Locked up with the Badboy.

I take a seat on the floor in front of him, "What?"

He combs a hand through his dark hair and sighs, "This is a maximum security prison, the people here have killed babies, shot up schools , killed multiple partners and run crime rings and you, are saying that I'm mean? "

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2. Jail.

A hand wraps around my mouth, and some form of rope pins my waist to the bed. As the hand lets my mouth go I feel another tighten around my shoulders and chest. The whole cell is dark aside from low-level light leaking from the T.V screen.

The ropes binding me finish moving and the steel bunk creaks as another body leaps up beside me. I hear breathing and can sense that my fellow inmate is leaning over me, I feel the weight of his knees pressing down on the mattress either side of my legs.

The cell goes silent aside from the sound of our panting, I get the feeling we’re staring at each other, just the room is too dark to see anything. He slide something from his prison pants, making me wince as the cold of a blade touches my skin.

“How do you want to die?” he asks me, it’s a voice without trace of emotion. A voice that cuts me, perhaps more then the knife.

“P-please, don’t.” I gasp, trying not to move my throat. It’s dark and if he slips…

The weight shifts again and I feel my legs being squeezed on either side by his thighs. “Then tell me, who’s paying you?” the knife pricks my skin and a warm little stream of blood begins to itch the side of my throat. I cry which makes things worse until my captor removes the knife and grabs me by the jaw. “Who sent you. Tell me or I’ll kill you.” His voice is raised and another of his hands crushes down on my boob.

“No-one,” a little shriek answers. I feel faint from the loss of blood.

“Don’t lie to me, or I’m going to cut every inch of you, starting from the top.”

“Please no… , I swear I committed a crime, and I got sent here. I had no idea I’d even be in this room.” The breaths I take are shorter and more desperate, my chest hurts from his hand and when he releases my jaw it feels half broken.

“What did you do?” I can tell he doesn’t believe anything I’ve said, but still he’s giving me a chance…

“I shot someone.”

“Details, I want everything. If it’s not a hundred percent accurate I’ll brutalise your face.”

As soon as I touch the memories they bite back with red hot fangs, shaking my head I try to plead; “I can’t do it.

Instantly the knife takes its position on my throat and the pressure on my legs increases. I can tell he’s going to do it, that he’ll open me up upon the spot. Surprisingly I open up instead.

“It was my brother. I shot him thirteen times in the chest with a pistol.”

“What was the name of the pistol?” he asked, not drawing the knife away, but not pressing it further either. Hurriedly I thought back to the trial, “Ahh Smith-western, 33. I bought it from a dealer.”

“And the bullets?”

“Silver, kind of round.”

He takes a moment to let the information sink in, I’m fatally aware of the blood running down my throat. “Okay go on…”

I think back, all the memories seem to jiggle around. “I shot him because I thought he was someone else… An intruder because he dressed in a balaclava and black to surprise me.” I gulp down a sob, “After I killed Chri.. my brother I called the cops and then absolutely freaked out.”

“They found me two weeks later in a corn field on the other side of the country with a bomb strapped to my chest.”

Slowly he takes the pressure of the knife away from me, and allows my body a little space, “That’s such a messed up story,” he says, “that it might just be true.”

He sits up, on the edge of the bed and when I hear the clatter of a knife on the floor, I start to believe that I might survive until morning. “Before I let you loose I need to make sure you aren’t concealing anything.” This time his voice contains an edge of apology in it.

He runs his hands from my shoulders down the sides and front of my body, it’s not sexual in any way but still feels invasive for someone who’s never experienced a body search before. When he’s finished finding nothing my captor and fellow cellmate climbs off the bunk and loosens the bonds on my limbs. The moment I’m freed I shake out my hands and feet, trying to get blood back into them. The wound on my neck has stopped bleeding but inside of me I feel punctured and yuck. Because we’re in a cell there’s no place I can get further away from him then right beside our toilet.

Picking up my mattress, and bedding I move it onto the floor, letting out a silent sob as I drop the mattress so that he can’t hear me. I crawl onto the mattress and wrap blankets around me. Outside I shiver, inside I cry. This is prison life and it’s going to kill me.

****

Somehow all the stress, tears and adrenaline must have knocked me out. Even after promising myself that I’d never sleep so long as I remained in this cell.

I know that I fell asleep because as I open my eyes a plate of food has appeared before me and the lights are on. Rolling painfully onto one arm I look around me, still on his bed but lying perfectly still is my cellmate. A thin beam of light finds his face illuminating it’s good features. So the devil hides in an angels skin,  I think to myself as I check my neck for dried blood. Surprisingly the only mark I find from last night’s encounter is a small scab from where the knife must have pierced me.

