Stay...Alive

Chapter 12

 Victorine took a running start, and Primus grabbed her and lifted her up. When he let her down, she jumped up again. It was the only way to occupy themselves and simultaneously not think too deeply about their situation. The thought tried to creep up on them and process whenever it was quiet, but they wouldn't let that happen.

Primus almost dropped Victorine when they heard a violent banging on the cell bars.

"Stop that!" a voice barked. Primus hastily sat down. Victorine stood tall, hoping the guard felt her stink eye as he shuffled away.

"Damn, it's like they want us to go insane," Frankie muttered.

"They do," Horace corrected.

"...yeah," Frankie begrudgingly agreed.

Victorine's eyes zoned out on the cells, and a thought sprung in her head. Somewhere in those cells was Yolanda. Somewhere she was out there thinking of Victorine, wishing she could be with her just as much as Victorine wanted to be with her...

Victorine tried to shake the thought out of her head and hyper-focus on something else. But that's pretty hard to do when you've been in the same, small space for a whole day with same people. And luckily, Horace hadn't annoyed anyone to the point that someone snapped and punched him. The blonde lady, however, had better watch her back for both Victorine and her sake.

Horace and Frankie were at least on well-enough terms. A round of embarrassing stories was enough to keep them from wanting to kill each other, and that would do. Which was rather surprising, since Horace was packing on the sarcasm. But then again, who could blame 'em? Just yesterday, Timothy-

Oh God, Timothy.

Timothy's probably still laying that closet.

They never got to bury him.

They even got to bury Buckley-
"Kid, your friend's trying to climb the bars," Frankie called out. Victorine snapped out of it and looked up at Primus latching on the bars, his feet on the metal bar splitting the middle of the door. Victorine climbed right up after him. Primus had to crouch down to avoid hitting the ceiling, but Victorine could only touch it if she reached as far as she could. She tried to glance down her own side of the cell block, but her view was very limited.

She peered down the aisle and hoped she'd see anyone else peeking out there cells, but all she could see was more and more cell doors. She leaned as far forward as possible, but it was no use. She did, however, make one discovery: she could fit her arm right through the bar.

With a rush of adrenaline and hope, she reached out and patted the outside of the door, looking for a lock. Smirking, she stuck her skinny little arm through each space between the bars and reached out as far as she could. If she could find a lock, then she could pick it. But she heard footsteps, and immediately whipped her arm back.

She pulled on Primus' arm to get him down as the guard walked by. She took a step back but glared at the guard as he passed by the cell. The guard, unfortunately, took notice and raised an eyebrow. Victorine glared harder, and he picked up his pace. When he was out of sight, Victorine moved to continue her search.

"Don't even try, kid," the blonde lady said. "It's all electronic."

Victorine, clinging to her last thread of patience, stepped away from the door and slumped against the wall.

"Eh, don't worry kid. I'm already working on gettin' outta here," the blonde lady told her, gesturing towards the corner. Victorine raised an eyebrow, and slowly tip-toed over to the corner, and peered over the blonde lady's shoulder. There was a crater in the concrete, going down several feet. The jagged concrete was broken to tiny pieces at the bottom of the hole, and the blonde lady chipped away with an oddly shaped tool made from rusted scrap metal. To the side of the whole, there was a big blanket made of gray bits of cloth and torn up clothes.

Victorine stared at the hole, her eyes wide as saucepans and her jaw hanging low. That's what she was doing the whole time? Victorine thought. I mean, it doesn't excuse her bitchiness, but...

"A couple acquaintances nearby have the same idea," the blonde lady informed, quietly. "We're all thinkin' a'meeting in the middle somehow soon."

Victorine, still not exactly sure what was in front of her was real, slowly softened her expression. She turned to the blonde lady and nodded, genuinely impressed.

Good job, Victorine mouthed before backing away and sitting next to Frankie. The first thing Frankie took notice of was the marks on Victorine's hands. Cuts and scratches on her fingers, as well as the mark Horace, gave her from yanking her away yesterday.

"How'd you get all those?" Frankie asked. Victorine started with the easy one. She pointed to the mark on her wrist, then pointed to Horace.

"That jerk," Frankie joked. Victorine gave a small smile that faded when she laid eyes on the cut Lee gave her that night in the barn oh so long ago. When Victorine was quiet for too long, Frankie said, "Once a fell off a swing when I was five and got a cut that looked like a lightning bolt."

Victorine was still quiet, so Frankie continued, "Y'know what, scratch that. This dude named frickin' 'Aaron Johnson' pushed me off the swing and called me a sissy. And I'm fricking glad he was in that car accident and broke his Goddamn hand!'

"He's probably dead now," Horace pointed out.

"Good," Frankie answered all too quickly before knitting her eyebrows with regret. She shook her head before trying to change the subject. "Anyway, any other stories? Gina didn't tell me too about you. She said you dirtiest mouth out of all of 'em."

Victorine nodded, eyes wide. Frankie smiled and chuckled. "She also said you were the person at the mansion that everyone could talk to. Like, people would just talk and talk and you'd listen without saying a thing. Sounds like a dream come true."

Victorine, once again, affirmed this. Frankie broke eye contact and leaned back. Victorine could already guess what she had come.

"Y'know, Gina said you were the only person she could really talk to. Like, that Opal girl ditched her. I kinda know how that feels. I mean, back in fifth grade, lotta friends stopped talking t' me 'cause of..."

She gestured to her torso. "But that didn't matter too much when the bombing reached my town. We had nowhere to go, so, we kinda just waited anxiously every day. Not to mention how stubborn my dad was. About everything. Especially, well, you know what I mean. We were the last ones in our neighborhood. The whole place was fricking desolate but my dad didn't let us leave. And well, when it actually happened...my mom and I hid in the basement but my dad wanted to go down with the house...and before we ran down he said that he was disappointed that my mom was never a good wife...and that his son was never a man."

Frankie's fingers fidgeted. She couldn't look up from her shoes. Victorine wrapped her arms around her, familiar with the whole schtick. But Frankie hugged her back and squeezed tighter than Victorine squeezed her. Though it was one of the most tragic backstories Victorine had heard, Frankie seemed a little relieved. Hell, she had a smile on her face as Victorine hugged her.

"Thanks," Frankie said, "Sorry for making you my therapist."

"It's the least I could do, buddy," Victorine responded.

"How sad," Horace sarcastically commented. Victorine gave him the stink-eye, but Horace seemed to be one of the few people who were immune to it. Cut him some slack, Victorine reminded herself. But just for spite, Victorine flipped him off while she kissed Frankie's forehead.

"W-wha was that for?" Frankie slurred, as pleasantly surprised as she was confused. Victorine simply grinned in response.

"If it makes ya feel any better," the blonde lady called, "check out what's over here."

Frankie stood up, and Victorine stood on pins and needles as Frankie looked over the blonde lady's shoulder and almost screamed.

"In a couple days," blonde lady whispered. "We're gettin' outta here."

Frankie bit her lip and nodded. Victorine grabbed Primus' arm and showed him the hole, and he didn't think too much of it at first. But at least more than Horace casually stood on his tiptoes and stated, "Well, s***"