Werewolf on Death Row

One: Welcome to Death's Door

"No."

"No."

"No."

"... no," I looked at the last boy in the line, his blonde hair loose around his shoulders and his green eyes glaring at me with sheer disgust. However, just like most of the others, relief also showed. Why, you ask?

Because no one wants to be mated to a monster.

The guard escorting me pushes the stainless steel door at the end of the room open for me to pass through. His name's Jim and he has a soft spot for cats and the most bushy eyebrows I've ever seen. Sometimes he tells me about the outside world, whats been going on and all that.Despite the fact that his job is to keep me here, he's honestly the closest thing to a friend I have.

The first night I was here, he had asked me, "You alright kid?"

"Yeah," I said back, even though I was bawling my eyes out inside my cell. Crying over what I'd done, over my sentence, just crying over everything. Including the fact that he was the first person to asked me if I was okay for a long time.

"I know you're young kid, and probably scared as hell of this place, but it's gonna be okay. Just keep in mind that everyone in here is in here for a reason, and it's best to stay out of their way. Don't give 'em any reason to think you're weak either, or they'll target ya real bad." And I haven't, and I've been fine ever since.

Once we are out the door, I pop my hands behind my back, allowing him to put the silver alloy handcuffs back in place. His gloved hands are gentle and I can tell he still hates doing this, but I barely wince at the familiar burning sensation coming from my wrists. By now it's just another routine.

It takes exactly one hundred and three steps to reach my cell, or seventy six if you have a long, striding gait like Jim's. The walls are painted a sterile grey and the floors are covered in squeaky linoleum of a slightly darker shade. Such a cheery place, right? Seriously though, whoever designed the interiors has a real thing for the grayscale. Even Jim's uniform blends in, making me stand out even more in this lovely, itchy orange jumpsuit.

Which is paired with the cheapest, most definitely sweatshop-made sneakers ever, the ones that are practically designed to make horrible squeaky noises. And squeak they do, a total of fifty three times on the way to my cell. The second Jim unlocks the silver covered door - lucky bastards all have to wear gloves - unlocks my cuffs, and thrusts me inside, I rip the torture devices off my feet.

My ears are more sensitive than most. Once, that made me a highly promising tracker in training but now it's just plain irritating.

My cell is identical to the other two hundred and forty nine located here. Grey walls, a small, hard single bed, dirty sink with a cracked mirror above it, latrine and one single pitiful shelf above a small dresser filled with standard issue black clothing and a spare jumpsuit. On my shelf are two books, one a travel guide from the mid eighties and the other a biography of Freddie Mercury that Jim snuck in for me for my seventeenth birthday. I don't dare put anything else on the shelf for fear it'll fall down, it's that flimsy. However on top of the dresser are a few scattered makeup products, that I'm forced to use (in a prison of all places).

But this isn't any prison.

My name is Stephanie York. I'd love to give you all the fascinating details of my appearance, but the truth is it's been years since I last looked in a mirror and who knows how much I've changed in here. I'm still short and a blonde, but that's about all I can say on the subject.

Death's Door has been my 'home' for around three years now. No, I don't mean as in I'm going to just drop dead at any second now, although in a way that is a very real possibility. Death's Door is the nickname of the institution known as the "Lycanthrope High Security Correctional Facility" (because LHSCF just doesn't have the same ring to it). Why Death's Door you ask? Simple.

Once you're locked in here, you never get out. Dramatic, I know, but it just gets crazier from here. Everyone here has been sentenced with the highest penalty in the werewolf world - the death sentence.

But it could be ten days or ten years before you are put six feet under, because first you have to find your mate, so that you can die after suffering the crushing agony that is rejection of the mate bond. Once you're dead, the mate can life their life in peace; if a rejection occurs immediately after meeting each other for the first time, the one who rejects feels little pain from the weak bond whereas we are made to feel every excruciating detail. So they live on, often with a sense of pride at being able to rid the world of another monster. But who would blame them?

I wouldn't. I've had plenty of time to get to know the sorts of people who end up in a place like this. The cells are occupied by terrorists, wolfsbane kingpins, torturers, highly dangerous rogues, genocidal madmen, and the like. Everyone in here is here for the most heinous crimes the werewolf world has ever seen, pretty much all of which involve killing lots and lots of innocent people, and most have the personalities of a bucket of rotting fish. And although my personality is delightful if I do say so myself, I deserve to be here just as much as any of them. I still remember every single second...

The sound of my door slamming open pulls me out of my thoughts.

'Have you taken your meds?" Jim says gruffly.

I slap a hand to my forehead, "No."

"You best be on that."

"Yes sir," I replied. With a nod and a soft look in his eyes he stepped out, closing and locking the door behind him.

Getting off the bed, I walk over to the dresser. The floor is freezing against my feet but like most things here, I'm used to it. Pulling out the bottom draw, I look for the medicine container hidden amongst my shirts. Once my fingers close around it, I pull it out slowly, almost unconciously checking my peripheral vision to make sure no one sees it. Which is ridiculous of course, I'm in a locked cell, away from other inmates and all the officers know of my... condition. But still, I can't help it.

The cap makes an audible pop as I take it off, before very carefully tipping one small tablet into my hand. As soon as it hits the skin I pull my hand up and swallow it. It leaves a burning sensation in my mouth which was just delightful when paired with it's extremely bitter taste. But criminals can't be choosers I suppose.

Carefully I tuck the bottle back in its hiding place with the lid firmly reattached. It was nearly empty, I'd have to ask for more soon. Won't that be a fun trip.

Jim knocks on the door before opening it. It's lunch time now, so he has to escort me down to the mess hall. Thankfully he doesn't put the silver handcuffs back on, so my arms swing freely at my sides as we walk. The skin around my wrists is still red and sore from this morning, and the material of the jumpsuit I forgot to take off was irritating them. My feet, thankfully, are still barefoot.

As echoes begin to bounce around the halls from the hall ahead, I school my features into a mask that shows no emotion. The mess hall runs a lot like a high school cafeteria, politics and all, but this cafeteria is filled with the worst people you'll never meet.

Jim stops at the door. Luckily for me this one isn't silver so I grab the doorknob and begin to twist.

"Behave yourself, alright?" he whispers softly.

"Yes sir," I mutter back, allowing just a hint of a cheeky grin to show up on my face.

And then I shove the door open and walk straight in to hell.