Page 32 of Burn

It feels like I’ve been sleeping for minutes when I feel my bed sink under the weight of another person. My eyes spring open. Nash is seated on the edge of my bed, chewing on a muffin.

“Holy fuck, man,” he chuckles, his voice muffled, “You sleep like the fuckin’ dead. You missed breakfast. I got you a coffee and muffin,” he continues, “but… I ate your muffin. So, I got you a coffee.” He holds the paper cup out to me; steam rises from it.

I sit up, taking the cup and sipping it. It’s blistering hot and bitter.

“You’re welcome,” he says, stuffing the rest of the muffin into his mouth. “Come on, we have visits in five.”

Fuck. I really overslept.

I drag myself out of bed, reaching for a fresh pair of regulation sweats, then pausing to look at Nash, who stands in the middle of the room like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Thanks, Nash,” I say to him.

“For you?” He smirks. “Anything. Hurry up, though. Don’t drag me down with you.” He heads for the door and adds, “Catch up.”

I’m dressed and out the door in two minutes flat, and only then do I realize what he said: “Visits.” I chase after him, running down the hall, passing guards and other guys in grey sweatsuits.

When he’s a few feet ahead, I call out, “Yo, man, hold up. What do you mean by visits?”

He doesn’t slow down but turns to look over his shoulder at me, a delighted smirk on his face. “Did you forget what day of the week it is?”

Instinctively, I look at my wrist, but my watch was confiscated when I signed in. I look back at him and shrug. He laughs — he’s always smiling.

“Saturday, my man. Family visits start right about now, and we only get an hour. If we miss ‘em, tough shit.” When he finishes, we’re standing in front of a massive window that looks into a room full of small tables, set for four people.

I watch as the guys I’ve spent the last 6 days with hug their families. They smile and laugh. Some people cry. Everyone looks like a different person. Nash shifts, rising on his toes to get a better look at the people in the room. I do the same, looking around the large room. It takes me seconds to spot my dad, a massive grin on his face. When I smile, he waves his arms back and forth excitedly and beckons me to come in. I turn to Nash to suggest we go in, but I see the look on his face. There’s no smile.

“Damn,” he grits out.

His family isn’t here. I want to comfort the guy I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours — the first person to show me any kindness.

“Maybe they’re stuck in traffic,” I offer, and I put a hand on his shoulder. He flinches, pulling back and glaring at me. “I’m…” I start to apologize, for what, I’m not sure.

“Fuck it,” he hisses. “Fuck them.”

With that, he turns and storms down the hall, kicking a trash can as he passes. Part of me wants to go after him, not wanting him to feel alone. But I turn back to the glass wall, looking at my dad, and I move for the door, needing to see him more than I need to comfort Nash.

When I emerge from the visiting room an hour later, I’m assaulted by chanting coming from the TV room. The walls vibrate with the volume, and it feels like people are stompingtheir feet on the floor or pounding their fists on the wall. It’s been just shy of a week, and this is the most noise by far I’ve experienced. Even the TV has a maximum volume rule, and the maximum volume is quiet enough that if anyone speaks, their voice is toned out by the speakers altogether. This noise reminds me of the roaring and deafening crowd at a hockey game, the rise and fall of cheers, and the hissed flinch when a solid punch connects.

I slowly peer around the wall, and the scene that greets me is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed in hockey. There are guys everywhere. I didn’t even realize we have this many guys here. They surround the rolling bodies on the floor. Three guards try to pry the bodies apart. There’s so much blood. It’s everywhere. When I lift my eyes, I see it sprayed across the ceiling.

Jesus Christ.

I barely notice the wailing sirens or the automated voice instructing, ‘All detainees return to their dorms immediately.’ Amid the bodies, I catch sight of short, dark hair; I notice the black snake tattoo. Time slows as bodies rush past me in a blur. The first time one of the guard’s batons impacts Nash’s back, I flinch — he doesn’t even register it. The second time, my stomach roils, and he goes limp, landing flat on the bloodied body beneath him. The third time, only the judge’s voice in my head keeps my feet cemented where they are.“Do not make me regret my leniency.”

They beat Nash to a pulp. Every blow after the first is entirely unnecessary and a gross display of brutality. Two guards hook Nash under his arms and drag him past me, trailing thick, dark blood behind them. When the other guards following notice me, they mutter to each other, and the largest one takes two long steps, settling toe-to-toe with me. I risk a glance at his badge: Burgess. He’s big and broad, with years of musclepacked onto his frame, but he’s still a hair shorter than me, and he has to shift his eyes up slightly to meet mine.

The veins in his neck bulge, his face is flushed, and he’s breathing hard. He bares his teeth like a wild animal and when his tone drips with contempt and spittle hits me in the face when he books, “You got a fucking staring problem, Liberty?” The sound echoes off the walls of the now-empty room. I can’t think of a response that won’t get me in more trouble, so I keep my mouth closed and hold his glare. “You have a fuckin’ problem with how we handle our goddamn problems?”

Yeah, I do.

Disgust twists through me, pushing out of my chest and spreading like heat through my veins. I flick my gaze behind him; four other guards look primed and ready for round two. One of them cracks his knuckles, a sneer of a smile on his face.

“Do not make me regret my leniency.”

I pull the side of my cheek between my teeth, the coppery taste of blood coats my tongue and every fucking muscle in my body demands I swing. The judge’s voice repeats in my head. Antagonizing a guard and landing myself in hot water in week one would probably constitute regretting his leniency, so I drop my eyes to the floor. The display of submission is sour and vile and breaks apart another piece of my soul.

“No, sir.” My voice is flat, scratchy, like gravel. The words sound small and weak. I fucking hate it.

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