Incarceration

Chapter Nine

I don't see Wyatt for the next couple weeks, but am too occupied with my own problems to put much thought into where he could be. The games are overwhelmingly awful. Each ending with the familiar feeling of being a limp doll, collapsing onto the welcoming, tiled floor. As my head bangs lifelessly against the cold, hard ground, my eyes shut and, drenched in sweat and blood, I pray that no one will disturb me from my trip into the peaceful darkness that crusts across my eyelids.

The next time I come to full consciousness is always on the floor of my cell where I have been shut away and left to my own accord. I routinely gather my splayed, aching limbs back into my body and, too tired to stand, stay curled on the strangely soft floor.

Another Sunday rolls around and I have yet to trade the small pack of cigarettes Grayson gave me the night of my nightmare. I get up from where I lazily lie on my bed and move over to the toilet. Reaching under the lid of the seat, I find the clear, plastic string I had taped underneath and yank it up. It takes some effort, but in a couple minutes, a plastic bag full of cigarettes emerges from the bottom of the bowl. Eagerly, I unwrap the stash and stick it in my pocket before the familiar chimes push me out the door.

The cool wind bites unapologetically at my nose as I step out of the building into the fenced courtyard. The others file out after me, bringing with them a wave of noise and excitement. I scan the crowd for a dealer, but no one catches my eye.

The mass of people soon divides into separate groups as friends find each other and begin conversations away from the rest of the prisoners. As I look around, I spot a large group of prisoners huddled together. I'm not new to the prison lifestyle. If anyone is selling anything, it's in the middle of that group—where the guards won't be able to see.

The mass of people is thick, so it takes me a while to break into the center of the group but when I do, what I find makes my mouth drop open.

Wyatt and a tall, muscular, blond man stand in the middle of the circle, eyes watching them from every angle. The man towers menacingly over Wyatt and grins down at him with a twisted amusement. Wyatt shouts but his voice is lost in the whistling wind and surrounding chatter. The man strikes down and Wyatt crumples under the brute force. From the ground, he pushes himself back up and begins shouting again. This time I can make out his voice.

"I don't have anything to give you!" he shouts angrily. "Give it back!"

The tall character laughs and shakes his head. He takes another swing at Wyatt but misses. Wyatt begins to shake now, and I can't tell whether it's from anger or fear. Then, without warning, he lunges forward only to be knocked back down, effortlessly, by the blond man. He struggles to get back up, but the man has already taken the invitation to fight. He towers over Wyatt, foot on his chest, laughing as he watches Wyatt flail under his boot.

Impulsively, I break from the surrounding circle.

"Stop! Here!" I shout, digging into my pocket and handing the man the pack of cigarettes. He greedily snatches them from me and grins. He places a small thin chain in my hand and walks happily away, leaving Wyatt sputtering on the floor. I grab his hand to help him up and then hand him the chain. Gratefully, he tucks it into his pocket and we walk from the circle of curious eyes.

"Thanks." Wyatt's voice comes from beside me and is unnaturally normal compared to the last couple times I saw him.

"No problem," I say. "What is that, anyway?"

"It's a necklace. My mom's."

"Oh," I say, but I don't push any further.

"Yeah." His voice is still shaky. "Thanks again."

I nod.

"It fell out of my pocket," Wyatt begins to explain, probably feeling guilty for involving me. "I didn't realize it until that guy had it."

"Don't worry about it," I say, reassuring him that I wasn't mad. "But in the future, just let it go. You could have died or been seriously injured. I mean, really, what were you thinking?"

"I know," he groans, "I'm sorry." Then attempting to change the subject, "So, what was your sentence?"

"Cursus. It's a T-2 running game. I got off pretty easy."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," I begin, "the crime I committed—"

"You mean freeing innocent people?" Wyatt interjects.

"Yeah," I say, smiling. "It's a lot more serious—more deserving of a T-1 game—but Grayson helped me out." I pause for a second, then as an afterthought add, "A lot."

"Grayson?"

"My brother. My whole family grew up as prison guards. Grayson still is one."

"What about your parents?" Now Wyatt was the one pressing me for answers.

"My dad died and my mom," I pause again, thinking of how to phrase what I wanted to say. I never knew her, so describing her is difficult. "My dad helped her escape. I don't know where she is now."

"She was a prisoner?" Wyatt asks, intrigued.

"Yeah." I shrug. "I never really knew her."

"You got a game today?"

"Two. Right after breakfast, then one after lunch."

There's a tap on my shoulder and I turn to see a face masked in a white helmet. I glance back to Wyatt who looks terrified as he looks up at the menacing guard. Oh no.

"What are you guys doing away from the rest of the prisoners? And what was going on in that group over there?" He gestures toward the dispersed mass of people.

"Nothing."

"That's a little too quick of an answer, Ms. Maxwell." The voice echoes from the inside of the helmet mockingly.

"You're really going to do this?" I ask, rage bubbling to the surface of my voice.

I don't see the first punch coming, and it's too late to block the second blow. My head whips to the right and I feel my body following, hitting the ground with a painful crash. I cough, trying to get up, but another blow puts me back on the ground. Before the next hit, my vision comes back into focus, and I am able to evade the fist coming for my already bruised face. It slams into the ground next to me and, without thinking, I grab it and kick up into the guard's stomach. He doubles over, giving me enough time to get to my feet and knock him to the floor.

Gloved hands wrap around my blistering forearms and force me backward off the soles of my feet. Finally, my adrenaline melts away and I become conscious of watchful onlookers, all staring mesmerized as I am dragged backward back into the prison.