Page 3 of Brainwashed
His second-in-command, Joy Jameson, is here too, and together they’re dragging a man into my cell. I sit up slowly, blinking at them as they shove the man forward and begin unlocking his cuffs and shackles.
“Alright, you whiny little prick.” Velle huffs, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You win. Your bitching and moaning have paid off. Here’s your new cellmate.”
“This is a bad idea…” Joy mumbles under her breath. Velle ignores her.
“Meet #97. #97, this is your new roomie…” Velle’s voice trails as he slaps the man on the shoulder. “I’d sleep with both eyes open.”
Without another word, they turn and leave the cell, door slamming and keys jangling as they lock up and stomp away.
And I’m left alone with my new cellmate.
He’s tall and sort of built, with a real rough-looking face. Shaved head, obviously. I think the head-shaving is standard for inmates here… But not for me. Just one of the many things I seem to be exempt from in Alabaster Penitentiary.
I press my fingers together on my lap, containing my zeal. I can’t believe they actually gave me a cellmate. I really didn’t expect them to give in so easily…
I’ve been residing in Alabaster Pen for a few months—roughly three, by my calculations—and I’ve been alone pretty much the entire time. The only people I see are the guards who lug me to and fro. On occasion, I get to look at other inmates in the cafeteria. But I’m not allowed to speak to anyone.
The thing is, I’m used to being alone. I always have been. Even in a crowded room, I’m disregarded. I’ve always beeninvisible…
Being trapped in my little cell all by my lonesome does remind me of my apartment in Brooklyn Heights at times… Though at least there I could blast Tears For Fears and mess around in the closet I turned into a dark room. Here, the only thing I have to entertain myself is, well… myself. And when yourself isme, you can only go so long before the need begins to rise, slinking up your extremities, beginning in your toes and inching its way, until it’s thrumming in your veins.
Demanding. Insistent. Insatiable.
Completely unrelenting.
Without my personal hobby—my main method of procuring human contact—I’m just me. Felix Darcey.
Being Felix Darcey makes me itchy.
I’d rather be The Carver.
And so, I did what any other spoiled brat does when they’re not getting their way… I pulled a temper tantrum. And now, with this affable fool staring at me in my cell, I appear to have been victorious.
“Thought you were dead,” the big guy—Inmate #97—says, waltzing around the cell, observing things.
I don’t recognize his face from the cafeteria, and with a number like97, I’m guessing he’s new. I’m number 89 and, like I said, I’ve been here for months.
“Maybe I am,” I mutter a response to his stupid comment.
He turns over his shoulder to raise a brow and I wiggle my fingers, making one of thoseooooghost noises. He simply huffs and turns away.
I roll my eyes to myself.He seems like great company.
Even though he clearly already knows who I am, I say, “I’m Felix. What’s your name?”
“Ivan. Wilkerson.” He spins and stands directly in front of where I’m sitting on the bed. “You on the bottom?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back a smirk. “Never have been before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
He continues to stare blankly at me.
Awesome. I finally get a cellmate and he’s the dullest criminal in the history of crime.
“I can move to the top if you prefer the bottom.” I sigh, choosing to ignore the innuendos he’s not picking up on anyway.
Standing up, we’re face-to-face and I observe him closely. He’s sort of rugged, and not in a good way. I’m guessing maybe drugs or just years of abusing his body have made him look like this. He’s definitely not my type, but it’s not an issue. I don’t alwaysneedto be attracted to them, though I’d prefer it.
Really, I just need them around.
