Jailed Heart

Chapter 4

Working in the barns is tough work. Hour upon hours of enervating exercise of transferring pails of water, pails of pig slop and even caskets of butchered animals. It is tiring work and I feel my face drenching with sweat and effort. My hair is plastered to my face and I make no effort to look glamourous. My back aches where there are probably scars etched and engraved forever. Ever since this shift, I haven't caught sight of Francis. Not that I'm trying too, since I saw a woman get knocked unconscious when her focus was on a young calf who was thirsty. What would the punishment be for staring lustfully at another cellmate when you should be doing fatiguing work? I shake my head to clear it and continue to hand over the pails down the line of other hungry thirsty humans. Eventually we are called off work and make the long walk back to the mess hall.

Once everyone is gathered in there, we are told that we will no longer have our own cells/rooms. They are going to split our work group into two smaller groups, made up by the make and female counterparts. We oblige and organise ourselves by genders. My eyes lock to Frankie's, and a foolish blush creeps into my cheeks. Unfortunately at that time, an officer is scrutinising the group and sees me making eye contact with Frankie. The guard clenches his jaw aggressively and walks over to Frankie, punching him in the jaw. Frankie falls to the floor in a collapsed heap. My hands fly up to my mouth with shock. He cradles his jaw and winces. The guard looks back over to me and I once again inspect my shoes in great detail. The guard sniffs distastefully and signals for another guard to show us our room. I follow the long line of other women out of the mess hall to our dormitory.

I scuff my shoes amongst the sand, holding in a groan of anger at our treatment here. I notice women stumbling over themselves, deprived of food and water and others being hoisted up by their friends due to their inability to walk from the harsh punishments or work we are forced to do. As we pass a group of guards I make an extra effort to glare at them whilst they aren't looking. We finally make it to our cabin and I am pleasantly surprised. I expected an open barn with frayed blankets on stringy piercing pieces of straw. Not this. Definitely not this. A few girls behind me whistle with interest. It is a cozy, stuffy room with bunk beds lined against the walls. There are two thin blankets and even a pillow supplied on the bed. A smouldering hearth sits in the centre of the end wall. I nod, appreciative of the room. Other girls survey it with disgust, probably girls who weren't from the cut. Girls who were privileged. Girls who weren't like me. The guard is gesturing for us to make our way inside and we hastily do. We all scramble over each other to reach the beds. Once everyone is situated we all notice 6 girls who are standing dumbfounded in the centre. Glancing around I notice all the beds are taken. The guard shrugs apologetically and points to the floor before tossing them 2 threadbare blankets to share. I feel pity for these girls, who don't have as much as a comfortable place to sleep as me. But not enough pity for me to give up my bed to one of them.

We are all too tired to talk so we settle into our beds. The occasional cough and frequent creak of the bed's around us let us know that everyone is just as unsettled as I am. Over time, the noises die down, leaving a small hiccup or rustle of blankets. I shut my eyes and conjure up a life away from these bars. A life away, with Frankie.