Breaking Free (Unnamed Series #1)

Three (Zach)

"Spread your legs a little wider," Officer Dipshit ordered. That was to be his name from now on. I knew his real name, obviously. I was thoroughly briefed on everyone that breathed in this facility, from the inmates to the officers to even the janitors. In prisons, everyone played a role. Despite knowing certain details, Officer Dipshit had managed to hide his actions very well. I was determined to make him pay, but as of now, I did what he said. Most people would have been humiliated. Getting publicly strip-searched is a degrading experience after all.

Good thing I was not known for my modesty. I learned to deal with shame long ago.

"Good. Now bend over and bare your ass cheeks to the lovely crowd."

I turned around and did as told, along with the rest of the inmates.

"Turn around and lift your dick."

I smirked and proceeded to do just that. I noticed that two of the other new inmates were highly uncomfortable. Probably because they didn't really have much to show.

"No need to look so satisfied, terrorist," Officer Dipshit spat. Was someone jealous of my size? Quite likely. A quick glance below confirmed that. At least people could guess I was well-endowed. Unlike with Officer Dipshit. Fortunately, my little observation went unnoticed. And terrorist? Really? How original.

After a good five minutes parading about naked, I was shoved forward by the other officer. Quietly, I moved towards the right. We were led to the dimly lit communal bathing area on the first floor. My kind officers thought stripping and bathing would allow us to begin our life in this hell hole on a clean slate, pun not intended. The bathing area was not very huge and was an open area that sported over 30 shower heads partially covered in mould. Walls to protect one's privacy were non-existent, and men of several shapes and sizes stood underneath the scalding hot water, the steam evaporating off their skin an evidence of the temperature.

Well, at least the water was hot. I had been subject to freezing cold water on many occasions in the past. Came with the job, I supposed.

There were few men who unabashedly pleasured themselves as if masturbating in public was nothing out of the ordinary. It was here that I had a brief moment of uncertainty. I had heard stories of fallen soap bars and ahem, unwanted entries. Looks like I just had to be careful.

After a quick shower, we were given our uniforms to dress in and were now finally being marched to our assigned units. The cheering had died down by now, and the inmates were mostly lounging in their respective units. I stopped in front of unit number 13 and suppressed a grin at the ominous number. Without much ado, I was shoved inside and left to my own devices. As I gathered my bearings, I observed the man in sitting quietly on the left cot.

He was old, approximately 60 years of age, but he seemed to be in good spirits and decent health. Quite odd for an inmate. The good spirits, not the age. This prison was filled with men of all ages. My cellmate for the foreseeable future was of average height and had a thick mass of graying hair on top of his head, with no signs of a receding hairline. His face was marred with lines of exhaustion, and his thick eyebrows and unkempt beard only exaggerated his haggard state. Probably the only striking thing about the man was his eyes, a deep brown that my mother would have called "soulful". He had lines around his eyes and mouth too, indicating a good sense of humour, which was a contrast to the stress lines entrenched in his tanned face. He put down the book he was reading and gave me a kind, welcoming look.

Ranvijay Singh. I remember the eyes.

As soon as I saw his file, I immediately took a liking to him. It was extremely stupid of me since I had no idea who I was against, but everything about him screamed "trustworthy". I was capable of reading people very well, and my gut told me that he would be an ally in this godforsaken hellhole.

"Hi, welcome to unit 13. I'm Ranvijay Singh," he introduced himself, confirming what I already knew. He wasfrom Punjab; his name and accent obviously confirmed that. 

I nodded at him and replied without hesitation. "Imran Ali."

"It would have been polite to ask you whether you wanted to sleep in this cot, but I quite like sleeping on the left. I hope you don't mind," he chuckled.

"The right cot is fine."

"As someone who has spent more time here, I feel obligated to tell you this. Always be vigilant. You have no idea what lurks in this place. Secondly, no matter what, do not anger the officers. They will ruin you. You seem like a decent fellow, even though I don't know what brought you here. Don't get yourself killed, and maybe it will be fine for everyone involved," he advised.

The little paragraph helped me deduce two things. First, Ranvijay Singh was a talker. The typical optimistic fatherly fellow who wanted good for everyone. Second, he knew more than he was letting on. Perhaps befriending the old man would help me complete my mission quicker than anticipated.

"Noted," was my simple response.