Page 102 of Judas

“Thought you were going to fuck it up after I just spent all this time trying to get it right.”

“I will if you want me to; fuck it up, that is. But no, I was putting this little bit back so you look like your normal stick-up-the-ass guard.” Nadia doesn’t fight me this time, allowing me to place the strand behind her ear, following me with her amazing eyes. When you catch her in different lighting, they reflect different undertones from the fluorescent bulbs throughout the facility. A full kaleidoscope of colors exist in her silver irises.

“Are you going to say it?” Back to teasing her, I note the way her lips twitch into a smile before she tries chewing the bottom one.

“No.”

“Why not? You make it seem like you don’t want to. Don’t kid yourself, Nadia. You’re hooked just as bad as I am.”

Angling in, my lips skim her jawline. The fine hairs stand up along the side of her neck then lay back down after a few seconds. This is what I love, her responsiveness. If there ever comes a day where I can spend hours upon hours drawing out every shudder, whimper, sigh, tightening of her body, I’d make whatever sacrifice is necessary. That’s my promise to her—my hidden one, actually. Coming to prison taught me to never feed into hope. In the event this is all we are allowed, it would kill me to see her heart break because I fed her hope.

“I don’t,” Nadia answers. The two little words sting, not what I was hoping she would say—see? Faith is a bitch. Reclining away from her, silence lingers as she waits for me to argue and I wait for elaboration.

“Fuck, Nadia, put me out of my misery. Why, pray tell, don’t you want to say it?” Impatience is a bitch—put that on my list of shit to fix.

“Kace—“ she starts. Turning to face me, her hands wring together, but her strong will keeps her from looking away. Staring me right in my face.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, I just… I want to make sure I mean it when I say it. You know how conditional my life has been, what happens if I expect the wrong things. What if I do this whole damn thing incorrect?” Timid is not the tone I figured she would take with this but there it is, plain as day. She’s scared.

Me too.

“Fuck, babygirl.”

Grabbing her face, my larger hands cradle her cheeks. Mindful of where my fingers delve as not to mess up the hair she spent so much effort on fixing.

“Listen to me, yeah? There are bad ways to love people, as in how you show your actions and behavior, but you won’t do it wrong. Your stories tell me what you need and I’ve seen what you give, and Snitch? You don’t love me wrong.”

“Smacking you around, bullying you, and getting you sent to solitary is how you want to be loved?” Disbelief is in her voice now. Of course she would remember that and use it at her advantage; she wouldn’t be my Snitch if she didn’t.

“I like the power exchange it presents. You dish out a beating, then I take it out on your body later. Witnessing you come apart, and being the one who causes it, is the tradeoff. Never be afraid to tell someone you love them. There may be a day where you can’t anymore. You’ve lived with enough pain and regret, babygirl. I don’t want to see you regret not telling someone you love them.”

Spoke that shit into existence, I did. Now look at me. Fuck.

Lucien left a while ago; counting the minutes has been difficult while struggling to remain awake—or sane, for that matter. If Ihad to guess, I’d say it’s been hours. How many? Don’t know, that’s why I used the plural form of that word.

Beginning at the top of my head, I mentally scale down to take inventory of what’s missing, broken, and what hurts. It’s safe to say that I’ll be blind in one eye for however long I live; not so terrible since I’m isolated in darkness right now—very little light coming down from the drains above. Even in its absence, it still hurts. I think they call that shit phantom limb syndrome? Whatever.

Tilting my head side to side, I give it a roll clockwise then counter, checking for snags or pulling in my skin. If he cut me there, I’d bleed out and nothing would matter anyway. Once that’s said and done, my tongue counts the teeth and feels my lips before my consciousness moves further down. Shoulders feel fine; aching but nothing’s damaged. Ribs? Fuck those. There has to be several of them that are broken since I feel it with every breath. Torso, it’s tight but no breaks. Arms, raw skin chafes under the restraints, same with my ankles and legs. Thighs, hips, ass, all good. Feet and my hands feel like they’re about to fall the fuck off, however. Circulation and the cold is getting to me.

Struggling to move them takes more energy than I have. Half-slumping in the chair the freak restrained me to, and trying to tilt my head back some, my eyes finally close and I drag in new, agonizing breaths. Trying to time them in a way so I can arch into my broken ribs and push the splintered bone away from my lung—hoping for less damage. I’d rather they tear through my skin than puncture something that’s trying so hard to keep me alive.

Finding a semi-comfortable spot, the chittering of rats echoes down the long hallway of the pit. The only other sound now, outside of the dripping and my periodic gasps. Slow, agonizing death is what he planned for me, I suppose. What else could this be?

Finally still, my thoughts drift off to Nadia. A wistful smile saddened by remorse.

Goddamnit, the woman is going to have a fucking hissy fit when I don’t show up to see her. Lectured her on regret and telling people she cares about that she loves them, then ended up in a dark hole in the base of the fucking prison.

I hate that I saw this coming enough to make some sort of preparations for her. There are people out there who will bring her in, continue to show her that not everyone is out to get her. Nor want to break her and make her feel like she’s undeserving of basic emotional necessities. Damn me for being the asshole who won’t be there to see her grow into the woman I know she can be.

That’s what hurts the most, if I’m honest.

With my eyes closed, it’s getting harder to combat sleep. Rats now circle the legs of the chair. Sharp front teeth nibbling at the legs of my jumper—still chittering. The only comfort as I waste away is Nadia’s smile. It’s the one thing that keeps me hanging on long enough to take the next breath. Lacking the vitality to fight for my life, I prevent myself from moving so much to conserve energy, hopefully long enough to be found. Perhaps that’s the tiny optimism left me, someone’s going to come down here. They’re going to find me before it’s all said and done and I will be perfectly fine. Even the injuries will heal on their own with little infection. Everything will be okay, I’m going to be okay, tomorrow I’ll wake up in my cell and the rat race will start all over.

Wishful thinking, and all.

A scream pierces the air, rattling the chains Lucien left around me. They’re still dangling over the tops of my forearms, pooling on the floor to both sides of me. The weight of them is enough to keep me from struggling—mind over matter.

The delirium came faster than I thought it would have. I’ve read about it a few times in my borrowed library books. There’s a limited selection, so inmates end up reading random shit when all of the other good titles are checked out, or when they’re not nose-deep in their textbooks. In high stress and depressive moments, the mind plays tricks on you. The scream, a trick. There wouldn’t be anyone down here to scream other than Lucien, let alone a woman. ‘Least that’s the impression I got from the pitch of it. Screams like that, the kind that sink into your body and chill your bones, aren’t typically made by men. Male tones aren’t high pitched enough for that. So, I’m hallucinating. Hopefully, I pass out before any of the other shit starts happening to my mind.

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