shower time. No funny business.”
I open my mouth to make a smart-ass comment, but the look on her face shuts me right up. She’s a bit scary, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.
Wandering into the showers, I look for a good spot. They’re all open, because there’s no one else in here, which seems strange. Do all inmates shower alone? That doesn’t seem practical… Or fun.
Choosing a stall in the corner that looks promising, I strip out of my clothes, my thoughts interrupted when I recall my fancy soaps.
Bollocks! I forgot them. Or I didn’t think to bring them because no one told me I’d be showering.
“I wish there was someone around to commiserate with…” I grumble, pressing the button for water while glancing around. “Maybe a certain cigarette-loving ninja bear who has a habit of disappearing when I need him the most…?”
Still, nothing.
Melancholy winds around my ribcage. I’m just so… lonely . I’ve only been here a few days and I already want to swallow a bullet. Being alone is making it infinitely more difficult to avoid and deny the miserable state of my existence.
The guards barely speak, and I’m isolated from everyone else. I have no one to talk to… Not even an imaginary best friend to keep me company. I’m left with only my thoughts, and myself. A lethal combination.