Talking to The Elements

||01|| My Introduction to Prison

I still can't even remember what I did.

Kylie and I share a look, and she swallows audibly the exact moment I start picking at my lip. Our armed truck rolls to a stop at a second security gate after entry, this one black with barbed wire on top. Our driver mutters something under his breath the gate slowly starts to move to one side.

My wrists itch under a pair of silver chains, the ones they snapped on as our transport arrived to take us away. I scratch at them, a surprising amount of relief biting at me when we enter a garage. It means being out of the open. Less vulnerable. My relief disappears as I look at the dozen or so armed vehicles sitting in a neat row against the wall, four guards beside each.

"Let's go, girls," our driver opens the truck's back doors. He's gruff, with a curly beard hiding half of his face and a low-tilted hat hiding the other. It's hard to tell if he's friend or foe, but his hands are gentle as they help me off the truck, cushioning my back and neck as I jump to the ground.

Kylie and I walk side-by-side, our chains clinging against the cement floor with every step. The sound echoes in my ears, and the thumping ache in my head gets louder. I blink rapidly, the weight on my chest lessening slightly as I realise there's no other sound.

I can't hear the other inmate's screaming; no guard footfalls; and no banging of batons against metal bars. My relief is brief, and our driver clarifies the quietness with a sympathetic frown.

"This is the reception, if you will," he nods towards an empty desk in the corner of the garage. "It's soundproof, so when you walk through those doors, know I pre-warned you about the noise. My name is Derek, and I wish you good luck."

He opens the doors and pushes us through.

I stumble against the chains, but manage to right myself before I fall. Kylie isn't so lucky, her lack of coordination biting her in the arse as she tumbles. She lands with a large thud, and that's when the sound starts.

I ignore the whistles and shouts, rolling my eyes at the guard's attempts at shutting the prisoners up. It doesn't work. If anything, they get louder. I help Kylie up quickly, not wanting to have my back turned for too long, paranoid to my very core. The hairs on the back of my neck won't stand down, and these guys aren't even the worst of the worst.

There are nine floors to the prison. Logically, I'd put the worst criminals on the top floor and work my way down. If I'm right, the people yelling and screaming at Kylie and I are nowhere near as bad as the ones standing above us. Like a sociopathic foot pressing down on my neck.

I shake my head, pulling at the skin of my lip with my teeth. My fingers curl and uncurl, either desperate for a fight or something to hold onto. Instead, I settle for looking around, getting to know the area Kylie and I will predictably be spending our time in.

Every cell starts with a shiny silver pillar before shortening into little silver bars, with gaps just big enough to fit a hand through. From this far away, the toilet and sink appear to hide behind the pillar and a single bed takes up the rest of the space.

At the end of the hallway, a large number of guards lean against what appear to be bar tables. They wear identical uniforms; pure black with silver lining. The only differences appear to be their names sewed onto the left shoulder and an image above the left breast.

One has a white skull; another a set of scratch marks; a screwdriver; what I can only assume to be electrical cables; two have a bolt of lightning; and the remaining six have a collective blood red rose.

The one with the scratch marks stalks towards Kylie and I, military style haircut, flattened lips and hulking muscle sending a shiver down my spine. My guess is he's the brawn of the group, maybe even the leader given his first-on-the-scene reaction to our arrival.