19. Jasmine
nineteen
Jasmine
After Emma left, I lay awake. I didn’t bother fighting sleep—I’d forgotten how to want it.
The blue-washed light vibrated against my eyelids, every new pulse from the dying fixture above the corridor drilling down to the roots of my molars.
I kept my jaw shut. You didn’t want to give the place more than it was already taking.
He walked the row with a tray balanced in both hands, the plastic slick with condensation and something red bleeding through the bottom.
His shoes were off, and in the low light, his feet looked even less real than the rest of him.
The other cells were dark; whatever drama he’d staged earlier had finished the night’s supply of audience.
He set the tray on the rolling cart outside my bars.
No food this time—just a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses, stemless, thick-bottomed, meant for people who might drop things.
The bottle was open, cork replaced but leaking a little at the rim.
Adam made a show of rolling the bottle on the tray, letting the droplets skate along the curve.
He didn’t smile, but the angle of his mouth said I was supposed to find it funny.
He crouched, setting his chin level with the slot in the bars. “Do you want to know the best thing about a bunker?” He waited for my answer. I gave him nothing.
He uncorked the bottle with his thumb, the pop so surgical it barely disturbed the stale air. He poured both glasses, filled them identical to the meniscus, then slid one through the slot and kept the other for himself.
The smell hit before the glass did. Red, sharp, the kind of wine that wants to be a warning.
I didn’t move.
Adam took the chair from last time, unfolded it, and sat with the glass cradled in both hands.
His arms rested on his knees, bringing him close enough that I could smell the detergent on his shirt.
“I read somewhere that solitary confinement makes you desperate for any kind of stimulus,” he said, voice almost bored. “Even pain. Even things you hate.”
I shrugged. “You’re the expert.”
He swirled his glass, looking at the liquid, not me. “Loneliness does funny things. It clarifies. It gives you a vision.” He took a sip, rolled it around, swallowed. “It teaches you exactly how different you are from everyone else.”
He looked up, waiting for me to bite. I didn’t.
He set the glass on the floor, careful not to spill. “You know, Jasmine, you’re the only one here who’s never tried to barter for your release. Not once. No deals, no bargains, not even a trade.”
“You want me to ask?” I said.
He shook his head. “No. I want you to admit you’re the same as me.”
The laugh that escaped me wasn’t a laugh at all. “You think we’re twins?”
His eyes flicked over my face. “Not twins. But you have it. The absence. The ability to stay alive in a vacuum. Most people need something reflected back at them or they fall apart.” He thumbed the rim of his glass, a nervous tic that didn’t match the rest of his stillness.
“I wanted to see how long it would take before you cracked.”
I stood, stretching out each muscle one at a time, taking inventory. My body was an account ledger with every deficit marked in red. I walked to the bars, picked up the wine, and held it to the light.
He watched me. “Do you want to know the other thing about a bunker?” he said. “It never forgets what’s inside. No matter how much you clean it, the air remembers.”
I sniffed the wine, then set it down untouched.
He sipped again, slow. “I had a program before this one,” he said, almost a whisper. “It didn’t end well. Someone—one of the women—made a phone call at the wrong time. The police came. It was very sad for her.” He shrugged. “I learned from it. You build a better bunker, you get better results.”
He said it with the easy, patient cadence of a man explaining crop rotation to a five-year-old. Every syllable measured, never wasted.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked. My hand rested against the cell door, feeling the faint vibration of his voice through the steel.
“Because you remind me of her,” he said. “The last one.” He didn’t blink. “She was strong, too. Not as smart. But strong.”
I let that sit between us. The hum of the light filled the space.
He drained his glass, set it on the tray, then reached for the cell door. The lock turned with a click, and he pushed it open, slow and careful. The key hung from his finger on a piece of rawhide, like a dog tag.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
I didn’t step back. I stood with my hands open, visible, ready to snap shut if he made the wrong move.
He came closer, moving with that same empty patience. His face was inches from mine. He smelled like cold sweat and generic deodorant.
He raised his hand, fingers spread wide, then brushed a curl of my hair away from my temple. The touch was gentle, precise, the way you’d handle a newborn bird.
I let him. I needed to know if he’d flinch.
He didn’t. He just looked at me, eyes dark and hungry for something I refused to name.
“My husband is coming,” I said, my voice flat as the slab under my feet.
He nodded. “I know you believe that,” he said.
He stepped back, closed the cell, and locked it again. The sound echoed in my ribs.
He gathered the wine and glasses, left the tray, and walked to the end of the corridor. He didn’t turn around, but at the threshold he paused.
“You’re the only one who’s ever made me doubt myself,” he said.
Then he was gone.
The light hummed, louder now, filling the empty space he left behind.
From the next cell, Renata’s voice, a whisper: “Jasmine?”
I didn’t answer. I watched the corridor, waiting for the footsteps to come back.
After a minute, I said, “I’m okay.”