Dog Pound

•1•

Patrick tended to fly off the handle sometimes, it wasn't entirely his fault really but he liked to blame the outside world for pissing him off at the wrong time. It was they who made him angry, they who had decided to be assholes and they who thought they could walk all over him like a goddamn doormat. He's spent too much of his time tolerating the mean and the stupid, his time has been spent down to the last millisecond and enough was enough. Well he showed them. But this time, his anger may have gotten the better of him.

He didn't mean to do it, honestly and truly, he didn't mean to force his thumbs into his classmate's eye sockets, no matter how much they probably deserved it. His rage had taken over to the point that he became blinded, not actually realizing what he had done until it was over. But he smirked in satisfaction when he saw how much pain they were in, then frowned in disgust when he saw how much blood there was. It was pooled in their eyes and running down the side of their face, all over Patrick's thumbs and palms, it was a mess. But he felt relieved that his pain was now reciprocated.

He was expecting a lot of things to happen after that event: being put in cuffs and hauled off to juvie, having his paperwork filled out, doing the whole squat and cough deal, (which was awkward) getting a uniform. It all came in a line like an order of operations which Patrick had followed, along with two others who had been booked around the same time he had. He didn't get any names but neither of them looked very threatening so he relaxed a bit.

His uniform consisted of a white tee, grey sweatpants and black slip-ons, basically telling everyone else in the orange jumpsuits that he was new meat. It didn't bother him though, he walked through the hall like he's been there before and knew all of the rules. Not the rules that the probation officers give, the rules of the inmates, like a book that everyone has read or a code that everyone knows by heart. He could be taught the basics, making his bed, chores, and he could learn the survival shit by watching others, specifically the ones wearing orange.

When he's assigned to a dorm (dorm six which was the smallest dorm in the facility holding only eleven guys) he was given a bottom bunk, fourth from the end, between one guy with thick, curly brown hair and another who's was jet black and had naturally tan skin. They both were wearing orange and Patrick wondered if that made them dangerous or experienced, but it could possibly be both. He should watch his back since he has to sleep between them.

After places have been made and dirty looks had been given, they were allowed to go to dinner. The cafeteria was kind of small but they somehow were able to squeeze enough tables in so that almost everyone could have a seat. Patrick grabs a tray and a cup then stands in line behind some pale dude with short hair dyed silver, if it wasn't for his pale skin he'd never be able to pull off the color so well.

The line moves gradually until it's Patrick's turn to be served. The guy behind the counter serving the food is another veteran, --as Patrick likes to refer to them-- the orange of his jumpsuit showing from behind his apron. The guy eyes Patrick like slice of raw meat a little longer than he found comfortable, then he slaps the food down onto Patrick's tray and some of it splatters onto his clothes. Patrick gives him the stink eye, wanting so badly to punch his teeth in, but then continues down the line not wanting to start trouble on his first day.

Patrick goes over to the first table he sees with a few empty chairs, and sees that the dark haired boy he bunks beside is already there. So he asks politely, "Is this seat taken?"

The boy shakes his head and gestures for Patrick to sit down, so he takes a seat in the chair across from him.

"Don't mind Frank." The boy says around a spoonful of mashed potatoes. Patrick gives him a questioning look then the boy lifts his chin in the direction of the lunch line, his eyes on the server. "He likes to try and get under the skin of all the new kids to see who bites first. Ignore him, he did it to me, too."

Patrick nods then picks up his spork, digging into his side of peas and eating quietly. After a minute or two, he notices that everyone is avoiding the table like it's cursed. "Do you always get a table to yourself?"

The boy looks up from his tray. "Nah, some of the other kids finish early and do chores. What'd you do to get in here anyway?"

Patrick sticks his spork in his mashed potatoes, the handle standing up like a flag pole. "Assault." Patrick says.

"Really? You don't look like the type."

"What about you?"

The boy takes in a final spoonful of peas then puts his utensil down, leaning back in his chair. "I'm a thief. So by assault do you mean hitting someone with a bat or...what?"

Patrick eyes the dark haired boy, a playful smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, but Patrick simply says, "There was blood." and the boy's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, a bit surprised by Patrick's words.

The boy leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and stares into Patrick's eyes for a moment like he can find out all of his deepest darkest secrets by just looking at him. Then he smirks and says, "That's brutal, man. And I thought I was bad." before he scoots his chair back and gets to his feet, picking up his tray and walking away in the direction of the trashcan. He dumps his food and drops off his tray then looks over his shoulder at Patrick with the same smirk plastered onto his lips as he walked out the double doors.

Patrick doesn't know what to make of that.