Page 12 of Enemy of the State

Not seeming to be offended by my tone, but sensing my tension, he asks, “Want a smoke?”

I nod, toss my mask into the bin at the foot of my bed, and follow after Jace.

I’m pissed the fuck off that Lou’s cell is as fucking disgusting as it is. I’m a little annoyed that even Jace is breathing down my neck about cleaning the foul cell block. But most of all, I’m incensed with myself for caring about an inmate—even a little. I gave her my full fucking surname, for Christ’s sake. I gave her a piece of myself, and I didn’t even hesitate, like something other than my brain was controlling my mouth.

A smoke won’t fix the angry storm swirling in my head, but it can’t fucking hurt.

We go up to the roof this time, slumping down into a couple of the plastic chairs we keep up here for this purpose. The sun is bright overhead, a few wispy clouds dotting the horizon.

I take the zippo and unlit cigarette from his outstretched hand and light the end of the cigarette between my lips. Once I pass him the lighter, he does the same. We lounge in companionable silence for a bit before we start talking about Jace’s upcoming leave and his trip home.

It’s moments like this that make being here not so bad.

Louhi

It could be ten days, or it could be forty, that I’ve been here. I have no idea. Either way, I’m not a fan. The conditions are…subpar, and I’d like to file a complaint. I’m not sure how long my brother plans to keep me in suspense before busting in here and sweeping me away. He’s always been my hero—my steady ground, my protector, my best mate, my savior my entire life.

That’s why when he asked for help, I jumped at the opportunity. He’s never asked me for anything, and knowing I had the ability to repay some of his kindness from the last almost twenty years, I didn’t hesitate. Even if that meant ending up in the armpit of a torture facility.

This isn’t like a regular prison either. This is worse, more severe. Serial killers have it better. No one cares about you here. No one gives a shit if I die. For all I know, I’m already dead to the rest of the world. My name, my face, my identity are simply meaningless now. Obsolete.

I’d hate to have to get a new name when I bust out. I’ve always adored my name.In Finnish, it means “goddess of death” or “snake,” both meanings I claim with equal fervor. It’s what inspired my tattoo, but it’s more than the meaning of my name to me; it’s who I am. I’m the goddess of death to some, yet a snake to others.

Born in Finland, we lived there as a family until I was eleven and my parents were stolen from me. I haven’t resided there since my parents’ murder, but my brother and I meet at their grave on my mother’s birthday every year. A piece of my soul seems to linger in Finland, which is probably why I spend so much of my free time studying Finnish mythology and my heritage.

I miss Finland: the culture, the people, the weather, the history, the landscape. I miss beinghome.

Pulling my knees to my chest, I inspect my feet. Too badKiputyttönever answered my silent summoning to erase my hurt. But what’s life without a little pain?

I’ve had to adjust my workouts with my mangled toes. It’s been aggravating, to say the least. At least Digs eliminated the need for me to clip my toenails. Silver lining?

My black fingernails have grown so long though that the black polish is nearly gone. It’s been driving me bonkers, but I can’t seem to chip off the last dregs of polish.

“Jeesus Kristus,”I mutter in my native language, as I run a hand down my filthy hair next. I’m far too vain for this shit. I need a shower in the worst fucking way. The first thing I’ll do when I’m free from this place is soak forhoursin a steaming bubble bath with a fat glass of luxurious red wine.

I close my eyes now, attempting to transport myself to that blissful place in my massive washroom at home, but my eyelids fly open as I hear someone approach my cell. Things have been relatively quiet since breakfast, and Ialmostmiss the barrage of noise that the metal music provides.

The guard I’ve heard referred to as Borman appears before my cell door a moment later, and he goes through the motions of unlocking my cage, giving the serpent within me a glimpse of freedom from confinement. I lull her back to her restful state. This is not the time. Not the way. I only need to wait.Practice patience, little sister,my brother would remind me.

Look, Iampatient, but my patience has limits.

Never deviating from routine, he shackles me and leads me to the usual interrogation room, and I’m made to sit in a wooden chair this time. My arms are strapped to the armrests and my ankles remain chained.

Something new.

The different set-up tells me that Digs has something fresh up his sleeve. I have an appreciation for his artistic ability to inflict pain in imaginative ways. Digs isn’t as sly as he thinks he is, though. I’m all too aware of his penchant for pain. I’ve caught the way his eyes glint with the hunger to hurt, the desire to see me bleed. I’ve also noticed how his cock thickens behind his zipper when he does something especially heinous.

He’s a sadist, that much is obvious.

When the door eventually opens, Digs and Honey Eyes enter, the latter carrying a small cardboard box.Oh, the intrigue.

“Morning, Louhi,” Honey Eyes chirps, like he’s not about to do something grotesque to me. Both he and Digs have been growing more familiar over the last several sessions, and I can’t help but think that they enjoy my company. Under a vastly different set of circumstances, I might enjoy hanging out with them too. They seem like blokes I’d meet for drinks at a pub to catch up. Okay, so I understand those would be calledfriends, but it feels odd to see my captors that way.

“Good morning,” I parrot, as Honey Eyes leans against the wall in front of me, box still in hand.

“Feel like talking today?”

I only laugh in reply to Digs’s inquiry. I’ve got to give him credit for asking. Although, I’m smart enough to know that he’d kill me the second he got what he thought he needed.

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