Incarceration

Chapter Eight

I pace the length of my cell, trying to think of anything to occupy my time. The last few days have passed extremely slowly. The repetitive routine gnaws away at me and I'm beginning to feel sick; I need to get away from my own thoughts of anger and loathing. There's nothing to do except think, and I'm getting more and more annoyed with myself and my own boring, unending, repetitive thoughts. I've gotten nowhere in my plan to escape. Getting myself out would be pretty easy, but saving all the prisoners is something else.

The room is so small. Too small. It only takes me six steps to cross from one side to the other. How long can someone stay locked in a box without falling into severe depression or going completely insane? Sometimes you need to get away from yourself, talk to someone else, kick the devil out of your head. My eyes flick from musty wall to stained wall as I turn on my heel at the end of each six steps to take another six the opposite way. How am I supposed to think in such a small room?

I imagine myself as a little girl, sitting in the middle of the room on the elegantly carpeted floor surrounded by Grayson and the other guards who all tower above me and compete to make me smile. There was never a day I felt lonely or out of place with the guards, but now the reality of being locked in a small room, alone for hours with nothing to do, gnaws at me.

Then I remember Nash, who occasionally stands outside my cell during his guard shift. If I could talk to him, he may be willing to have a conversation with me or at least occupy me until dinner rolls around. I walk to the door and, with difficulty, dig my fingernails under the flap. As I pry it open, to my surprise, a small folded piece of paper comes fluttering down and glides to the floor below me. It skids back and forth a couple times before coming to a complete halt at the edge of my feet.

I bend down to pick it up. Shakily, I press the note together between my fingers and then open it carefully. The paper is embossed with the logo of the prison in rich, shiny gold. Underneath, the message is scribbled and messy. I stare at it unable to look away.

Friday. Sold.

I walk to my bed and slump onto the edge, my feet dangling off the end. Sold, sold, sold. I repeat the words in my mind, and although I have no idea what the word means, I doubt it's anything good. As I hold the note in my hand, chills run from my hands up into my spine and down my back. My grip tightens and small wrinkles form where my fingertips meet the smooth surface and slowly crawl out across the paper.

I hurry back towards the flap and get Nash's attention. He hustles over to me nervously and when I ask him for a pen, he gets very upset.

"Please, Nash!" I beg through the door until finally he gives in and drops a pen through the flap. I eagerly snatch it from the ground and turn the slip of paper over, scribbling hastily on the back, What is? Who are you?

I want my response to be discrete so that if the wrong eyes fall on it, they wouldn't understand. Quickly walking over to the flap, and precariously balancing my letter on the edge, I let the flap drop and my note becomes wedged into the door, half on the outside, half on the inside. I pull the chair from my small table and set it in the middle of the room facing the door. I sit intently—watching the note closely so that when it does disappear, I will be sure to catch whoever takes it.

As I wait, the buzzing of a small fly hitting the wall becomes so continuous that it becomes part of the earsplitting silence I can't escape. I continue to stare at the note and suddenly the buzzing grows louder until it is broken by a voice.

The sudden presence of a being other than the fly startles me, and I jump from my seat to look around the room. The moment I turn my back, there is a loud clang as the note is quickly ripped from the door and the metal flap bangs shut.