Chapter 3
Milo
It’s too loud.
And too bright.
The food hall has been so much more unbearable since they integrated us, mixed all genders together. It’s like the men think that the louder and more obnoxious they are the more likely they will catch the attention of the women. It’s led to more punch ups, more shouting, more… everything.
And some of the women are just as vocal.
My attention gets pulled away from the porridge in front of me to one of the loudest guys.
He’s one of the biggest too. At least six foot four and with shoulders that could rival a bull.
He’s ripped the arms off the standard issue orange scrubs to make it a vest. I’m assuming his biceps simply didn’t fit into the fabric.
I swear, his arms are bigger than my thighs.
The left one is covered in tattoos; they map his skin all the way up from his wrist and disappear under the fabric at his shoulder.
His other wrist, too, has some sort of band. Not that I’m noticing.
I just like tattoos. I’ve always wanted one but have never had the chance. I’m not even sure I could pull off a tattoo.
I’m not muscular in any way. I’m what you call lean. Small. Willowy. I like it that way, it means I can live my life undetected in here. People think I’m not worth the time. I’m one hundred percent at the bottom of the pecking order but that suits me fine. I’m invisible.
Number Thirty-Nine? He isn’t invisible. Not at all.
He’s the popular guy. Always surrounded by at least half a dozen others.
And his voice is as big as his physical presence.
It carries around the large dining room and can be heard above the noise of the other hundred people in here.
I can’t quite make out what’s being said currently, but he’s laughing and joking with several others, who all seem raptured by whatever story he’s telling.
He pats one of them on the shoulder whilst saying something, leaning down from where he’s sitting on the table, feet on the bench seat, before breaking in raucous laughter.
He’s from Ireland. His accent reminds me of the fifth family I had.
The one I stayed with the longest. I lived with them, Sinead and John McKinnon and their daughter Lia for four years.
They were my favourite family of all the ones I grew up with.
That is until they decided to move back to Southern Ireland spewing some bullshit about how I couldn’t go because my birth mother refused to grant me the permission I needed to leave the country with them.
They told me they fought the decision for a while, even tried writing to me after they’d left. But they had left, just like all the rest. Letters didn’t mean shit.
I was fourteen by that point. And no one wants a fucked up fourteen-year-old to foster. I’d had one more family after the McKinnons and that only lasted about seven months. Apparently, losing the family I loved had made me ‘unmanageable.’
Fuck the lot of them.
But I can’t help torturing myself by trying to listen to Wyatt, known as number Thirty-Nine, because maybe it’ll allow me to tune out the voices in my own head for a little while.
Did I mention that we're all numbered here? The guards and officers only refer to us as such. It’s stamped onto the left side of the chest of our scrubs. Many of the prisoners have shared their names, I’m trying to learn them but it can be hard to keep track.
I’m Nineteen.
My real name is Milo. I think the guards know that even if they don’t use it. They must, right? They must know what crimes each of us did to land ourselves in here too. As weird of a prison as this is.
None of the other inmates know my name. None seem to have recognised me from my face being splashed across the headline news for the weeks after my crimes, or again when my case went to trial. Which is honestly a blessing.
If none of them knew, I wasn’t going to tell them. Not that I could tell them anyway. I’ve not spoken more than the odd word since my family left me.
I’m about to resume eating my porridge, dragging my eyes away from Thirty-Nine and his crew when the swing doors to the recreation room burst open and three Officers barge in with a new prisoner in cuffs.
Chatter immediately ceases.
Officer Zephyr is holding the new prisoner.
She must be savage if he’s the one handling her.
Zephyr is the one in charge of this wing.
He’s also new, having turned up about a week ago.
And he seems to have a point to prove because he’s a harsh motherfucker.
He has no qualms about using his muscles to de-escalate the fights that break out, or if any inmates give him any attitude.
He looks super pissed off as he walks the new woman a few steps into the room. The two other guards that entered with him stopped by the door.
The woman has also already custom tailored her prison attire, the top ripped into a boxy crop.
As she twists in her cuffs, it rides higher, flashing glimpses of the standard issue black sports bras the women receive.
She's also rolled the waist of the trousers, so they sit low on her hips, fully exposing the expanse of her toned stomach. Her skin looks flawless from my seat in the corner. But it’s her hair that really catches my attention.
It falls around her in black silky strands.
Except, when she moves, bright colours reveal themselves, lighting up in the fluorescent lighting overhead.
I think the underneath might have all seven colours of the rainbow.
It’s unique, and loud. And I get the feeling she is just as bold as her hair as she fires a few curses at the Officer at her back.
Maybe that’s what has pissed off Zephyr so much.
Clearly this woman has a lot of attitude.
His face is darker than usual, his eyes are a brewing storm of rage.
I don’t like when he lets loose on us. He’s a raging typhoon when he’s angry and we all get punished.
