Drewda giggled and shuffled along the tile floor. He pulled bulla long by her index and middle finger. She trotted behind him in the cell with a tired smile on her face. Her hair was bob length now, coming off her head in uncombed spirals. She gave it up weeks ago, not willing to pointlessly rake it our with her fingers. She barely remembered the lines of her own face and how she would contour her nose and cheeks to take the edge away before school every morning. Drewda's shiny obsidian hair hugged his head. The ends of his bangs cut the corner of his forehead with spiky ends. His pointed ears poked out from the thick mass of hair.
"Only you could make emo-swoosh look cute," she said.
He ignored her moving lips and pointed to the cell's commode.
"Toilet," Bulla said slowly.
"Doi-lutt," he mimed her while signing with his hands.
"Yeah," Bulla confirmed as she pulled a nub of charcoal from her sleeve. She scribbled the word on the wall.
"Toilet," she reiterated one more time before confirming with a sign.
Drewda pointed to the cell door, "Gerrd," he said, rolling his 'R's.
"Let's go," a familiar voice called.
Bulla's stomach knotted itself. She sunk her cut teeth into her fist. She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears. She refused to make a peep or allow a single drop to seep from her eyes.
Kalus stepped through the membraned door and walked up to Bulla's back. He waved his hand over the back of her collar. Drewda focused on the tile floor between his bare feet. He rolled his shoulders toward his earlobes. Kalus' big leather boots entered his field of vision.
"Outside. Line-up," Kalus ordered them, "Bed 1 first."
Drewda paced through the cell door and fell into the long line of haggard bodies. Bulla briskly walked through the cell door and fell behind Drewda. Bulla's stony mask was slipping. The mask was too heavy for her to bear today. Kalus' smooth, unbothered tone repulsed her.
How do you face us, like everything is fine, like you don't remember the horrific shit you've done?, she thought.
When he returned to the rigg, the first day left her shell shocked. Her body was a cage that she wanted to crawl out of. Her memory and shame barred her in. She couldn't slip between the bars- her anger and hatred were too wide for her to escape herself. She let numbness hide her as he came back each day, but today his footsteps chased the lidocaine away. For the first time since he disappeared her eyes rose to his face.
Her brain struggled to outline the swirling patches of pink and cream covering his bare skin. Her jaw fell, she thought he looked like someone dumped half and half into a carton of strawberry milk. She raised her chin to his presence and straightened her knees. He noticed her squared shoulders and turned head.
"March boy, you too girly," he reminded them as if they were a team of mules rather than people.
Kalus gently nudged her forward at the shoulder. Bulla whipped around and swung at him. The air off her fist dried out his eyes. He lunged back; her haymaker barely missed his face.
"Don't touch me!," she demanded.
"Easy- calm down," he said as he seized her shoulders and forced her forward.
Bulla marched with her heels halfway dug into the floor. Kalus dropped his hands from her shoulders. Animosity burned her face. She wrestled with worthlessness but faltered under its great weight. She imagined the blotchy scar on his shoulder seeping through the rest of his skin like a teabag in hot water, corrupting it. Bulla traced the groves his finger nails dug into her face.
"Kalus," his name burst from her mouth, "Did I do that to you?"
"Just keep walking," Kalus sighed, "You have work to do."
The gentle sway in his voice shut her mouth. Confusion was unleashed on her tired mind commissioned with only one task- chaos. Bulla came back to the moment, not even remembering her walk through the labyrinth of hallways and check points. She walked into the gurgling laundry room and took her station. Drewda took his spot next to her. Drewda pulled the white linen and uniforms from the gaping mouths of the massive dryers. There were 9 in their section, stacked neatly in rows of three. Up and down, up and down he went until he wore smooth tarnished patches into the metal ladder. Bulla's fingers made quick work of the towels and sheets. The coarse fabric wore callouses on the inside of her thumbs. The neat stack of folded items grew and grew. The shiny metal surface of the table slowly disappeared. Her mind raced and she tried to count to 10, imagining Whis' elevator in the red desert. The numbers swirled round and round in her head until the whirl wind of anger derailed her completely. Bulla rolled her eyes.
I was Summa Kum Lade, she thought, and now my only valuable asset is that I can fold a damn fitted sheet with my eyes closed.
The footsteps of approaching guards pulled her out of self-loathing. There were three of them clad in their maroon suits. Their voices pinged around the room echoing off the rumbling metal appliances. Muscle memory kicked in; she felt sore and sick, lost in uncomfortable memories. Her eyes lingered on their visored faces, tracing the outlines of their helmets. Her heart raced at the thought of seeing their faces.
How dare they, she thought, have their way with me and not even show themselves- cowards.
She was on the cusp of rage as she remembered that day. It teased her fingertips and lingered on the surface, like foam on the deep blue ocean. She swallowed her feelings once again, adding it to the overflowing pot in her soul. She decided to busy herself with her work.
The guards stopped behind Drewda. He was waist deep inside the hot mouth of the dryer raking the linens and clothes out of his wire basket. He stood up and wiped the sweat collecting on his thick brows. The guards' voices drew Bulla from her work. Her arms absently followed the motions, but she was suddenly very present and very close. Drewda shook out each piece of cloth and carefully set it into a pile on the floor- the torn, the scorched, the just plain ratty gathered there. Bulla listened to the guard repeat the same phrase over and over again. Annoyance gathered on the guard's tongue. Bulla paused, laying her hands on the table. Linen began to pile in front of her, edging into the spaces of the other folders.
