The Prisoner Project

FOURTY THREE

Hank peeled my fingers from his bicep and hissed. "Don't make me hit you."

The trauma attached to his statement made my heart stop. It nearly broke me. Memories of bruises and broken teeth passed through me like a phantom. I was instantly back in my family home with High looking down at me, threatening to bruise me so badly that I would not be able to walk to school without concerned onlookers watching me.

Realising I was trapped, I let him shrug me off and walked with him. I felt helpless. My nose ran, my eyes leaked and my fingers dug so deep into my palms that it nearly broke the skin.

When we got to the cell, Hank stepped in front of me and inserted a rusty key into the metal doors. He violently shook it into the lock until it finally unbolted. The fact that he had to jostle the key could show the state of it. Rusty. Inhabitable. Abandoned. Ancient.

I could see the interior of the cell from where I stood and I couldn't help my tears exclamation. "Jesus Christ..."

"Homely." He responded, winking at me. It was the way he did not acknowledge my distress that scared me the most. How could one be so out of touch with their emotions that they no longer feel empathy?

The smell of decay within the walls of the prison was pungent, forcing its way into my nostrils and nearly making me gag. The room was the size of a mini-parking space, leaving room for one to walk two to three steps alone. The concrete floors were bare, ensuring that I would experience no amount of normalcy or comfort. There were no windows so I would have no concept of time.

At the corner of the room was the metal frame of a lonely bed and a toilet that had not been maintained for a long while. It was useable but I would have to be at the point of desperation. The flattened mattress was propped against the wall.

Mirabel clearly had misery on her mind when she sent me here. She wanted me to suffer for the pain I had caused her. She wanted me dead.

The contrast between this cell and the luxe accommodation I initially had was so whimsically stark that I could've laughed, but the only thing that I was feeling was melancholia.

"Get in." His voice sounded like the lash of a whip.

At that, I broke down and sobbed like a child.

Hank didn't spare me a glance. "You're gonna run out." He muttered, addressing my tears.

Walking in with my arms wrapped around myself, I felt Hank behind me. Before I could turn and plead one last time, he reached forward and slammed the door in my face. 

Even when I fought and pulled at the locks until my fingers bled. Even when I banged against the doors and begged for mercy. Even when I screamed until my throat stung that I didn't deserve any of it. Hank didn't once look at me.

He was a man on an unholy mission.

I dry-heaved as I took in my surroundings. I took in the sudden lack of human contact, the sensory deprivation, the deafening silence, and the loneliness. It overwhelmed me enough to cause me  to sink down to the floor, knees against my chest and eyes screwed shut.

I didn't want to lose consciousness here. I needed to be on alert at all times. I was a small 24 year old female with no way to protect herself except my bruised fists. If I slept, it would be a terribly thing to do.

The lone bulb above me flickered as though warning me to shut the fuck up.

Once again, I thought.

Did I deserve this?

Did anyone?

I vaguely thought of Frank and fervently hoped he wasn't in the same predicament as me. He didn't do anything. He didn't hurt anyone like I had. He was only trying to help me.