Chapter 5
I try not to fall asleep while the other girls work, but twelve hours of boredom makes it hard to keep my eyes open. If the other women don’t already hate me now, I’m sure they will if I nap while they’re busting their asses.
At first I try looking around, getting a feel for everything being done. There are a few girls cutting fabric — under very, very close supervision by the guards, while many sew together the pieces. One is in charge of ironing on the logos, a job that looks by far the easiest. Is that a coveted position? Is there any sort of hierarchy in the work? It’s hard to tell — few of the girls bother conversing, though they do trade tasks from time to time.
Is it because of me they’re so quiet, or because they’re focused on working? The sheer uncertainty feels overwhelming. I replay the confrontation from earlier again and again, wondering if I could have done something different. Then again, the women made their choice — someone could have helped me. Isn’t this is as much on them as it is on me?
Twenty minutes is all we get for a break after six hours. Corbin dumps a shrink-wrapped sandwich in front of each of us and Reed brings cups of water. Dry, tasteless turkey on bland bread, the worst I’ve ever eaten. Yet, the others wolf the food down so they can use the rest of their break to lay their heads down and rest.
As the day wears on, the gray out the window darkens to black, and tables at the back of the room fill up with stacks and stacks of finished shirts. Every few hours, Reed counts them, boxes them up and takes them away. I watch him carefully, keeping count as he does — so when Corbin tells everyone to stop working, at what must be the end of the workday, I know that they’re well under quota.
The commotion ceases immediately, the silence shocking after so many hours of constant noise. Women nurse cramped, aching hands and whisper worriedly while Byron examines Reed’s clipboard. The warden’s lips move as he checks the totals, eyebrows creased in concern. Is he actually under some pressure to deliver, or is this an act for our sake? Does he pretend to care to pacify the women here, or does he just enjoy a bit of showmanship?
When he finishes reading the report, he sets the clipboard down, sits on the table and interlaces his fingers together in his lap. “You came close,” he says. “But it’s not enough.”
My gut clenches at the collective groan; it feels aimed straight at me.
Byron claps Reed on the back. “Have at it,” he says before taking a seat at one of the empty tables.
“My pleasure,” Reed replies, taking his whip off his belt and practicing a few swings in the air.
“This is her fault!” shouts one of the girls. Petite and mousy, with reddish hair, she speaks in a high, throaty voice. “Punish her, not us!”
“Quiet, Amber,” Reed snaps. “You had a choice and you made it. What did you expect was going to happen?”
Amber shrinks backward, looking down at her feet. I can’t believe my ears — is Reed taking my side, or just pointing out the obvious?
“You think I wanted to just sit here and do nothing?” I say, rattling my cuffs. “You think I wanted for us to get punished? I would have helped!”
Blaming them probably won’t help endear them to me, but I don’t care. I’m not taking any flak for this. When I scan the room for their reactions, most of them have joined Amber in facing the floor. They’re all so sad, so defeated — is that what this place does to people? Will I end up like them, given enough time?
No, fuck that. I won’t let it happen.
Though getting locked in the stocks and whipped is still plenty fresh in my mind, the aches have subsided surprisingly quickly. My body’s recovered, leaving me with the humiliation of being exposed and tormented in front of everyone. But I endured it, and I’ll do it again — I’m not going to allow a little pain to stop me from doing what’s right.
“But whatever,” I say. “Punish me.”
Reed grins, eyebrows arched in surprise. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ve been here less than forty-eight hours,” Reed sighs. “And I’ve got enough shit planned for you, there’s no need to add more. Trust me on this.”
He’s probably right, but I meant it when I said I don’t care. My heart pounds inside my chest, and there’s a stirring between my legs — defying Reed so openly feelsgood. At least, for now — later I’ll likely sing a different tune, but that’ll be then.
“Punish. Me,” I growl.
“No.” Reed takes a step back, then pulls a set of handcuff keys from his pocket. “You’ll get yours later. Now, I need a volunteer. Who wants to show Quinn how to work the sewing machine?” He looks around the room, dangling the keys.
“I will,” says the tattooed girl, waving her hands immediately. She shoots me another sneer. “I’m the one who got us into this.”
Reed walks over toward her and pats her inked shoulder. “Quinn, have you and your neighbor been properly introduced?”
“No,” I mutter.
“I didn’t think so.” Reed grips the woman’s chin and turns her head toward me. “Introduce yourself.”
“Bitch,” she says.