Page 31 of Shadowman
Crazy doesn’t alwayslookcrazy.
Thoughts are cluttering my mind, and I don’t like it. I need to get them out. Unfortunately, O’Malley is still prancing around,ranting about nonsense, and I don’t want to risk going for my secret stash spot while he’s awake. He’s fucking nosy, and while I don’t mind sharing my toothpaste or the occasional cigarette with him, there’sonehidden item I can’t have him—or anyone else, for that matter—finding.
The sudden, clunking footsteps indicative of a correctional officer up the row pause my swirling secrets. Officer Hancock comes strutting over, then stops in front of our cell.
Odd… We’re supposed to be in for the night.
“On your feet, 62,” he says vacantly, then barks at O’Malley, “You… Over there. Hug the wall.”
I gape at him before glancing at O’Malley, who looks just as uneasy as I’m sure I do.
“What is this?” O’Malley places his palms flat on the opposite wall while I stand up slowly. “I just got back!”
“I don’t care about you,” Hancock breathes out, like he’s already exhausted by the sheer act of talking to us. He nods at me. “Turn around.”
What the hell??
Rather than arguing, I do as he says, despite my internal unease. There’s no point in fighting it. I’m most likely going to solitary, or to The Box…Somewhere they can torture me because of that goddamn cellphone.
Still, I make sure to shoot O’Malley one lastthis is your faultlook while Hancock cuffs me and drags me away. In his defense, he does appear pretty guilty. But that won’t save me from whatever the fuck they’re about to do.
Nervous chills are rushing across my skin, and I can’t help it. As hard a shell as I try to build up around myself, it’s no use. This place has a way of breaking through even the sturdiest of barriers.
I’ve been here for nearly three years. Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent that time turning myself to stone. Other times, I’m justas scared, lonely, and sad as I was the day I woke up strapped to that chair…
“Wait a minute…” I mumble. Mostly to myself, since I know Herby Hancock doesn’t care what I have to say. “We’re not going down…”
“No talking, inmate,” he growls, unsurprisingly.
But this is weird…
Why are we going… up?
Why are we crossing over… to the West Wing?
For some reason, this is causing me to shake even harder. I expected solitary, the East, The Box. I expectedtorture. As far as I know, none of that happens on the west side of the prison.
You’d think heading in the opposite direction of misery would be comforting, but it’s not. Not even a little.
Inmates rarely come over here. Because it’s whereheis…
Hancock brings me up some stairs—actual fucking stairs!There are no stairs anywhere else in the Pen. It’s bizarre as hell, made even stranger by the fact that there actuallyarestairs. Just not on our side, apparently.
God, this building is like The Labyrinth meets Kubrick meets fucking M.C. Escher.
It’s insane how much higher up I feel just from walking upstairs for the first time in three years. The altitude is making me high.
Hm, that’s funny.
Hancock stops me in front of a door, silencing everything in my head. He knocks, and I’m just standing,shivering, in place, with my hands cuffed behind my back.
I’m sure I know who’s on the other side of this door…But I don’t wanna think about it.
“Come,” the voice calls, and my teeth set, a long breath leaving my lungs.
Fuck.
The door opens, and I’m shoved through, into the middle of a wide-open space. Before me is a window displaying the ocean, barely illuminated by the setting sun. A desk, large and richly brown—something like mahogany.
