Page 20 of Judas (The Lito Duet #2)

Chapter ten

Babalon

Briefly after Nadia’s arrival to Bluitt Seventeen Years Ago

“ W ell, well, well… What do we have here? Looks like a bus full of fish just rolled into town.”

Inmates. Original. Not so bright. Cringe worthy.

Ignoring the fresh meat cat-calls, I march past the women who are the exact-parallel to the men I used to guard.

Leering at us, the new batch, searching for weaknesses and the slightest bit of cowardice.

Sadly there are a few of us new inmates who have never been inside of a prison before, and who are having a hard time acclimating to a life of incarceration.

They will likely commit suicide within the first few days and if they live longer than that I will be surprised.

This life isn’t for everyone, shouldn’t be but shit happens.

We are all here for breaking the law and we will face our punishments.

Some will never leave this place. Public opinion is that inmates commit suicide because they are cowards, but that is far from the truth.

Most suicidal prisoners have no true desire to die, their mind has manipulated them into believing that everyone else’s lives would be better if they no longer existed.

If it wasn’t for my daughter, the orderlies could put me in a padded cell because I’m not doing good.

I’m barely holding it together. On the inside I’m shattered, the thin layer of my skin is the only thing keeping my shards from exploding outward and slicing those around me.

While an entirely different experience, female prisoners are more ruthless, and rather vile, if we want to compare them to males.

At least when I was guarding the men, they saw me as something they couldn’t obtain.

Having more respect for female officers than the women they had in their lives outside of prison.

Had a chunk of them held the same level of respect for their spouses, they wouldn’t be in prison to begin with.

A female in male company, protected and surrounded by others of the same gender.

I was a commodity, almost like yard time, and extra desert at meal time.

Getting to look at a woman was more of a treat than anything.

That’s not so much the case here. Here, I’m free game.

Just another inmate to toy with, to manipulate, assault and maim.

When they get word of my previous role as a guard, they are likely to become even more vile and hateful.

Something I am, but also not, prepared for.

Physically, I will protect myself and Sadie at any cost. Mentally, a different story.

News travels fast, too. What I do know is that I’ll either need to find friends, or alienate myself so well that I’m difficult to get to.

Then hold it for, f uck me , seventeen years.

“Back up, ladies,” one of the female guards, inside the belly of the penitentiary, barks.

She walks with her chin held high, coming within just a few feet of each of us—unafraid, and airing a level of leadership and authority.

Once upon a time, I walked like that. The officer steps up close to me and comes to a stop.

In my peripherals I can see her name plastered to the front of her uniform: Durand.

It strikes familiarity but I’m not sure why.

Officer Durand takes a long look at me, shakes her head, and walks off.

Safe to assume she recognizes me— great .

When we are first ushered into intake, she catches my eye again.

Around my age, sassy, curves for days where I’m a little on the thinner side—for a moment, I envy her.

Either way, she’s on my radar, whether that’s a good or bad thing, I don’t know yet.

She’s leading us around respectfully, a contrast to how we treated the male inmates.

But I suppose that’s to ease us in without frightening us, or creating bad blood from the jump.

Orienting us into what may be our last stop on this planet.

Tip about prison? It’s always frightening. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.

Choosing not to make eye contact with anyone, I stare straight ahead and tune everyone out as they discuss and fuss about the new ‘batch’—that’s what they keep calling us.

Just get me to my cell; there’s not a damn thing out here that requires my attention.

Once settled in, however, I need to find where the med bay is—or whatever they call it—and discuss my pre-natal vitamins and my RhoGAM shots with the nurse.

Spoiler alert—turns out mine and Kace’s blood doesn’t actually mix.

Our daughter is O-positive, and I am AB-negative.

My body is literally trying to kill all I have left of Kace.

Thus the shots; which I will need the second one after she is born.

I’ll likely already be back in the prison by the time someone remembers to give it to me—what more can I do?

Subconsciously, I meander behind the other inmates as we are divided up into groups then delivered to our cells.

The further we walk, the number of cells lessen until we enter into a room that circles a large guard platform with three female officers, and several sections of bunks.

A few more sets of beds fill the middle of the vast, and foul smelling room.

Have you ever gone to summer camp and had to share one space with far too many people?

That’s what this room is like. There is no privacy, which doesn’t necessarily violate our constitutional rights—in the name of safety.

To the left of me are two pods holding four bunks each.

Same thing to the right with one directly ahead.

In the open center space are five lines of bunks, each line holding two that align foot to foot, totaling ten in that section.

Overall, there are sixty beds in this area.

Either they place the least violent in this area, or the administration has too much faith in our population.

I shouldn’t be in here. So, anything bad that happens will be placed on the administration.

Due to my job, I qualify for inmate segregation upon induction but I guess Bluitt doesn’t play by the rules either.

Imagine that.

“You, Inmate Pierce, you’ll be at this bunk. Drop your shit and get comfortable.”

Looking over at the officer, noting the bed she’s motioning to, I don’t argue or comment and step up to it.

Placing my items on the bed, my hands idly pull the linens out of the bag they gave us and dress my bed.

Can’t begin to explain how many times I’ve directed inmate orientation.

This is the easy and simple part of the day.

The rest of this shit is going to be something to behold.

Mark my words. The remaining guards and prisoners move on to other empty bunks when an inmate walks up to me from the other side of the room.

She’s in orange just like me, long straight obsidian hair and the darkest green eyes I’ve ever seen.

If a shadow crossed over her face, they’d nearly look black.

She’s pretty too, with symmetrical features, sharp winged eyeliner that extends the corner of her eyes.

She’s sleeved up and down both arms, a few lingering on her slender digits.

Whoever this woman is, she quirks her head to the side a fraction and leans against the frame of my bunk. Her arms cross over her chest while observing me. Must be the pod-boss, the inmate that runs the rest of the others and keeps everything in tip-top shape.

From here, not quite giving her my attention yet, there’s no getting past just how young she looks.

I have a few more years on her; she has to barely be in her early 20’s and already locked away.

Seems she’s doing well for herself since she’s put together amongst the sea of other female inmates who appear to not have experienced a shower in a few weeks.

“Not every day we get a celebrity in Bluitt,” she smarts.

Choosing not to engage with her, my hands continue with their chore by sliding my pillow into the case that I’ll have until the day I leave.

Any time I pause, my spine straightens to make myself seem more composed and confident, though everything inside of me is broken.

Still, I don’t stop until it’s time to move on to the other belongings given over to me.

Something is to be said for those that hold themselves at a standard this early in new population.

“Not the talkative type, hmm?” she asks, taking a step forward.

This draws me out, knowing when someone is trying to get a reaction out of me, to establish some sort of code or dynamic early on.

Now I can see how much shorter she is compared to me.

For her size, she must pack one hell of a punch or came into Bluitt with connections.

Otherwise she’d be someone’s bitch, for sure.

Small and young, two traits that typically spell out submissiveness while in jail.

“Word to the wise, Officer Pierce,” she begins and a scowl crosses my face when her mouth caresses my former title.

“You’d do well to make friends quickly. A lot of us have watched your court proceedings and while many agree with you offing your little boy-toy, the rest of them are ready to do many unsavory things.

” She steps closer to me, the distance dissipating like the breath in my lungs.

“I think someone said something along the lines of biting your fingers off, not too bad of a punishment, until they said they’d stuff every one of them up your cunt and see how many it takes to make you scream.”