Page 21 of Mask and the Magnolia
Short of a kitchen and normal front door, calling our cells apartments isn’t that far off.
It’s pretty big, several times the size of the place I spent the last few years in, and if you stand in the doorway and look into the cell, it definitely has a morehomeyvibe to it. It’s bare bones right now, and apparently we have to earn things like decor and the fucking walls to section off the bathroom, but this isn’t anything like the other prisons I’ve been in.
The simple fact that we can earn things is different. Even on good behavior, I was treated like a piece of garbage, so at some point I gave up trying. Now? If I manage to coexist with the other residents without incident, if I put some effort into therapy or whatever treatment they try to use on me, I can have shit like books and a TV, possibly even access to a computer or something. I can have furniture in my room, a real bathroom that’s private, all kinds of things that I haven’t even dreamt of since I was a teenager.
I wonder if they’d give me a mask.
Probably not, I’m sure they’d still want to be able to see my face no matter how well behaved I was, but there are potentially tons of other options.
I’m really hoping they’ll let me see Maisie.
“Cool it, Hawthorne.”
I drag my eyes from the window—it might be twelve inches thick but it’s a fucking window—and turn to where I can hear the guards escorting one of the men from the transfer down the hall.
“I was only asking for a little assistance, gentlemen. You’ve got me in these pretty little bracelets,”—I can only see his hands that are cuffed together and chained to his waist as he lifts them—“and when a dude’s nuts are stuck to his damn thigh, they’re stuck. If you won’t’ help a guy out, you get to walk with me while I do a fucking Irish jig. You can also let the doc know that our mandated outfits aren’t very forgiving in the crotch, therefore resulting in sticky balls.”
I frown as the first guard comes into view, chuckling to himself a little while the other rolls his eyes. “Sticky balls? Really?”
“Oh, come on.” Hawthorne, I’m assuming, stops and thrusts his hips forward, motioning to his junk the best he can. “You can seeeverything, including the way my sack is stuck to my thigh. This is not the kind of impression I’d like to make on the nicelady who’ll be giving me my injections.” Then he turns and looks into my cell, a mischievous grin on his face as he arches a brow at me. “Then again, maybe I can find someone else to help me out.”
Arching a brow right back, I nearly crack a smile for the first time in god knows how long as Hawthorne blows me a kiss and continues hisjigdown the hall.
When I was in isolation, the only people I saw were one of three guards, my shrink, and the prison primary doctor. That was it, and I didn’t talk to any of them—therapist included—the last four years I was there. I haven’t had a real conversation in even longer. I killed my last cellmate when he tried to assert his dominance, and after that, it seemed pointless. So, no talking, definitely no smiling or laughing, nothing but my own thoughts and the occasional letter from my sister they deemed appropriate. Being here has the potential to change that, if the treatment I’ve been reading about is legit, and I don’t really know how to feel about it. Considering the men I’m up here with and the fact that they must be here for similar reasons to why I am, it’s even harder to get a read on things, and I hate that after all the time I’ve spent getting fucked over by the system, I’m actually trying to be hopeful this will be different.
Like, this time, maybe it’ll work out and even if I’m not sent back out into the real world, I’ll have a more normal life while I’m stuck in this one. A normal life with frequent and wanted human interaction.
But who knows.
Hawthorne could have been plotting the annihilation of the entire floor, starting with my murder, or he could have been getting comfortable because he’s in the same boat as me. Either way, I have no idea what to expect from him, or this place, and the fact that it’s trying to let a little hope take root is a scary thing that I can’t let get out of hand.
“You’re next, Severe.”
I get to my feet as the same two guards stop outside my cell, both of them calm until I’m at the door. No one seems to realize how big I am until I’m right up on them, and while it’s obvious these guys are alphas—who else could guard murderers—I dwarf them the same way I do most people, and they are instantly on edge because of it.
“Hands,” the one on the left says as he slides open a small panel that’s level with my waist. “Just for now.”
I frown as I reach through the opening and allow them to cuff me, and I almost ask what that means, but decide not to.
“The goal is not to have to use these.” The guard on the right attaches a long chain then holds it tightly while the other starts to slide open the bullet proof glass door. “Like the muzzle. No one wears shit like this at home, you shouldn’t have to either.”
The other chuckles as he walks in with the shackles for my ankles. “Well, some people do, but I doubt their reason for it is the same.”
I almost smile at that, the second time in as many minutes where I’ve felt the urge to even try, and I’m sure if they knew about my history with masks, it would make it harder to stand here without cracking one. I’m too skeptical, too curious to let my guard down enough to start laughing at jokes or warming up to people. Besides, I’ve only been here a week and a half. By this time anywhere else, I’m usually on my second cell mate or already in isolation. Everything that’s happened, everything I’ve seen and heard could still be a load of shit and they’re just waiting for me to get comfortable before they pull the rug out from under me.
But my curiosity has gotten the best of me so far, and it’s why I stand still while one of them shackles my ankles and the other hangs onto the chain outside my cell until that’s done.
“I’m O’Brien,” the guard next to me says as he pulls the links through the panel and wraps them around my waist. “And that’s Stevenson.”
He nods as he walks in and helps make sure everything is connected and restrictive without being painful or totally immobile. “You’ll see us the most, we pull sixteens during the week, but there are two other guys who work the night shift, and four who only work Friday night through Monday morning.”
They keep talking as we walk into the hall, explaining how the nursing staff is set up similarly, how the doctors are always here but we only see them during the week. O’Brien and Stevenson give me the names of the other prisoners, the residents—I’m never going to get used to that—as we walk, pointing behind me for Bishop Rooker and Hawthorne, Lochlan Rooker is on the other side of me, St. James across from him, and Sokolov at the end, who’s also across from an empty cell like I am.
I don’t look into theirapartmentsas we pass but I can feel them looking at me.
Oddly enough, for a ward that should be so full of alpha energy and murdery vibes we should all be suffocating in them, it’s pretty fucking calm. Something else that makes me wonder if the other guys living here are in similar situations as me. Not that they were locked up for some shit they didn’t do, I’m sure they’ve earned their places here just like I have, but that they’re at a point where they’re more curious and skeptical than anything else, and just want to get through this shit without incident.
Do I think that means the second they start letting us mingle in the common areas we’re all going to be best friends and not try to, at the very least, kick each other’s asses? Hell no, we are all alphas, and we are all murderers, something like that isbound to happen, but no one seems to be chomping at the bit to get their hands on anyone yet.