Even if it’s just one or two prisoners that have kicked off.
The woman struggles in her cuffs, trying to turn to face him, but he holds her firm.
Waiting until she stops struggling, he leans down, whispering something in her ear.
Her top lip lifts in a snarl at whatever he says before he unlocks her cuffs and sets her free.
He gives her a little shove and steps back, leaving quickly with a few barked orders to the Officers standing at their posts near the exit.
The woman surveys the room. Few have stopped looking at her. It’s always like this when a new person enters our population. And it's been a couple of weeks since the last one, so this is a huge day for us, especially when our days are so repetitive they blend together.
She stands tall and places her hands on her hips. “Warm welcome you get in this place,” she says sarcastically to the room.
Wyatt is the first to move. He leaps down from where he’d been sitting and walks straight up to her offering his hand.
“Wyatt,” he introduces himself. “Remember it because you’ll be screaming it later.”
She laughs. And doesn’t take his hand. I see her assess him, her head tilting as she takes him in. She’s about five foot ten from my estimation, the top of her head coming to his chin.
“Yeah, pass,” she concludes. “You couldn’t keep up with me if you tried, let alone get me screaming anything. Except maybe instructions.”
Wyatt’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and he visibly bristles like he’s never been rejected before. Which, to be fair, I’m not sure he has. In the month or so I’ve gotten to observe him, he's slept with several of the other inmates. And several more are always fawning over him.
“I know what I’m doing.” His comeback isn’t strong, even I wince. Several sniggers can be heard as half the room is still listening to their exchange. It's the first time I’ve seen him a little flustered and not knowing what to say. Interesting.
“Sure you do, big guy.” I hear the condescension in her tone from my seat.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get some food.
They fucking starve you during processing.
” She pats his chest as she passes, heading for the food hatch at the back of the room.
Wyatt spins in place, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t like being dismissed or ignored.
After a second he shakes it off and returns to his group, muttering something that has them all laughing once more.
I watch her as she strides down the centre aisle, between the rows of dining tables, like she’s on a catwalk towards the servers. She takes her time perusing the food and then stacking her tray. Life resumes around her, everyone goes back to eating and talking, it gets too loud once more.
Trying to concentrate on my breakfast again, I attempt to drown out the incessant chatter which has broken out again, when there’s a thunk a few seats down from me.
I never sit with anyone else, and luckily this hall is big enough that we can spread out with seats to spare.
Having someone invade the space I’ve carved out sends my nerves into overdrive.
Glancing up, I see it's the new prisoner. She’s on the opposite side of the table but I can make out her number. Ninety-Eight.
She has surprised me by not joining another group.
She seems the kind of confident that would walk up to anyone that took her fancy and just force her presence on them.
I assume she will be the female equivalent of Wyatt, even from what little I’ve seen of her so far.
Her entire aura screams to be noticed. Yet, she seems uninterested in making friends.
She begins wolfing down a bacon sandwich, taking the meat from a second roll and putting it in the first, discarding the bread. She’s also got a plate of sausages and eggs, hashbrowns, some toast, and a bowl of porridge.
Compared to other facilities I’ve been to, the food here is good.
They haven’t cheaped out on it like most places.
Not that Ninety-Eight seems to care by the way she’s inhaling it.
She barely chews as she grabs item after item, like she hasn’t eaten in days.
And she eats every crumb. She even goes back to the discarded roll, scooping the eggs up with it.
I’m not one to judge anyone on their habits, but it’s just… intriguing. She’s clearly fit, maybe she burns a lot of calories working out.
As she finishes the last mouthful the guards start signalling us to clear out. They split us after breakfast, and we rotate between recreation, the showers and a fitness area.
Catching my eye as she stands, she lifts the glass of orange juice she’d also grabbed to her lips. I note the deep shade of brown around her irises. It reminds me of maple syrup; rich, deep, and with a lighter ring around the outer edge.
She finishes her drink and plonks the empty cup down on the table as she swipes her mouth with the back of her other hand.
“Hi,” she says more softly than I expect. After her altercation with Wyatt it's not a voice I’d thought her capable of.
I dip my head in greeting.
“I’m Tacita.” Her name rolls off her tongue and wraps around me like a chord. I cement it into my head.
Pointing to my left pec, to the number nineteen stamped there, I watch her track my movements until she realises what I’m doing. She gives me a look, like she’s expecting me to follow up with my real name.
I want to give her it, but I can’t, my throat seizing as I even contemplate speaking. So, I tap my number again.
Her eyes narrow slightly and lines form on her forehead as if she’s gone deep into concentration, like I’ve just become a puzzle she can’t solve.
I don’t like it. My skin tightens over my bones.
I lower my hand and turn, scurrying off into the crowd leaving the dining hall before she gets a chance to ask any follow up questions–or worse, follows me.