Mother nature kept busy unleashing a flood of rain for the next few days while I kept just as busy familiarizing myself with the prisoners via their files. Crashing thunder chaperones deadlier lighting, knocking out the antiquated power servicing the present. Emergency generators hum and moan like a thousand ghosts while emitting a feeble, orangish glow across the tiers. Prisoner scream at apparently nothing all day, creating chaos and animosity across the block. Stopping Harris as he walks by during rounds I ask, "Officer will you escort prisoner Barnes down? Cell number 103?"
Harris snaps at me, "doc, I know the number! I've worked here for over 20 years, five in this block alone!" As I'm about to say something else, he walks away, leaving any apology on my reprimanded tongue. I hear the constant noise outside my office a few minutes later turn from screams to chants. It takes a moment before I'm able to make out what they're saying. In unison the inmates catcall, "Patrick! Here comes Patrick the molestor! Come here Patrick, we won't hurt you! You like little girls, Patrick? I'll make you my little bitch!"
I can hear objects slamming to the floor from the cells above. A few minutes later, Patrick Barnes enters my office, looking a little worse for wear, with some type of liquid, that I hope is water, staining his clothes, but I can smell a strong odor of piss. Harris sits him down, securing leg shackles to a bar fastened to the floor. Even though I knew I'd be meeting with prisoners, his close proximity catches me off guard. So much so I'm unaware of inching my chair backwards and until it hits the wall with a thud. I didn't know until now how I'd feel seeing him.
Harris and Barnes look up at me oddly, making me feel foolish and inept. In an uneasy voice I look at the shackles and handcuffs, and I ask, "Are those restraints secure, officer?" Harris gives me an exasperated look and leaves without even bothering to respond.
Turning to the prisoner, I take a deep breath to compose myself and begin my interview, "Mr. Barnes, I'm Dr. Reisler, a new psychiatrist here. I spent most of the week reviewing some of the paperwork and decided to start my rounds with you since you're also a new arrival here. The file shows you have served over 15 years of a life sentence for the kidnapping and rape of a young girl. Is that correct?" I ask as the power starts to flicker, contorting Barnes features into that of a depraved master, making me fear the power will stay out and leave me in the dark with this perverted and violent man.
As the lighting stabilizes I can see that Barnes' hazel eyes appear alert and intelligent. His sandy brown hair is slightly disheveled, giving him a rakishly handsome luck. The only visual blemish I can see is a raised, jagged scar running horizontally underneath his chin. Up close he's not as tough as I expected, but to a little girl he was every bit of the boogie man hiding underneath her bed. He seems nervous, I thought, as a tick develops beneath his right eye, while he unconsciously rubs his index finger and thumb against against one another, much like a cricket antennae. Typical, edgy behavior for someone who spends much of his days confined.
Looking him over, I'm acutely aware of him doing the same to me. Deviant eyes travel from my breasts, and stop when they reach my groin area, safely hidden behind the desk. The first words he speaks are direct and precise. Possessing a firm an articulate vocabulary he says, "allegedly, Dr., allegedly."
YOU ARE READING
The Music Box
ContoA psychologist enters the dark world of prisons and faces her own troubled past. Her life as she knows it will be challenged and changed forever before she's done.
