Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot.
JANUARY 3RD, 2001
THE CELLS SMELL of piss and pit sweat.
Yellow lights flicker on and off from the popcorn ceiling and wet slaps echo from the rough stone floor. Mold has gathered in between bars and at the corners of walls, a result of the constant drip of rainwater or leaking sewage into the reddish-brown jailhouse. The stairs are made of cheap, stale iron and the railings are rusted orange. Hands grope the air outside of the cells, and the only words audible in the vast contraption of traps belong to those asking for another rice cake, water, or toilet paper. The warden flips then off and shoves the shackled boy forward, onward, to his cell.
"Don't kill yourself," the officer says nastily, smirking at his own terrible joke. Without leaving the prisoner a chance to reply, he shoves him into the cell and tugs the key out of the lock. He takes one more look at the locked-up boy and something along the likes of pity morphs his face. So young.
After the warden saunters down the hall, twirling his chain of keys around his finger, the prisoner slumps against the jail wall, exhausted. His arms are restrained and bound into a straitjacket across his ribs, and the entire way here he has been pulling at them, desperately trying to raise it above his head and out. Now, leaning against the wall, he attempts again at an impossible cause. These are not gimmicked camisoles in magic tricks. These are not costumes in action films. These are straitjackets, bound around the back, under his crotch, and so tight around the chest and armpits breathing is difficult.
The first time his shoulder rams into the concrete wall, it's only pain that lances through his arm.
The second time, there's an undeniable crack, at which he groans.
The third and last time, a distinct pop and snap resonates against the walls, and before he blacks out, his arms slide up over his head and the jacket comes loose.
...
FEBRUARY 15TH, 2001
IT'S SO QUIET his heartbeats can be heard.
Sweat flows from his temples down to his jaw, running down to his chin and falling to the ground of the padded cell. He blinks drops of perspiration from his eyes. There is no feeling in his elbows, his shoulders. His feet are numb and and his spine is sore, his ears tired of listening to his own heavy pants every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of the month he's stayed in the tiny, muffled room.
The door swings open and the warden ambles in. He stuffs a plate of moist sponge cake under the boy's nose. "Want some?"
There's no reply, and the warden takes it as a sign of denial. "No? I guess it's my lucky day."
The cake gets stuffed down the warden's throat, and then he walks to the door. He stops in his tracks and opens his mouth as if to say something, but then decides against it and continues on his way out.
The cell belongs to a single person again.
...
JUNE 30TH, 2003
"WHERE IS HE?"
"This way, madam," the warden says quickly and gestures to the corridor.
"Lead the way, Enoch."
The two move down the hallway to the end cell and Enoch fumbles with with the lock before it clicks open. The moment the door gives away, the scent of bile and the stink of decay wafts out of the cell, and the warden glances up at the woman worriedly. She, however, shows no sign of disgust, and Enoch lets out a breath of relief. Silently, she steps into the mold-infested room and looks around with an almost inquisitor-like manner, before turning her attention to the hunched boy at the far corner of the cell. Without looking at the warden, she asks, "Is this him?"
"Yes, madam," Enoch answers quietly, and then raises his voice to the prisoner. "Hey, wake up."
"He's not asleep, I'm sure," the woman remarks, and walks closer to the boy despite Enoch's protests.
"He's a murderer, madam, of nine people. Heroin addict, alcohol addict-"
"How long as he been in here?" she interrupts, eyes never leaving the boy.
"Two and something years, madam," he reports almost proudly.
"Has he shown any violence during his stay?"
"Not to staff, but he dislocated his shoulder trying to get rid of the jacket and gauged the eye out of his cellmate. That's why he's in the padded."
"Look at me," she demands, and Enoch's head shoots up. "Not you. You can leave."
"Of course, madam." His face flushes as he stumbles out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The boy raises his head just a fraction of an inch, but it's enough for the woman to get a look of him. His eyes are sunken and darkly bagged, wild and dull at the same time. His cheeks are sallow and sharp from hunger and thirst, but most of all craving. She narrows her eyes. "Do you know who I am?"
After a moment of silence, he croaks out, "Am I supposed to?"
"If you wish to cooperate, we can cut your sentence in half. You were not of age yet when you killed them, were you?" She ignores his reply.
"Does it matter? I'll have died ten times by the time I'm allowed out. Three hundred-twenty years less won't make any fucking difference." He spits onto her shiny shoe. His words are slightly garbled, a result of not talking for such a long period of time.
"You won't be in a straitjacket as long as you behave," she says, catching his eye. "That's a difference, isn't it?"
"Behaving is being in a straitjacket, just not physically." He has the nerve to grin, but the woman is not impatient. Just stern and firm.
"Does that mean you are turning down my offer? I will not ask again."
The boy's jaw works for a few moments before he almost growls. "I never said that."
"Then what are you saying?"
"I need to think about it," he says, but uncertainly. "A few days."
"Well, if you're so unconcerned with staying here, I might as well find someone more eager," the woman muses deliberately and begins walking away.
She's at the door when the boy caves. "Wait."
"Yes?" She turns around.
"I'll do it."
"Wonderful," the woman says, and smiles. It makes her look ten years younger than she really is. "I'm Imogen. You are...?"
The boy mumbles something intelligible.
"What was that?" Imogen asks.
He says it louder this time.
"Jace."
Review.
-RtMiP