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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3. Locked Up.

****

I wake to a terrible smell. Imagine putting a cow in a blender then leaving it there for a week. That’s the sort of deodorant you’d need to get rid of this smell. Holding my tee shirt tom my nose I try to locate it. Pointing my nose in each direction I pinpoint the toilet that Hitler forgot to flush last night.

Biting my lip and already scared I fight my way toward it. When I see what’s in the bowl I nearly faint.

Blood, blood and more blood. Some of it dark, other parts bright red and congealed. Three attempts at flushing are made before it even begins to look normal again. Luckily a fan must be operating some where in the building because the smell begins to dissipate. I stare at Hitler, he’s asleep but his face twists, looking nasty.  The guilty twinge comes back as I realise that I must’ve hurt him pretty badly.

As soon as breakfast pops through the slot beside our door I have the trays in my hands and I sit on a stool beside his bed, “Wakie, wakie,” I say in a less sarcastic tone then yesterday.

“Urrrg,” he opens his eyes which are bloodshot and turns slowly, “I don want any.”

“Oh, that’s a shame because I don’t care.” I spoon porridge onto the floppy rubbery utensil and move it toward his mouth, “Here comes the aeroplane,”

“Haven’t you tortured me enough-“ he begins to say. Unfortunately he’s interrupted by the arrival of an aeroplane. The whole meal I spoon feed him which part of me resents but at least it gives me something to do.

As the last spoonful is finished there is an extremely awkward pause coupled with him looking into my eyes, “What – just – happened?” He says, perfectly summing up the world.

“Umm,” I drop the bowl and biting my lip attempt to change topics; “Are you feeling better?”

“Kind of,” he looks down in that region. “I think you really damaged me.”

I don’t know why but that makes me giggle slightly,  Hitler gives me a serious look and  I let out the fakest cough ever, “Umm, did you happen to see the toilet after you’d been there?”

“No it was dark so I didn’t get much of a view.”

“There was blood, quite a bit of it.” Hitler shrugs, like the tough guy he is, “And you forgot to flush as well, I thought I’d remind you because if we’re sharing a cell together that is definitely a ground rule.”

“Ground rule?”

“You betcha Hitler, we’re going to have law and order inside this cell.” A perplexed expression has taken up his face, I make use of it by coming up with a few more ground rules, “For one there is going to be no tying each other to beds, you’re going to wash your hands after you use the toile-“

“Did you call me Hitler?”

Like a ripple I feel a blush spread across my face, “I ah… didn’t mean for that to come out in the loud.”

“You think I’m Hitler?” Hitler looks dumbstruck which truly is a unique expression, his face dosen’t know whether to be angry, outraged, laughing or downright depressed.

“Well, let me see, did you ever tell me your actual name?...” I rock the stool slightly, “Nope, you just decided to tie me to the bed,” I slow my words down, “What a welcome.

He shakes his head, and meagrely holds up a hand, “You’re still bringing that up? It was like two days ago.”

“You were going to kill me!” my last outburst hangs on empty air, both of us face different directions. Me breathing hard and Hitler muttering “Should have done it when I had the chance to.” As I stand up to go to another corner of our enclosure he thrusts out a hand in my direction and says, “Benedict Dimond.”

I stare at the hand, and try to work out what trap I’m not going to fall for, “What’s that?”

“My name.”

“Your name is Benedict?”

He nods, not looking sheepish at all; “Dimond.”

“What the heck are you doing in prison with a name like Benedict?” I burst out laughing, not even caring that my rudeness would have shocked the pants off the old me, what can I say; prison has hardened me. “Were your parents born in the 16th century or are you just an aspiring ballet dancer?”

To my surprise he doesn’t bite back, instead he almost looks embarrassed, “Gangsters call me Pope.”

“Well I’ll call you Benny,” with that I take his hand and shake, he doesn’t let go. Instead his hand’s grip grows more firm, “And what shall I call you?” He asks.

“Clara.”

He still doesn’t let go, “Clara who?”

“Clara von Oostradam.”

This time it’s his turn to snicker, “So I’m not the only one with a pretentious name?” We shake again and then it’s finished. He’s no longer Hitler and I’m no longer a stranger.

“So, ah Benny.” I say popping the B, “What happens now?”

“Well, if you want you can move your mattress back to the top bunk.” I look  at the sorry heap that almost weeps at me from the ground and nod, “Sounds good to me.”

With my bedding on the bunk and very OCDily arranged there’s nothing much left to do. Shrugging Hitl-… Benny goes back to his books, I turn on the television and watch another three hours of mind anaesthetic. While being cut and tied isn’t exactly my idea of fun the one benefit of hating on each other is that I was constantly on edge and time felt like it meant something. Actually scratch that, I’d way rather be bored, then dead and stuffed under his mattress or in the food slot.

And then I smell something, at first I think that Sam’s forgotten to flush again, but I lift one of my arms up and am assaulted by a smell that takes my breath away. Sweat mingled with living, a dirty holding pen, spilt food and sleeping on a floor. I’m surprised that Pope Benny didn’t complain about it.

 Truth be told I can’t remember the last time I showered which is a great way to determine if you haven’t been doing it enough.

There’s just a slight problem; That shower curtain is paper thin and I’m not alone….

****

 

 
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