The guards chatted among themselves until the thin one on the end reached out his hand. Bulla didn't know his name, but she knew he was wily and impulsive, but seemingly less cruel. He snapped his fingers next to Drewda's pointed ear. The boy was oblivious, pocketing the linen scraps. The middle guard was a loud, obnoxious man. He was predictable and wore his emotions on his sleeve. Bulla cringed at his fool temper, but knew it was far off—for now. The last guard, on the far left, was quiet and calculating. He was of no harm until he was. He was a person of action rather than words alone. He made her skin crawl. She struggled to produce a word that described him.
"Silently sadistic," she whispered to herself.
The laughter of the guards came to a screeching halt. The silent guard on the left dipped his black gloved hand into his pocket and pulled out a thin grey cartridge. The silvery blade popped out with the flick of his thumb. He floated the knife to the tip of Drewda's ear. Before Bulla could exhale, he lobed off the tip of Drewda's ear. The boy's cry ripped Bulla's ear drum. Blood splashed Drewda's white shirt. Red splotches expanded on his uniform. The guard squatted in front of Drewda, quietly watching his nihilistic tie-die job like it was a leisurely craft project. The two other guards looked at each other in shock. The thin guard squashed a yellow stained towel to Drewda's head with him kicking and screaming.
Bulla's eyes were like navy- half- dollar coins welded to her face. Shock sparked through her. A roaring fire ignited in her soul. The cauldron was set ablaze and fury bubbled over the brim. Bulla rung her fists in the towel at her fingertips. Her bare feet charged across the floor. She leaped, catching the guard's neck in the towel. Her weight felt like an anchor had dropped on his trachea. He swung his knife around until he slashed her hands and forearms. Her blood trickled down her knuckles, but she just squeezed tighter, too consumed with her mission. The sound of his wheezing breath escaping his lungs drowned out Drewda's crying or the commotion of the other guards. Her satisfaction drowned it all out.
"You let him go!," The quick to anger guard boomed.
He and the other guards whipped batons off their belts. Metal rods expanded from the bases. The rods were stainless steel and wrist thick. Bulla expected a beating but refused to let go. She had made up her mind.
I'm going to take this fucking pond scum with me, she thought.
The first blow landed on her shoulder. It was like nothing she had felt before. The blow oscillated through her whole body, convulsing her bones in her flesh. She imagined all the crushing power of the gravity room concentrated at the end of a modest looking knight stick. They lifted their wands high above their heads before ach pulverizing blow. Her hands slipped and the guards dragged the limp, lifeless body from her grasp before continuing to beat the breath from the fiber of her being.
Drewda yanked the loud guard's arm, causing the wand to land on Bulla's neck. The metal collar on her neck shattered; splinters of metal and fiberglass dusted the floor like shrapnel from a grenade. In an instant, the veil was taken off of Bulla's ears. She was overwhelmed with whooping and hollering voices. The guard stiff armed Drewda into the hungry mouth of a dryer and slammed the door shut. Bulla heard his body thumping round and round. Sympathy pain washed over her and all she could feel was intense insurmountable heat. The boy's screaming stopped. Bulla scanned the guard from head to toe. She didn't even see a man. She saw evil clothed in flesh who pushed a little deaf boy into a blazing inferno.
"On your knees bitch!," the guard demanded.
"No," she said firmly.
Bulla elongated her spine and stared into his visored helmet.
"Show your face, you fucking coward!," she roared
She charged him, leaping into the air despite her protesting leg. Her foot punched through his chest. His blood warmed her leg like a thigh-high sock. He collapsed without a struggle. Bulla flopped on top of him, suck inside. She trembled from head to toe, realizing his heart quivered next to her skin. His diaphragm squeezed her leg with each desperate gasp. The thumping heart, the wriggling organs and tissues stilled. He was gone and she was trapped, tangled in death.
The industrial drier door popped open. Bulla cast her gaze over her shoulder. The wiry guard yanked Drewda from the vortex of head. His red-skinned body laid motionless on the floor. Bulla and the remaining guard were surrounded by a sea of curious, shuffling white-clad-bodies-some cheering some quietly rubbernecking the chaos. The guard crouched down and smoothly approached.
"Ayaa-no patuki, ayaa, no patuki," he said low and steady. He snaked his shaking hands beneath Bulla's arm pits. She flailed and jagged breath took over her body. He immediately released her, holding up his bare hands to her. The riled-up crowd roared around them. The sound was deafening. Bulla scrambled to her feet, ready to drag the impailed body with her if needed. The guard ran to the wall as the crowd surged. He lifted the plastic cover and smashed the button before disappearing in a sea of overreaching arms and fists of every shape and color. Bulla fell beneath the tidal wave of bodies, reeking of the day's sweat and resentment. She crawled between their legs, trying to use their weight to her leverage. She pulled her leg free of the guard's trampled body. Their heels crushed her fingers and hands before she could shove herself into a standing position. She pressed her way through the sandwiched bodies and held her breath.
Please let him be okay, she thought about Drewda.
Gratitude washed over her. Drewda was breathing despite the crowd. Bulla pulled his dead weight body to her back, piggy backing each leg with an arm. His comatose head flopped down on her shoulder. Guards charged the entrance. Bodies sizzled against their electric shields. Other responders took their posts on the ceiling cat walks. Hard rubber pellets rained down like hail. More red suits followed the shields, casting bodies left and right with their batons. A body slid down the slick wall like a squeegee down window glass, knocking Bulla off balance. Drewda's unconscious body plopped on the ground as Bulla clutched the cable around her neck. She found herself trapped on the end of a pole like a stray dog. More men with poles came to snare her. The roar of the crown had dissipated to grumbling. The toes of her kicking feet grazed the ground as they dragged her away from Drewda. Her cursing was reduced to gurgled croaks. Her tears stung, burning like salt poured over the wire cutting into her neck.
