Seasons of Hell
Disclaimer: I don't own Albino Alligator or any of the characters or other things associated with it.
Author's Note: If you are planning to review, please read my profile first. Also, this fic takes place before the events chronicled in the movie. It will contain implied non-con.
I: June
What if this is hell? Law started at the thought and propped himself up on one elbow in the narrow, hard bunk. He wanted to sit up all of a sudden, but waking Roach up would be bad. Very fuckin' bad. He shuddered and laid back down, miserably aware that his heart was starting to race. Oh god, I've gotta get away from here, what if I can't, what if they never let me out, what if this is hell? His breath caught as Roach shifted on the bunk below him. He realized he was crying a little and felt distantly furious with himself. And he felt a dark, all-encompassing hatred rising in his mind. All this for a goddamn armed robbery? He hadn't even hurt anyone, for fuck's sake! They all deserved to die. If he ever escaped (never happen, part of his mind moaned) he'd kill them for this. Slowly. He'd make them suffer, and oh god Roach was getting up-
*******
Some time later, he sat hugging his knees to his chest. He was shuddering and crying and didn't give a damn. He'd been here two years now, and he'd been told that if he stayed out of trouble he could get out in another year. Goddamn liars. This was hell; he might not be a whiz kid, but he was smart enough to know that. This was his eternity, and all those preachers had no idea how bad it really was.
"Shut up, ya bitch," Roach growled below him, and Law shut up.
II: July
He had managed to steal a plastic butter knife from the cafeteria. It wasn't very sharp, but it was better than nothing. He sawed patiently at the sole of his foot, staring off into the dark. Roach had finished with him for the night, and he figured he had three or four hours before morning cell check. Of course, the stupid thing was much too flimsy to slit his wrists with. They'd catch him and take him to the infirmary and strap him down and pump shit into his body until he was a gibbering idiot, drooling and pissing in his pants. No, the best he could do with this was to slowly scrape away little patches of skin where no one would see. It worked, though. He had discovered this only a week ago, and had been almost giddy when he found out how much better it made him feel. He would never get out of here, but just maybe everything could be alright anyway. If he could only remove enough skin. If they didn't catch him. His head snapped up and he froze, eyes darting around nervously. After a few minutes he relaxed and began running the knife back and forth again, pressing down. Every once in a while he paused and touched the growing wound, enjoying the damp, sticky feeling. Didn't even hurt, he noted with a slow smile.
*******
During the days, his feet itched constantly. Feeling clever, he never let himself scratch at them. No one commented on his limp.
III: August
He felt damn sick. Hot and dizzy. He stared listlessly at the crap they expected him to eat for breakfast and tried not to breathe. The fuckin' smell… He didn't notice Roach glaring at him. Roach snorted in disgust and kicked him under the table, causing Law to start so violently that he would have knocked his tray to the floor if Roach hadn't shot out a hand and grabbed it.
"You better fuckin' eat. If'n you get yo ass sent to the sick ward, I'm gonna make you wish you'd never been born."
Wide-eyed, Law quickly picked up his fork and began to eat. He actually almost finished before his stomach gave a violent lurch and he threw it all back up. Roach gave him a murderous look, but one of the guards was already heading toward them; he contented himself with mouthing , "Later bitch."
"Get up", the guard said brusquely. Law glanced quickly at Roach, but the other man was seemingly absorbed with eating the gunk on his tray. Defeated, he stood and allowed the guard to cuff him and lead him away.
*******
He had never known he was claustrophobic before he came here. His arms hurt from pulling against the restraints. They had tied him down like he was a rabid dog. Goddamn them all to hell! His head ached like someone was driving a nail through it. He was so hot. Burning up. And he couldn't even push the fuckin' blanket off. He had begged to be untied, but they had just told him that he was "disturbing the other patients" and if he continued they'd have to sedate him.
They'd put some kind of cold, wet stuff on his feet and bandaged them. No one would tell him what he had, but he had been here a while. Two, maybe three days. Maybe longer. He began to feel cautiously hopeful that he was dying.
Of course, he didn't die. His feet had gotten infected. He was there eight days, and then they sent him back to Roach. In retrospect, he knew he'd been stupid. You couldn't die in hell.