Some nights, being Lance’s friend is a real pain in the ass.
The waitress is tapping the screen of her register when Lance gets close. I’m a few feet behind him, with a clear lane, ready to move in. My instincts are telling me to stop this now, but I can’t. Lance will complain to his dad, and I’ll be lucky to still have a job.
“Hey, cutie,” Lance says. “Isn’t it time for your break?” As he speaks, he reaches out and grasps her ass.
I have never seen someone whirl around so fast. Spinning on her heel, she’s a blur. Her flat, outstretched hand impacts Lance’s face hard enough for the whole bar to hear. He staggers a step, then falls over.
For a second, all I can do is stare at the waitress as she kicks Lance in the side; I feel as stunned as if she’d slapped me too. Then I jump into motion, trying to get between her and Lance.
“Hey, he’s sorry, okay?” I say, my face burning from all the eyes on us.
“Fuck that,” Lance croaks, trying to get up. “Teach this cunt a lesson, man.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snap at him. When I turn back to the waitress, she’s got a beer bottle in hand. She smashes it against the bar like she’s done it before, and brandishes the broken end in our direction.
“Get the fuck out,” she snarls. “Don’t come back.”
“We’re going,” I mutter, lifting Lance by his armpits. “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck off.”
Lance laughs loudly as I pull him back to the car, but the applause from the crowd is louder.
—
Lance wrote off that night, saying he had too much to drink, but he’d only had a few beers. He knew what he was doing, he just fucked with the wrong waitress.
Watching Quinn now, I imagine her in black spandex shorts and a yellow tube top, making the same face as the waitress. Would she have kicked Lance’s ass? Yeah, absolutely.
Maybe Lance just rolled the dice too many times; maybe he was bound to end up in a hospital because some woman refused to put up with his shit. It doesn’t change anything. That waitress only bruised Lance’s pride — Quinn took his life.
She’s going to pay.
Chapter 7
Reaching Byron’s quota takes almost all night. I don’t remember finishing, or being led back to my cell, where I no doubt collapsed. I sleep for an hour at most.
I can’t recall much of my first week at Walker, following that day in the shop. The other women work standing up, still sore from the whipping. We make the quota that day, and the ones following it, but only after a day of frantic work. By lunch break, my hands hurt so much I don’t even want to pick up my lunch to eat it. I’d give anything for a glass of milk and a straw.
No one complains. No one wants another whipping.
Of course, that means they also refuse to speak to me. For the first week, I don’t care. I’m in too much of a daze. Every night I think I’ll sleep, but by the time we march back to our cells, the exhaustion gives way to fear. What if my hands cramp up tomorrow and everyone gets punished again? Could I faint from sleep deprivation — is that a thing? Sometimes I wonder if I’m starting to hallucinate. What if my sewing work comes out all wrong and I have no idea?
All I can do is keep my head down, work as hard as I can and — most of all — avoid Reed. He always keeps a hand on the hilt of his whip when he passes by — a reminder that he doesn’t need an excuse to scald my ass. If I slow down in my work long enough for him to notice, I don’t get a warning. Five lashes, maybe ten. It happens at least once a day, and not just to me. The higher quotas are wearing everyone out: except for Reed, the guards walk the aisle with a lot less pep by the end of the night.
After seven straight days of working, it dawns on me that there’s no weekend at the Walker Work Center. If there’s ever a day off, it doesn’t come very often.
I dream of lying in bed and binge-watching Netflix, preferably with a bottle of Cabernet. When I really start fantasizing, I hit up Zeke’s Coffee for a macchiato and a chocolate chip muffin. More importantly, though, is that I’m there with my friend Lydia. Hearing her laugh in my head brings a smile to my face. I remember the time we stayed up all night studying for our statistics final, then slept under a blanket in her Yaris until a parking attendant woke us.
Wherever she is right now, I hope she’s doing well. Is she worried about me? I don’t know. Part of me wants her to stay unaware — she deserves to live her life. Yet, sometimes I catch myself fantasizing that we were both arrested that night, and she’s in here with me. At least then I’d have a friend.
It’s a shitty thing to dream about, but I know it’s just a sign that I’m lonely. That’s what happens when no one will talk to me. After two weeks of incarceration, I give up trying to start a conversation with the other inmates. If I try to join in when they chat softly, they clam up. Unfortunately, I can’t say I blame them. As far as I know, Byron’s edict still stands: if they talk to me, they get punished.
I keep hoping for some big change — a major shakeup — but every day I’m disappointed. After a month of imprisonment, the only improvement is that the work quotas return to normal. I must have been crazy to think Reed would mellow out after he whipped me a few times, but he still takes every opportunity to dole out more punishment. Then again, I bet it pisses him off that they affect me less and less each time. Either I can tolerate pain far better than we both expected, or depression has left me utterly numbed. When he finishes, my skin may burn so bad I can’t sit down, but there’s wetness between my legs. My body craves release, and burying my agitation gets harder with each whipping. I dig my nails into my thighs as hard as I can when I accidentally think of Reed in that way. Quick hot flashes of him ripping off my prison uniform, shoving me against the wall, plunging himself deep inside…
It’s demented. I can’t help the fact that he’s the most handsome man in this prison by a wide, wide margin. Considering all the stress and fear, my body’s hormones must be in more disarray than a Jackson Pollock painting. It’s no wonder I’m fantasizing about a man I couldn’t and shouldn’t ever desire. If this is what’s going through my head after a month, what will I be capable of after a year? What happens when all the horrors of this prison start to feel normal? What if I lose perspective on what matters? What if I become compliant?
These questions unsettle me deeply. I get so wrapped up in my hatred for Reed that I sneer as he approaches during one of his rounds.