17. Jasmine #2
The real horror wasn’t the boredom. It was the slow realization that you could survive like this forever, if you let yourself.
That the shape of the cell would press itself into your body, make your muscles forget they were ever meant to do anything but sit and watch.
Every hour, I flexed my calves, then my quads, then tensed my back until I felt the pop and burn.
I needed to remember I was built for more than sitting.
I needed to know the difference between keeping still and being kept still.
Mid-afternoon, Adam made his second rounds.
He didn’t bring food this time, just walked the corridor with his hands behind his back, fingers laced like a pastor about to give a eulogy.
He didn’t look in on Renata, or Sandra, or even Molly—just stopped at my cell, shadow falling in perfect symmetry with the door frame.
He stood there, silent, for maybe a minute. I didn’t look up.
Finally he said, “You ever wonder why you’re still here?”
I didn’t answer. I focused on the way the light made a razor line down the middle of his face, splitting the eyes into black and white. He waited, patient as ever.
He said, “You haven’t broken. But you also haven’t escaped again. That’s a rare combination.”
I kept my mouth shut, kept my head down, kept my hands locked in place. If he wanted a reaction, he’d have to come in here and drag it out of me.
He said, “I think you know how to win, Jasmine. But I don’t think you know how to stop.”
That one got to me, just a little.
He nodded, satisfied. “But I think you need to understand just how much power I really have.” He didn’t look away but said, “Sandra.”
Sandra opened her cell door and knelt in the middle of the aisle. “Should I close my eyes?” she asked, as if she knew what was next.
“That would be a great idea.”
He stood in front of her and lowered his zipper.
“Does everyone give you a blowjob?” I asked. “Cause that’s not happening down here.”
My heart skipped a beat and a gasp caught in my throat as he pissed on Sandra, who stayed on her knees taking it as if it were absolutely fucking normal.
Adam watched me the entire time, the yellow stream splashing against Sandra’s face.
When he finished, he shook his cock and stuffed it back into his pants.
Casually, he walked to the end of the aisle and washed his hands.
“You fucking pig,” I said. “I’ll gut you before this is all over.”
“You may shower, Sandra,” he said.
Sandra stood and crossed the room to the shower we were allowed to use every few days. She stripped and stood under the water. Adam handed her a bottle of shampoo, and she washed her hair.
“She had a choice,” Adam said.
“The fuck she did.” I pointed at him. “You’ve fucking brainwashed all of these women.” I chuckled. “Sniper’s going to fuck you up so bad.”
Adam laughed and handed Sandra the soap. He came closer and crossed his arms. I didn’t like the look in his eyes. “Sniper was here last night, looking for you.” He shrugged. “Your husband found nothing of interest and left.”
“You’re lying.”
The door at the end of the aisle opened, and a woman walked in. I looked from her to Adam and then back at her. They fucking looked like twins.
“Emma, this is Jasmine, Sniper’s wife.”
Emma smiled. “You have a very hot husband.” She giggled. “I’d fuck him. Probably will.”
She rested a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Are you done playing with her?” she asked. “I’m horny.”
“What the fuck?” I said.
Adam smacked Emma on the ass, and the two walked away. He looked back over his shoulder and winked before closing the door.
I let my head drop against my knees, shut my eyes, and started reciting again, but this time it was old poetry, the kind Sniper used to make fun of me for loving. “Do not go gentle,” I whispered, not even meaning it as a threat, just as a reminder.
Dinner came and went. The other women talked quietly, voices barely rising above the hum. Molly asked for an extra orange. Sandra traded her bread for Renata’s yogurt, and Renata, for once, smiled.
I watched it all, not as a participant but as an archivist, collecting data. If Adam ever let me out, I’d write a fucking manual on how to survive a psychopath’s house of fun.
When the lights dipped to half for night mode, I rolled onto my back and stared up at the grate.
The crack in the ceiling ran right through the middle of it, like the world was trying to draw a line for me to follow.
I pressed my left palm to the underside of the bunk, not for warmth, but so I could feel the vibration of the pipes when the heater kicked on. That was my clock, now.
There was a fear, always, that I’d wake up one day and not remember the right way to be myself.
That I’d lose the sarcasm, the rage, the certainty that there was always one more move on the board.
I held that fear close, examined it from every angle, then set it aside.
It was bullshit. Fear was Adam’s play. Mine was endurance.
I pictured Sniper, standing in our kitchen, bare feet on the cracked tile, hands in his pockets, running through contingency plans like it was chess and not life.
He’d reroute an entire club run if he thought there was a chance of a single man getting clipped.
“I don’t leave things to chance,” he’d say, and he never did.
I didn’t, either.
I pressed my palm to the cot one more time, harder now, as if I could bruise the metal with intention alone.
Day ten was coming. I was still here.
And I’d be counting every second until the last pin fell.