The Traitor ✓ (Book Six)

Chapter Fifty Four

Less than six months ago

Seventeen. There are seventeen scratches on the wall near my bed, thirteen of which I created myself. In the beginning I made fun of those who lost their minds, because I thought there was no way it could be as bad as my lawyer said. He told me to be strong, to disassociate so I didn't have to feel.

  And for a while it worked. I managed to keep my shit together, even during the hunger strikes, but my breaking point was really when they tried to put Lauren's rapist( the first one) and I in the same room. Everything I'd been holding in came to a head, and they did finally get me in to see that therapist- since I kinda killed him.

  This is what I got from what they told me:

  He was already sick, mentally and physically. Some sort of breathing issue that was going to kill him in his sleep eventually anyways. They tell me when I went fucking insane and but his throat open, his body couldn't handle the blood loss because of how poor his circulation was. I didn't, and still don't understand any of the medical terms they used, but I tried.

  I spend most of my time in solitary now. After my last breakdown- biting another detainee's nose, they increased my solitary stay to one year.

  I don't know if I could handle one year without coming up with a creative way to kill myself. Something that's become increasingly common, prompting the higher ups to consider padding every single cell( solitary, suicide watch or otherwise). People are now placing themselves as far away from a wall as possible, then running forward at top speed and hoping they knock themselves out or hit their heads hard enough to die.

  Only two have been successful. Maybe I can be a third if I really try. I am a fast runner. Maybe that's all I need-

  A food tray gets slid through my door slot.

  At this point, I don't bother to eat like a human being. I am alone, with nobody to see- and I am starving. Half of the beans end up around my mouth and in my beard. I wipe it with my fingers and lick them off.

  Then, when I'm done, I pull a whole bean out of my beard and eat it. Boy my standards have gotten low.

  I stand up, pacing across the room, as I realize just how uppity I used to be. If somebody offered me a cot, I would have told them I'd just get a hotel. Now?  The city is a sign of comfort. It is the one place where I won't be yelled at to get up, the one place I can escape this world. I might even voluntarily get one, in the off chance I escape this place.

With nothing else to do, I set about scratching an art piece into the wall. My nails are sharp, so it's okay a matter of time before they forcibly cut them. Might as well get my use out of them while I can.

  I scratch a large square out to be my pretend piece of paper. Then, I use varying degrees of pressure to shade where the trees, mountains, and sunsets are. I'm not an artist but I saw it in a book once.

  An hour passes by, then two before I'm done.

  I flop back on the cot, completely out of things to do. I could always decorate the walls with my art, but that'll take a while, and even if I tried I wouldn't be able to finish tonight, not without attracting the attention of guards.

  I'm about to close my eyes, when I hear the pounding of footsteps down the hallway. Simultaneously, the detainees all sit up in bed. This is not a typical occurrence. Sure, they patrol the hallways in front of our cells and peek at us to make sure we're not killing our selves, but this is different.

  This sounds more urgent.

  And they're coming straight for me.

  My door swings open, almost violently, with seven guards instead of one or two filing in. The place feels so crowded I can't breathe.

  "What.... What's going on?" I slowly glance over all of their faces, one of them is carrying restraints. "Did I do something wrong again?"

The one with the restraints speaks for all of them.

  "No, not this time." He sighs. "We just need you to come with us. This.... Conversation is not something you want to have in the general vicinity of other detainees. Knowing them they could find a way to pick their locks just so they can kill you."

  "That serious?"

  "Yeah. We have to restrain you.... And I'm sorry but this would be so much easier if you'd just cooperate."

  I nod. Right now, I have no reason to resist. I would like to know where they are taking me though, and what they can't tell me near other detainees. Hell, I've had a therapist session in my cell.

  I stand up and willingly put my hands out. As the others watch him like a hawk to make sure I'm not lunging for his throat, the other guy puts the handcuffs on. When he determines they're secure, another shackles my feet. I'm shuffled through the hallways, and to a familiar room: the visitors.

  I turn around as much as the restraints will allow.

  "Why am I here? And why do I need..... seven bodyguards in the room with me?" I narrow my eyebrows, recognizing the other uniforms. "And why is there secret service?"

  "Just sit down. You will find out soon." The nice guard says.

  I do. They attach some of my restraints to a pile under the table.

  "So what politician has decided to come here and laugh at me today?"

  They ignore my question.
 
  The visitor room door swings open.

  I am face to face with the president of the United States, Lauren Wells.