Written by member Melrose Lang
In her daydream, Melrose Lang was riding an Estharian Motoslave 480, relishing in the pulsing, humming vibration of the cold, solid chrome between her knees, delighting in the sensitivity of the handlebar-mounted accelerator, barely able to hear the 480-Chocobo-power engine over the sound of the wind roaring past her ears. In her daydream, Melrose Lang was cruising at maximum velocity along an empty desert highway, and there was nobody there to say, "Slow down!" or "Return that stolen vehicle immediately!" In her daydream, Melrose Lang was as free as a person could be, a hundred miles behind her and a million miles in front of her, and the sun never set on her freedom. In her daydream, Melrose Lang was decidedly notsitting in the breakroom at the Galbadian Desert Prison idly pretending to do her "homework."
No, no. That was her reality.
"Hey, hon, you about done with that?" A ragged, familiar drawl snapped her out of her reverie and she looked guiltily at the door. Standing there, eyeing the girl with no small degree of derision, was Loreen, the Warden's assistant. Loreen, sensing Mel's need for female attention, had agreed to spend her morning and afternoon breaks teaching the poor young thing how to read, write, and perform basic math. She'd sit there, smoking and hacking and watching as Mel struggled with an education that came in 15-minute increments.
Mel was supposed to be reading an article from some magazine that Loreen had produced from her desk drawer. It was about perfume. Mel knew that Loreen wore perfume, and she had sampled some of the scent her mother had mixed a long time ago, but had ultimately found that perfume was not something she was at all interested in learning about.
"What did you learn?" Loreen asked, waddling over to Mel and plopping down in the chair, as though the 25-foot walk from her desk to the break room had truly winded her. She pulled out a long, brown cigarette and placed it between her lips. Mel watched, half-fascinated and half-disgusted, as the tip flamed, dulled, and glowed brightly in the smoky, fluorescent room. She stifled a cough. Loreen flashed her a warning look and gestured impatiently at the magazine.
"I learned that perfume smells," Mel replied tartly before flopping the magazine shut on the table. "Why do I have to read this stuff? Isn't there anything else?"
"Well, I can't show you the prisoner files, can I? You'd have nightmares for the rest of your life, and Melvin would never forgive me."
Mel rolled her eyes in the exaggerated manner of a very annoyed 10-year-old. "Hyne, Loreen, if you wanna sleep with him so bad, just ask."
That rather impetuous comment was met with a smart slap on the cheek and a quivering, angry glare from the older woman. "That's none of your business, you little smartass."
Mel rubbed her cheek even though it didn't hurt. "I'm just saying. He's lonely. He needs somebody."
"Me, huh?" Loreen snorted, and a puff of smoke escaped her nostrils in an unflattering way. "Right. Whatever you say kid." She flipped the magazine open to the advice column and pointed to the first question. "Read that out loud, let's see how your oral reading is doing."
Mel sighed and picked up the offending book. "'Dear Ms. Know-It-All:'" Mel grinned slyly for just a moment. "'My coworker has a daughter who is driving me crazy. However, I would very much like to sleep with him. How can I deal with his daughter and still get into his pants?'"
That time, the slap on the cheek actually did hurt, and Mel found herself with a double-assignment for the night.
"How was school today, Mel-baby?" Melvin asked in a tone that tried too hard to care.
"It's not school, Dad. It's…it's…" She struggled for the right word, then gave up. "Boring," she finished dejectedly. "And Loreen is a bitch."
"Hey!" he snapped, cracking open a beer at the same moment so that the word sounded like a gunshot. "Do not call her that. Loreen is a nice lady, and I appreciate what she's trying to do to help you. She's the only woman in this Hyne-forsaken prison who gives a rat's ass about you, so you treat her with respect!" He took a long swig and headed toward the study, where his terminal was waiting for his nightly news-crawl. He muttered as he went. "If your mom was still here, she'd slap you silly for talking like that about anyone. For Hyne's sake, didn't I raise you better than that?"
The door shut behind him, and Mel returned to her dinner. She was pleased with how it tasted. She was getting really good at reading the directions on the back of the box, and tonight she'd hardly burned a thing. The upstairs neighbors wouldn't have any bad smells to complain about tonight, she thought with satisfaction.
After leaving a plate out for Melvin and cleaning up her mess, she curled up behind the hanging sheet that served as her bedroom door – it partitioned one corner of the living room until she had a tiny, triangular room. This was where she slept, read, dressed, and daydreamed. She spent a lot of time that night on her Motoslave, racing across the desert with a hundred miles behind her, a million miles in front of her, and all the freedom a 10-year-old girl could dream of. She was already asleep when Melvin crept into her makeshift room and kissed her gently on the forehead.
"I love you, baby," he whispered into her dark hair. She didn't stir.
