182 and 184

Ch.1

It was dark, oh so very dark, where she sat, staring out of those iron bars, with long greasy hair pooling all around her, surrounding her thin, pitiful frame, hugging her legs, and resting her chin atop her knees with a gaze as vacant as her soul, she would look at the flickering lights.

If one were to look carefully, what awaited them was a face that seemed to have struggled through storms of varying degrees. Her lips were dried, scabs forming at the ends, and fresh blood still leaking where she bit them, as if wishing for the pain to keep her grounded to the reality. The strips on her shirt indicating what had become her name these days, number 182.

With a jarring noise, the gate of her cell was opened, as a woman with terrifying look on her face placed a plate full of food on the ground with a bang, making a lot of it fall to the ground.

Laughter could be heard from other such cells, cheering for the simple plain rice and lentil soup that was about to be served to them.

Some fought for who could get a plate first, others tried to snatch, but she, still sat there, staring ahead, as she had been before all the commotion took place. By now having released her lip from the clutches of her teeth, yet the look seemed to have become deeper, as if, reminiscing the memories, memories of what though, only she, number 182 would know. As to what could have warranted that slight rise of those pale lips? Perhaps one of those moments, whom she held dear and lived on, this life, the life of a prisoner, the life of a criminal, the life of a disgraced person?

She had been allotted a single cell, dingy, but could be in consideration of her VIP status, the status of a vindictive woman?

Her story was a mystery among her inmates. They would guess, speculate, blame, laugh, oh laugh, and laugh a lot, as if what she did was funny?

"Why doesn't she talk?", would someone ask, as other would reply mockingly, "Who knows, maybe the bitch is a mute?"

Within minutes, their food was finished, while she still sat and looked at the flickering light, by now, she had reassumed biting her lips, mistaking it for food perhaps? With the hollow look back in her eyes, making her sunken face look lifeless, pale, and oh! so sad, so very sad.

The jailer would some days advice her to eat, some days she would just angrily shout at her, telling her she would die a miserable death at this rate. Without food and water, how long could one live anyways?

And then she would forcefully feed number 182, which would result in her eating and then retching her guts out.

The sounds would echo, making the toughest of soul feel pity.

"Why doesn't she eat?", asked someone who was new, when another replied, "She used to eat pitifully , when I had just come, but seems like her appetite has become worse, who knows, perhaps daddy's princess can't stomach such coarse food."

"How long has she been here?", asked the same woman.

"Perhaps more than four years", replied the older woman.

"What did she do ?", asked the young woman, making the older woman frown, and berate her harshly,

"What's with all these questions? Just obediently massage my feet."

"Yes, yes boss" said the young maiden, hastily, continuing massaging her feet.

A long while passed before the older woman opened her mouth, "rumor has it that she murdered someone."

The young woman's hands froze, before a sharp glint flashed passed her eyes, before she obediently went back to massaging the older one's feet.

One by one, they got out of their cells, forming a line , holding an empty plate in one hand, and walking forward, to wash their plates, but not her, her plate was piled with food, as she too had stood up, being almost at the end of the line.

When suddenly someone snatched her plate, and engulfing the food in large mouthful, not caring of her appearance, and swearing in the same breath, "Give it to me if you don't want to eat, you ungrateful bitch," saying so she spat the last mouthful near 182's feet.

As if the other woman's words were nothing, she stood in the line, eyes staring ahead, but if one were to have looked closely, those hollow eyes had a hint of chill in them.

The empty plate was shoved back in her hands, but as if unaware of her surroundings, number 182 let it drop to the floor with a loud clang, making the jailer curse in frustration and her inmates glaring harshly at her.

The loud noise had startled her, as she robotically bent down to pick up the plate, her long hair pooled around her face, curtaining her small palm sized face, making others unable to see a single drop of tear that made way through her eyes, sliding across her nose bridge and falling quietly on the ground, before being ruthlessly stomped on by the very owner of that tear, as if warning herself, to lock that oncoming flood, again in the deepest part of her heart.

The line moved, soon it was her turn to wash the plate. A little bit of the water splashed on her face, covering it with water droplets. But she lowered her eyes, washing the plate with that little bit of soap, and rubbing it vigorously,. Was she cleaning the plate? Or was she cleaning her hands?

Lifting those long lashes, she proceeded to keep the plate on the stack, but what would have made the hardest of hearts shatter, was those red rimmed eyes, and the droplets of tears which had mixed in beautifully with the droplets of water, making a sorrowful sight.