Kelly Meding - Another Kind of Dead

Lana and I fling ourselves toward the plunger at the same time and nearly knock heads. We both grab for it, hissing and spitting at each other like cats. I do the only thing I can think of and slam my forehead against her nose. It hurts me like a fucking bitch, but it hurts Lana more. She scrambles away, holding her bleeding nose, crying.

Plunger in hand, I pull up to my knees and bring the handle down across her head. That sends her into never-never land with her cronies. The room falls into silence, the flashlight beam aimed at the far wall, away from the carnage. My entire body begins to tremble. I stand on shaking legs, plunger still in one unsteady hand, dazed and unsure what to do.

The decision is made for me. The door opens and lights are turned on, and I blink hard against the sudden glare. Three female guards storm the room, batons in hand. I don’t have time to drop the plunger before they’re on me. No time to explain as I curl into a ball, protecting myself as best I can. I’m the last person standing, and this is my punishment for winning.

The Thinking Room has a unique odor I recognize before I can peel my eyes open. It smells of urine and shit and sweat. I’ve been here many times, in this center’s version of solitary confinement, and usually I deserve it. For starting fights, talking back to guards, generally being pissed off.

This time it isn’t my fault.

Cold seeps through my back from the floor. I open my eyes to a familiar plaster ceiling and single bare bulb. Let my head loll around, too sore and achy to bother sitting up yet. Same hard plastic chair, same wall-embedded toilet that flushes once a day like clockwork. Nothing else.

I test my legs, and both move without trouble. Just lots of aches, probably lots of bruises, too. Back and stomach already hurt from the blows of the plunger, compounded times ten by additional baton hits. My ribs scream when I inhale too deeply, testing them. My left shoulder feels swollen; my left hand, too. And heavy. Maybe broken, maybe sprained. My right arm is fine, though.

My face is puffy. I can tell just by moving my cheeks a little bit. At least one black eye, I bet. My lips are cut, flecked with dried blood. My forehead is sore, too. My head is throbbing, three sizes too big. I want to curl into a ball until the pain goes away, but the idea of moving horrifies me. No, better to lie here and suffer. And not cry.

Just thinking about crying sparks tears. I bite my tongue to keep them at bay. I won’t cry—not when I’m so close to getting the fuck out of here.

Time passes in never-ending pain. At some point my bowels release, and I just don’t have the strength to care. I drift in and out, and when I’m on the edge of real sleep, the door squeals open. I wince away from the light and chilly air that moves in. Wait for … whatever.

The door closes again, and I’m glad. I don’t want to be bothered. Only I’m not alone. Leather soles patter across the floor toward me. Fabric rustles as someone squats down close by. I don’t look. Don’t want to be hit again. Then I smell it—spicy and inviting cologne.

“Evangeline Stone?” The strange male voice is smooth as butter, lightly accented, and oddly warm. Curious.

I grunt, eyes still shut.

“I’ll see that they’re all fired for this.”

That gets my attention. I angle my head toward him and open my eyes. The most handsome grown man I’ve ever seen is hovering above me. White-blond hair is cut short, the perfect accent to his dark blue eyes. High forehead, narrow nose, sharp jaw, and wide pink lips. Just … wow.

“Who?” I croaked.

“The guards who did this to you, of course.” His eyebrows arch at my confused frown. “Oh, I apologize. My name is Bastian.” He lets his navy gaze roam up and down my body, and if not for my injuries, I’d swear he was checking me out. It’s uncomfortable, but I have no strength to make him stop.

“What do … you want?”

“To help you,” he says, soothing.

I’ve heard that one before, motherfucker . And I want to say it so badly. Only my throat is raw, too sore to force out such a mouthful. So I settle for glaring at him.

“You’ve got something special in you, Evangeline. Something I could use.”

My nostrils flare, and I force out, “Not gonna … blow you … fuckwad.”

Slender eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “I’d never ask such a thing from you, and I hope you can learn to believe that. You find it difficult to trust people, I understand. Do you always wish to reach for suspicion first?”

What the hell is this guy’s deal? Strangely, I find myself shaking my head. Suspicion is all I know, and it’s my default reaction to new people. Hell, it’s often my default for old people, too. But something about this man makes me want to trust him, even if just for a few seconds. Since everything good in my life seems to last only minutes, I figure a few seconds is all I’ll manage.

“What do you plan on doing with your life, Evangeline, when you’re free from this place?”

I can think of a lot of things I want to do, including a few nasty ones to Terry McManus, the guy in charge of this place. Maybe a few of his favorite guards, too, like the ones Bastian seems keen on firing. Won’t tell Bastian that, though. “Run” is all I say.

Something flickers across his face. Sadness maybe, or understanding. “What if I offered you an opportunity? A career that would give your life meaning, give you a goal, and put you among some of the most dedicated, loyal people you’ll ever meet in your life?” He is absolutely serious.

“I’d say … you’re fucking nuts.”

He smiles, those pink lips pulling back to expose perfect, pearly teeth. “I’ve heard worse. It isn’t an easy job, especially at first. You have to train hard for this, but in the end, you’ll be serving a higher purpose.”

Now I know he’s insane. How did he even get in here?

“Your release is in twenty-six days, and I promise you will live the rest of them in peace. Those girls and those guards will not bother you again, you have my word.”

Uh-huh, yeah, and tomorrow I’ll fart rainbows . I only nod, ready for him to be gone.

“On the day of your release, they’ll put you on a public bus back to the city,” he continues. “Get off on Wharton Street, and I’ll meet you in the middle of the footbridge. Open area, plenty of witnesses, in case you think I plan on attacking you. We’ll talk more then.”

I haven’t agreed to anything, but that doesn’t faze him. He stands and leaves as quickly as he came. No further explanation, no other words of wisdom. I push him from my mind. No way in hell am I going to meet him on that bridge. No way.

The next time I wake up, I’m in the infirmary. My head feels better, my left arm is in a cast, and I even feel bathed. Clean. I stay in the infirmary for the rest of my time at Juvie, long after I should have been sent back to my block. Scuttlebutt whispered at night tells me those three guards have indeed been fired. No one bothers me, not even that bastard McManus, who runs the detention center. I don’t connect it to my strange visitor. I’m convinced I dreamed him.

The cast is removed before my release, and I’m free of the remnants of my good-bye gift at long last. Except for the fear. Going to the bathroom still brings a flash of terror, a chill down my spine, bile in my throat. It will pass, as it always does. I’m a survivor after all.

Four days after I taste freedom, I’m being dumped into a holding cell in a Mercy’s Lot police station. The charge is breaking and entering and assault. I have no money to hire a lawyer, so I keep my mouth shut, curl into a corner, and wait. Instead of a court-appointed lawyer, my first visitor is the man I’ve convinced myself I imagined.