“Done.”
Reed’s about to flog Amber when I say it, but he pulls back in time. “Hallelujah. Now sew a shirt. Amber, remind her how.”
She doesn’t have to; after twelve hours of watching the others, I’ve seen the sewing part enough times. My first attempt at using the machine goes awry, as I work the pedal too quickly, but I get a good seam on just my second try. I look up to Amber, who nods, then keep going.
“I think she’s going to get it, guys,” Reed says. “Better get in your last licks.”
Byron, Corbin and two guards I haven’t heard names for yet start flogging faster, making sure each prisoner gets a few quick slaps.
Block it out!
If I mess up it’ll only prolong their punishment further, so I keep going, ignoring everything but the task at hand. Though I can still hear the flogging somewhere in the back of my mind, I lose sense of the time as I work.
When I finish, I stand and hold up the completed shirt as high as I can with my wrists cuffed to the desk. “I did it!”
A trio of final smacks ring out, and then all is quiet.
Reed tosses his flogger to Corbin, then swipes the shirt from my hand. He gives it a look, then passes it to Byron. “What do you think?”
Byron inspects it closely, then nods. “It’s adequate.”
“Congrats, Quinn. You did it.”
My only response is to exhale. Throughout the room, the other prisoners let out their sniffles and whimpers, but maintain their stances. Two rows of asses crimson from the sustained punishment stare back at me as if in condemnation.
You didn’t do this to them. You. Did. Not.
“That’s one, Quinn,” says Reed, crouching down in front of me. “How many more you want, Byron?”
“Thirty.”
“All right then. Quinn, you’re going to stay here and sew thirty more of these. Amber, go get the fabric. Everyone else, you can return to your cells.”
“That’s going to take me all night,” I say.
Reed nods. “Probably. Does anyone want to stay and help Quinn here?”
No one volunteers, of course. Furious and miserable, faces red from tears, they pull up their pants and wait to be released from their workstations.
“Guess not,” says Reed. “So you best get to work.”
I don’t argue. The women don’t look at me or say anything as the guards march them out, but I can feel their contempt, especially when the bitch goes by. Her gait slows for a fraction of a second, as if deciding whether or not to say something, but then she keeps going. When I finish my second shirt, I look up to see Reed stayed behind, and is staring.
“What?” I say.
“I can’t leave you unattended.”
“You’re going to stay here all night?” I ask, starting the next shirt.
He sits down across from me, leaning back and stretching his legs. “Not if you hurry up.”
“I’ll go as fast as I can,” I mutter. “I want to go to bed too.”
“Good.”
After a beat, I add, “You could help me.” I don’t know why I say it — the words just slip out. How could I possibly joke at a time like this? Am I starting to lose my mind already?
“Don’t test me,” he snarls, kicking the leg of my chair. “If you don’t finish by dawn, I’m going to whip you in front of all the girls. I’ll do it during breakfast tomorrow, just so they can start the day in a good mood for once.”