Four guards were assigned with the task of bringing me into the living quarters. I didn't think I was that dangerous, but apparently I was. Not even a day here, and I was already learning something new.
Getting here was not very difficult. All it required was a carefully constructed fictitious murder, a series of them really. I left that in the hands of those people much more capable than I am. I'd explain further, but I was a little too busy trying to inspect my surroundings inconspicuously. I wasn't in a rush; I was to spend an indefinite amount of time here until I have something worthy of reporting.
The handcuffs were a nuisance. I could have easily wriggled my hands out of them, but alas, it was necessary. We stopped in front of a set of double doors.
This was it.
The first day of my stint at North Carolina Correctional Facility.
Was I ready?
When I was first approached with the assignment, I immediately refused. Prisons reminded me of somebody I never wanted to think about. I put other people in prison, not myself. Besides, this would be my fourth undercover operation. Four undercover assignments back to back had taken a toll on my physical and mental health. I don't even know who I am anymore. I woke up every morning not knowing whether I was Kareem, the child trafficker, or whether I was Amir, the drug lord. It was not fun.
Joe, however, was a persistent son of a bitch. He was the one who recruited me into the FBI and has always been a pain in my ass ever since. I respected the man tremendously, but frankly, I was tired. The life of an agent was not appealing anymore. Yet, I eventually agreed. I just couldn't say no to that man.
Months later, I was a new person. I was Imran Ali, Inmate #423. Passing off as someone of Arabian descent was my best bet, they said.
"You do have Arab blood in you, Zach, even if you don't like to acknowledge it," Joe had pointed out to me.
It just reminded me further of how much I didn't want to do this job. Nevertheless, I went on with it. I was now a serial killer. My targets were mainly women and children. I raped them before taking their lives, and I showed no remorse.
I was basically my father. The only difference being he didn't kill my mother afterwards.
I digress.
Like I said earlier, getting here was not too difficult. Surviving is another story. Inmates weren't very friendly to child rapists. Inmates weren't friendly, period. Neither was I though, so I suppose I'll be able to handle the loneliness. I've been doing just fine all these years.
Bring it on.
***
The noise was what hit me the first. Loud jeering, taunting, and name-calling was what I encountered as soon as I stepped foot into the living quarters. The two-floor brightly lit complex had 60 units. Each unit housed two inmates and was protected by an automated steel-enforced door with a large white number print on it. I had yet to see which number my bosses would assign me to. From what I was briefed, the units were sparsely furnished; an inmate would have to make do with two cots, a toilet, and a sink. Its interiors were painted with dark blue and beige, with a dull looking insignia on the floor as soon as one entered.
I watched out of the corner of my eye several guards ushering 5 other inmates behind me, before reaching to a stop. The jeering grew louder. I saw one officer smirk at the chaos. He, along with another officer, then proceeded to strip us off our clothes in the pretense of checking for weapons. Completely unnecessary really; there was no way one of us could have acquired a weapon since the last thorough search barely ten minutes ago. Empty hallways don't magically give out weapons. The jeering reached its peak, and I felt as if my eardrums were going to burst. I was not embarrassed, not in the least. I was fit and easy on the eyes, not just by my own admission, mind you. Several ladies can vouch for that. Years of gruelling hard work and my disciplined lifestyle ensured that my body was attractive to most.
"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.