Page 2 of Sin

He raised a reprimanding gray eyebrow at me. “You tripped?” he repeated drolly. “How many times? Thirty?”

I snorted out a laugh, then winced as my ribs throbbed from the movement. Gingerly, I sat down on one of the seats and didn’t respond. Rule number one of prison life: Keep your mouth shut.

When it became clear he wasn’t going to get an answer out of me, he sighed, though I doubted he was all that surprised. Turning around, he muttered to himself while he rummaged around in his supplies cupboards for what he needed. As criminals, our medical needs were deemed inconsequential. Really, it was surprising we had a nurse when those in charge of our care couldn’t care less if we rotted down here.

Cyril pointed to a cot in the middle of the room and began laying out his instruments on the table beside it. “Please strip down to your underwear, Mr. Gonzalez, and let’s get you checked out.”

“You really only need to check my face,” I tried, quickly glancing at the guards who now stood watch by the door.

The old man followed my gaze before he trained those knowing eyes on my torso. “We’ll make it quick, boy. Strip down and sit.”

Knowing if I didn’t follow Cyril’s instructions, he wouldn’t allow me to leave, I reluctantly did as he’d requested. Though, I made sure not to let on to the guards how injured I actually was.

The prisoners weren’t the only ones who preyed on the weak here.

Even after two years of wearing dampening cuffs, my wrists were still raw beneath the metal. The Reformed United Association of Supers, RUAS, had made lots of improvements to the cuffs after I’d managed to break my dad out. Not only were they stronger, but they’d gotten a fresh design too. They were no longer connected with a chain linking the cuffs together, making them appear like bracelets on our wrists. If needed, the officers or those in charge could force the cuffs to magnetize together, though. It didn’t happen often, unless a prisoner was acting especially rowdy.

Cyril washed and sanitized his hands before donning a pair of latex gloves. He eyed my body with a clinical gaze, taking in every bruise blooming over past ones, each laceration in my skin, whether shallow or deep. Carefully, he poked and prodded my body, asking me to shift every so often to see better. He paid special attention to my ribs, observing the redness and swelling and hiss of pain I couldn’t hold back when he pressed against them. He sent an unimpressed glare in my direction when it became clear how much I’d been downplaying my injuries.

After he’d checked the back of my body, he let out a long breath and ordered me to lie down. The paper covering the cot crinkled and stuck uncomfortably to my skin.

I didn’t know how long I remained there, the cool air from the vents peppering my exposed skin with goose bumps while Cyril attended to me. He bandaged my ribs, rubbed ointments and salves on my cuts and bruises, and even went as far as to stitch a few gashes before covering them in white gauze. I cursed his name when, without warning me, he snapped my broken nose back into place.

But as the clock somewhere in the room counted down the minutes, the guards eventually grew bored of waiting and talked amongst themselves. They chatted about their lives, their families, the soccer game they were watching together at the bar this coming Saturday. It was surreal, disorienting really, to listen to them. To remember that outside these walls was a world where people lived such normal lives.

I was so lost in their conversation that I hardly felt the soft tap, tap against my thigh. But when it came again, more insistent this time, I glanced at Cyril. He was watching me with a serious expression, and when his gaze flicked lower to my backside, his unspoken question permeated the space between us.

With a hard swallow, I gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head.

Relief flooded his face before he quickly schooled it. He took a step back and snapped the gloves off his hands. Tossing them in the bin behind him, he said, “You’re all set, Mr. Gonzalez. Though, I do feel like I need to remind you to be more careful, please. You’ve always been clumsy,” he said, though we both knew I wasn’t clumsy at all, “but you seem to be tripping more and more these days.”

The guards straightened at their posts, eyeing me as I snatched up my jumpsuit and yanked it on. The pull of stitches urged me to be more mindful of my injuries.

But as I made to leave, Cyril stopped me with a gentle hand on my bicep. With the positioning of our bodies, the guards couldn’t see the small bottle Cyril slipped into my pocket. Bile bubbled in my gut, even as gratitude swelled in my chest when I met the old man’s pitying gaze.

“Come on, inmate,” one of the guards drawled, banging his baton against the door.

Cyril nodded and retreated toward the table to clean up. “Take care, Mr. Gonzalez.”

I didn’t bother responding as the guards surged forward to grasp my arms and haul me out of the room.

The bottle of oil weighed heavily in my jumpsuit’s pocket.

Chapter Two

Long are the days

Back in my cell, I flopped down on my mattress, not even bothering to strip from my blood-stained and torn clothes. It didn’t matter anyway. The warden hadn’t ordered more laundry detergent for who knew how long, and the remaining laundry supplies ran out last week. My bloody jumpsuit actually smelled a lot better than a majority of other prisoners’, and I didn’t have any suits left. Not since some of the other inmates had ransacked my cell a few weeks ago and shredded them, along with my sheets.

With a sigh, I tried not to pay attention to the bare, stained mattress beneath my cheek and stared at my wall.

Etched into the stone wall of the cell were countless verses of overlapping poetry and drawings. It was a calming ritual of mine these days—drawing, writing, brooding—especially when locked away memories and dark thoughts swam to the forefront of my mind.

And in the center of all the chaos was a large mural of the man who starred in all of my dreams, nightmares, and thoughts. My sun in this dark prison cell. The voice in my head telling me that everything was going to be okay. Even when it wasn’t.

London. The man I loved but had failed so deeply.

Long are the days

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