Pyro

Chapter 28

I ambled through the motions, rubbing the stiffness out my joints as I meandered to breakfast. 

I steered clear of company. I barked at Leo to back off and steered clear of Mr. Cal. I ate the breakfast of cereal, vapid mush on my swollen tongue, in somber contemplation.

All the while, my plan haunted my mind.

As spoons clinked against bowls and chatter suffused the air, my eyes slid over the guards stationed around the room. All male, some swarthy but most an opaque white. Hair peeked out in tufts under their caps, and though dark glasses hid their eyes, I imagined their pupils narrowed to slits, slithering over us. They watched for the slightest flick of our wrists, indicating an oncoming attack. Once meals concluded, they tallied the number of plastic forks, unrelenting in their scrutiny. Not a single guard stood with a hunched spine or twining a lock of hair out of boredom. No, all of them were vigilant, with stiffened backs and sneers glued to their faces.

This was going to be hard.

Next up was free time. Prisoners visited cells, clustered together and eyed others. Me? I ruminated in my cell, warding off others with a glare.

According to Mr. Cal, back before the country's only SS prison split into two, it was coed with coed guards. There, Amala Iyer, AKA Proditio, in for charges unrelated to the Traders, seduced a guard. She offered him a tentative touch here, a lurid whisper there, sometimes brushing up against him and toying with his hair.

Powerless to resist, the guard succumbed to his desires and one night, unlocked her cell door: Rather than receiving a sensual experience, he suffered a blow to the back of the head. She slipped out and bribed or convinced the Watcher-the prisoner's expletive-free nickname for the person living in the prison superseding their powers-and returned to her cell. The guard, realizing his position was on the line if he spilled the beans on her temporary escape, remained quiet. Figuring she'd returned, satisfaction blinded him.

From there, details were scarce. 

The Watcher, Alke, turned off his powers. Chaos engulfed the prison and he, Proditio, and one other man were able to escape: Mr. Cal.

That remained the scope of my information. Skepticism lingered in my thoughts-why did Mr. Cal tell me all this? Maybe to see me wind up dead in an escape attempt, but even so I didn't care-but something urged me not to pry. Mr. Cal's sly grin and the devious twinkle in his eyes suggested a plot, but for all I cared, he could go on a rampage with a wooden spoon, gouging out the eyes of guards; as long as I escaped.

Curiosity haunted me, wondering how he'd acquired this priceless information, but my weary mind devoted itself entirely to one matter: escape.

I couldn't go the seduction route, as much as I liked to flatter myself. And there was no guarantee the Watcher of this prison would help me. Not everyone was as scummy as Alke. Mr. Cal obviously wanted me to glean something from Proditio's escape, but what was it? That I needed long, pretty hair to escape?

I groaned, burying my face my hands. Dammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit!

I cursed myself for winding up here in the first place. Why the hell was I so stupid!

Unshed tears stung the back of my eyes. Not out of sadness or self-pity, though. No, out of rage. Ire. Resentment.

Every minute I paced these halls, caged like an animal, that despicable woman sipped wine and culled people from their homes, their loved ones. It was a minute Rebecca was unavenged. Proditio had to die. Die a painful death. I wanted to stand over her charred corpse, relishing the smokey scent of her burning flesh, tasting her ashes on my tongue. I needed to hear fire hissing as it devoured her silky skin and singed every strand of hair on her damned head.