If the left side of my chest didn’t feel black and blue I could’ve just about convinced myself that last night was just a nightmare, pulling my food tray closer I begin to eat the cold buttered toast, lathering spoonful’s of jam upon the bread with a floppy rubber spoon.

I finish, gently placing the spoon back on my tray, then trying to work out what I do with it.

“Garbage slot is in the front of the room, to the left of the T.V screen.” He says.

Pretending like I haven’t heard him I wait another five minutes before I walk over to the T.V and find a thin slit in the wall that could barely fit my hand, but is perfect for the cardboard trays.

“There’s also a remote for the T.V somewhere if you stop being angry at me.”

I just stare at the wall, I like anger and resentment; they make me feel powerful.

He gets his stupid butt off the bed and sits on the floor opposite me. Again I don’t even glance at him, “Hey girl, that was a lot less rough then other guys would have been with you. I mean at least I left your clothes on.”

I maintain the blank; despite wanting to stand up and kick him. He continues to not quite apologize, “It wasn’t my intention to hurt you, I just thought you’d been sent here for something else…”

I wish the cut on my neck was bigger, then I could show it to him and moan and scream and cry, but unfortunately he hurt me more inside then out. It’s hard to show people when you’re hurting on the inside.

“Come on, you’re being difficult.” He holds out an arm like I should shake it and become a good submissive girl but stuff him. Instead I stand push the hair out of my face and kick him as hard as I possibly can in the shin.

“Arrg,” a groan of pain escapes his lips, coupled with surprise and definitely a lot of anger.

“Listen here you big thug, do I have to do that again or are you go-“ my sentence is cut short as he wraps his arms tight around my legs and tackles me to the ground.

I scream and he puts a hand around my mouth again which is stupid because I instinctively jerk up my knee as hard as I can, catching him in the groin. I roll out from under him as he drops to the floor, “Next time you leave me alone okay?” I yell in a way that is way more threatening then I feel.

 A stupid traitorous part of me feels sorry for him, wants me to check if he’s okay. Sitting on my bed right next to the loo I flick a guilty glace to his figure, still lying hunched on the ground.

It takes half an hour for him to regain his feet, which to me seems an awfully long time. Even standing he’s hunched over, has a pale face and struggles to breath, Don’t apologise, don’t apologise, don’t apologise. I think to myself as he crawls under his duvet.

I spend the rest of the day watching T.V, at what I assume is midday, another two carboard trays appear through the door. I take his over to the bed, “Want some food sweetie?” I ask, doing my best mummy voice. He just groans so I eat all the good stuff off both trays and put them back through the food slot.

There’s nothing much on T.V but I have nothing better to do so I watch everything. Despite not seeing the news recently there are only two topics that I actually pay attention to, one is about the prisons being overstocked because police have taken down a heap of drug dealers on the American east coast and the other has heaps of teenage and mid-twenty year old girls crying; apparently one of the former one direction members has had a bad car accident and is in hospital. I don’t really follow the band but I just hope it’s not the cute one.

I collect the dinner trays and this time place the tray on top of him, “Dinner Unic.” I answer to his groans.

Finishing my meal and feeling restless I do a few push ups and sit-ups in one corner of the room, not too many though because I have no idea whether my cell mate will attack or not. Still in the push-up position I come to the realisation that I don’t actually know his name which is unusual for me because I usually learn all the names of hot guys in my vicinity. Then again practically being murder by one is a bit of a put off. I decide to name him Hitler because he’s evil.

Smirking more then I should at my own stupid wit, I pull the shower curtain closed and flipping the toilet seat down, quickly relieve myself. Because it’s really thin material I’m pretty sure anyone on the other side of the material could see my outline which is okay when I’m on the loo but in the shower would totally freak me out.

Lying down on my mattress after a hard day of almost nothing but television I struggle to sleep, at around Ten O’clock the room lights turn off and all that’s left shining is the television screen. Half an hour later, when I’m still attempting a nap the spring of our bunk give a little squeak and Hitler shuffles toward me.

“What do you think you’re doing.” I command in my deepest voice which isn’t really that deep at all.

“I need a piss,” he says in a soft, almost pathetic tone. I’m confused until I remember where I’m sleeping, and realise with dread that I’ll have to move the bed closer to our bunk to avoid being pissed on my Hitler himself.

“Alright then, I’ll move it,” I say picking up everything and dragging it behind me.

Even in the dark I can sense him smiling.

He takes forever to finish, and when he does he doesn’t even flush, I’m in half a mind to tell him off. But then I’m already in bed and finally feeling half sleepy. I’ll do it tomorrow, I think to myself.

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