Incarceration

Chapter Twenty

"Geez," Emma says, eating her breakfast right across from me, "What happened? You actually look roughed up for once."

"Got put back in the game," I say through a mouthful of mush.

"Oh," she says, pausing, her fork hovering just before her mouth, "What kind of game?"

"Running," I grunt.

"Oh."

I use the silence to begin thinking of ways to avoid the game. Anything to get back into that Control Room, or into the hospital, or into Solitary with Wyatt.

The only solution I can come up with is a painful one. I need to injure myself. I need to become unable to do anything but sit in a chair and watch monitors. But how was I going to do that without razors or weapons? I needed to hurt myself between now and lunch. I refuse to be put in the game again.

Think. I won't be let out from my cell, and I have no way of getting any kind of weapon. I scour my room, looking for anything that I could impale or scratch myself with, but I know that the guards work hard to make each cell safe so it's impossible for prisoners to hurt themselves. I pace the cell thinking about any metal or sharp object I had in my room—until my mind fell onto the metal I had inside me.

I continue to pace until Emma is taken away for her game session. Stopping midway in my pace, I lift up my shirt to reveal the staples in my abdomen where the skin has neatly and nicely healed around. I run my fingers over the smooth metal then grasp the middle and yank straight outward.

Pain surges through my body radiating from where I pulled the staple. I scream out and blood starts to dribble from the newly opened wound. I gasp for breath, and once the pain has somewhat subsided, I grab the next staple and quickly and forcefully pull. More pain consumes me and I let out more cries. My heart beating faster. My hands and torso are soaked in blood. I collect myself and breathe heavily as I pull out the next—and the next—and the next. I begin to cry and scream with agony.

When I am bleeding uncontrollably, I stagger to the cell door and smear the window with blood. A message to the guards. I splatter the door with my blood, screaming and crying before my head goes light and I black out.

When I awake, I am stunned to see I am still in my cell, not in the hospital, lying on the bed, my abdomen re-stapled and crusted with blood. I stare aimlessly up at the ceiling, seeing but not comprehending. Why am I here? How could it not work? Why am I here? My fingers run along my body and meet the cold metal. I groan and my eyes flicker shut. What did I do?

I am awakened next by a guard tapping on the glass of my cell. I lift my chin to my chest in an effort to see him. He motions for me to come to the door, but I collapse back on the bed, unable to move my body and not caring enough to try. The taps grow louder and faster. I can tell he is becoming frustrated, but I do my best to ignore him, closing my eyes and my ears. As the tapping fades away, I feel thankful that he is gone and do my best to become part of the bed, part of the cell, part of the nothingness.

I can't think about Wyatt stowed away; Iker, Royce, and Amara wondering where I am; or what Grayson must think of my stunt. My body is past the point of pain. It's numb and the tingles that dance through my limbs are the only things that let me know I am still living and not a ghost.

My cell door opens and footsteps come toward me. A shiver shimmies down my spine.

"Maxwell?"

Relief washes over me. It's Grayson. My eyes are lazy and glossed over, but as he kneels down, his face comes into focus. He carries a tray of food with him and the unpleasant odor masks his fiery, comforting scent.

"You've been lying here for two days. Emma's been moved because of your condition," he tells me.

Really? I have no perception of time.

"You need to eat," he tells me, motioning to the tray of food. I'm not hungry, but when I try to tell him, all I get out is a small groan.

"Come on," he says, grasping my underarms and pulling me to a sitting position, leaning me gently against the wall.

My head falls off to the side. I feel like rag doll, my whole body limp.

He takes a spoonful of food and holds it just before my mouth. "Come on, Maxwell."

I shakily lift my head and manage to take the spoonful from him.

"Good, great," he whispers. "A couple more."

I am suddenly grasped by a feeling of urgency. I need to tell him everything. I roll my head to face him. "I'm going to get out of here."

I watch as a smile spreads across his face.

"I know," he says to me. But I can tell he doesn't believe me.

I'm serious. I want to tell him, but I can't bring myself to do it. I feel much too weak and exhausted.

He gets up with the tray of food and walks out of my cell, closing the door softly behind him. I fall back into darkness.

I sleep for what feels like forever and dream of escaping the prison, standing triumphantly outside as the guards claw at the prison fences behind me. The breeze of fresh air delightfully brushes through my hair and the bright sun beats down on me. The whole city stands before me, opportunities—endless.