the case study ~ camren

Crazy

Before I know it, Camila is attending her first hearing, of sorts. I catch Normani on the way out of the prison with Camila not far behind, surrounded by officers and wearing a dreaded orange jumpsuit to signal that she is the accused, for the benefit of the court. She keeps her head down, mostly due to the large, hairy hand pressing against the back of it, but I can see her eyes dart about in wonder. I hurry alongside Normani long enough for her to explain that the trip will simply serve to inform Camila thoroughly of the charges against her, though Normani says she already knows, and to allow Normani to make her plea. I barely have the chance to open my mouth and ask if it'll be not guilty before she sends me a reassuring nod. I try to catch Camila's eye before she leaves, but she either doesn't notice I'm there or avoids me entirely.

With Camila gone for who-knows-how-long, I consider turning and heading back home, but then I remember the items I brought with me today and hurry into the prison. Thankfully, the officer behind the desk is preoccupied with something so I only flash her my ID before she lets me through, not questioning my presence despite the fact that my sole patient is off the property. I hurry to her cell and grin when I find the door ajar, meaning I can slip inside without needing to find an officer. Once in the empty room, I freeze for a moment. If the cell was barren before, it is lifeless without Camila here. It is all too silent without her quiet breathing, and much too cold without her warm eyes. Perhaps I simply read too much poetry, but I can't help but compare it to just how empty my life would be if the prosecutors win in her case, if she's sentenced as harshly as the crime calls for, if she's murdered.

Adjusting the strap of my bag, I take a deep breath to gather myself. Then, I reach inside the satchel to retrieve what I brought. The first thing I retrieve is another blanket, this one white and much softer than the brown one the prison gave her. I lay it over her mattress and smooth it over with my palms. Next is a small, supposedly child- and animal-proof, battery-powered nightlight in the shape of a cartoonish bear—it was the second one I found that didn't require a power outlet; the first was a rabbit, which only reminded me of the footage from the bank. I set it beside her sink before shaking my head and moving it to sit beside her mattress. Then, I reach back into my bag, this time pulling out the small stack of photos I'd taken and had printed out of the surrounding area; the sky, a nearby park, a small stream not far from my apartment building, and a flower I'd spotted growing in a crack in the pavement on my way to the printing place. With a touch of tape, I stick the small photos to the wall, also near the mattress. Once done, I step back to admire my handy work. It isn't much, maybe, but it's better than before without breaking regulations.

I checked with the warden before bringing these things in, of course, not wanting Camila to be accused of possessing contraband. Despite the closed-off cell she inhabits, her sentence still holds the rules for one of the barred cells that some of the other inmates have, meaning she actually has a lot more freedom when it comes to items in her cell than others in her corridor. Officers can check each of her belongings when they see fit, but so long as she doesn't try to dig her way into the neighboring cell and hide it behind one of the photos, I think she'll be fine.

Even though I know she likely won't be back for a long time, I hesitate to leave the cell. My mind hopes she'll be led through the doors any minute now, though I know her trip to the courtroom will take hours of organization even before she is put before the judge. Still, I sink down onto the edge of her mattress, and my mind instead focuses on what had happened another time I sat here, when she'd leaned in and bit my ear ever so softly. My thoughts morph until I feel as though I'm back in the shower, my lips against hers once more. This time, without Hartley there to interrupt.

No, this time, Camila does. She's pushed into the room, changed back into her normal blue attire, and I realize I must've been here for hours. I smile when I see her, but it fades when she silently sinks to the ground, sitting cross-legged facing the door.

"Camila? What are you doing?"

She pulls her shoes off and sets them by the door, but doesn't respond. Moments later, a tray of food—if it could be called that—is slid through a slot in the door. She sets it on her lap and hungrily digs in. Only when she's finished does she turn to face me. Her eyes briefly scan the new items in her cell and a ghost of a smile flickers upon her lips, but she subtly pinches her ankle and dons an empty look.

Gulping, she mutters, "I want the chair."

"What?" My mind catches up with me, and my eyes shoot open. "W-What? Did she—"

"You told the attorney I'm crazy, but it doesn't matter because... they have things." She nods as though what she says is the inescapable truth, her expression reading almost as though she's explaining her predicament to a child. "So, when they... get me, I want the chair. I don't— I can't have a needle. You— I— can you make sure?"

"What? No! Camila, they're not—" I scramble towards her but she doesn't move, only turning her distant gaze over my shoulder.

"No one's gonna believe it. People don't— they don't... kill people because they... they didn't mean it." Her words are broken but somehow string together to perfectly convey what she believes.

"But you didn't mean it." My hand lands on her knee and I feel her tremble ever so slightly under my touch. She looks to me and sighs. "Right?"

"I'm... c-crazy. I'm crazy, I-"

"No, you're not." I shake my head firmly and she lets her hand lay atop mine.

"I didn't mean to." Her brows tent in pleading and she leans a little closer to me, her voice just above a whisper.

"No, you didn't." I nod, hoping I'm reassuring her.

"They were bad. Bad. Very bad."

My heart rate is much too high to properly consider her state right now and what it means, all I know is that I want to comfort her, and so I do. Sighing softly, I scoot a little closer and open my arms, grateful when she clambers into my embrace. I press my lips against her temple and hold her until she stops shaking, listen until she stops mumbling, and hold in my own feelings until she falls limp in my lap. Then, tears burn at the backs of my eyes.

"Camila?" I whisper, and she shifts slightly, humming quietly. I bury my face in her shoulder and mutter, "I'm not gonna let you be put in that chair." She squirms and begins to protest, so I add, "I'm not gonna let you die."

She reaches behind herself and takes my hand, pulling it between us to press her lips against each of my knuckles in turn. She doesn't let go, and neither do I.

—
So this chapter is probably not as realistic as far as rules go bUt I think it's cute and therefore in this AU that's how prisons work 😂