“Everyone has a choice, Sir,” I whispered, and he looked back at me in awe.
“I don’t.”
As we walked, his slow pace began to quicken, and then he began to pull the chains harder, yanking on them. I looked at him in bewilderment. His anger began to boil in his eyes. Something seemed to come over him. With daggers in his eyes, he pulled so hard that I lost my balance and fell to the ground. My knees and wrists burned as the broken cement and loose gravel dug into my skin.
Fear choked the scream from my throat. Impaled by the fear, I was unable to move. The anger in his voice made me wince at each sharp word.
“Get in!” he growled. I saw four walls of stone, thick with grout and moisture. There was a table in the centre of the room with a chair laying on the floor behind. On one wall, there was a set of ropes on pulleys at the far end of the room. A set of metal hooks displaying a variety of whips were on the left wall.
Chase bolted forward and grabbed a hefty whip. He caressed the handle as if it was made of angelic elements. It dawned on me as I stared at the ropes and pulley systems that I was moments away from receiving a lashing, just as Mr. Parr ordered. The mask covered Officer Chase’s mouth, making his visible quaking unnerving.
When, suddenly, his head snapped to face me, his mask shifted. His neck cracked as raised his head and then he charged towards me and grasped my wrist.
Yanking me towards the ropes, I let out a squeal. “No, no, no!” I leaned back to dig my heels into the ground and I tried to pull my arm from his grasp. My chest felt like it would explode. “Officer Chase, what are you doing?”
“My job,” he said. He yanked harder to make me follow, and as I stumbled to the wall, he tied one wrist to the dangling rope and then the other. He pulled the ropes tight. His eyes were wild and haunting. He brought the rope down and over to the hooks on the wall.
The cold knot of knowing clenched by mind. Enslaved by fear, all I could do was submit to my torture. He pulled the ropes tight, making my arms stretch, unnaturally. The terror and raw emotion came spilling out of me in a pitiful moan.
The crack of the whip felt like fire. He gave a whole new definition to the term, ‘cruel and unusual’. He brandished the whip, threatening me with its fearsome power. The horror was too much and I shut my eyes. The force behind the three lashings was gruesome. I cried out. He didn’t even tell me to stop, as if he enjoyed hearing my screams. The lash laid thin ragged lines like dripping crimson paint into my tanned flesh. The whip stung, peeling the soft flesh in cruel strips. I could feel oozing blood dripping down my back.
He tossed my shirt at me when he finished. With trembling fingers, I tried to put on my shirt, almost fainting when the material touched my gaping wounds. His body stiffened.
I sobbed helplessly as I stared at the floor, speechless. He ordered me to move to the door, and his voice was like ice, cold and as sharp as a scalpel. Only hate lived behind those hell-hot eyes. I shuddered as he pulled me through the door.
When I stumbled back down to my cell, he pulled on those chains that bound my wrists. No sympathy resided in his eyes as he pounded down the hall. Black spots made it difficult to see. My mind was light as a feather as my face grew pale. This mood change was abnormal. Unnatural.
Mr. Parr emerged with his car keys and briefcase. “Nicely done, Officer Chase. Good work.” He nodded at me as if I were in agreement. I dragged my feet towards my cell door. “Good night, Jaxson,” he whispered and patted him on the back.
Officer Chase didn’t say anything, but breathed heavily. He seemed dazed as he forcibly opened the groaning door. He thrust me into the cell and I stood there flabbergasted by his anger, and trying to make sense of what had just happened. The cell door creaked shut behind me, sealing the four walls of my fate.
Overwhelmed by pain and despair, I collapsed onto the floor. I sobbed despite being warned about showing emotions. When the shadow shuffled outside of the door, I held my breath, but I couldn’t stop. The open wound of my soul cried out for relief. I feared this torment would never end.
A sickening pain shot through my stomach and I wrapped my arms around to hug myself. It was all I could do to not collapse and wither in misery on the floor. Every part of my being ached for an answer to this feeling of misery and any answer that could bring relief was one worth considering.
Ten seconds passed, then twenty, then thirty; the pain never subsided. At least it wasn't getting worse, yet.
I tried to ignore the pain and focused on being bold and brave, don’t cry, and allowing my injuries to heal. But lacking the will to keep fighting, I lay on the cold floor, as if I could sleep.
“Are you alright, Dear?” the woman through the vent said in a whisper once the guard moved along.
“No.”
“Did you have the whips?”
“Yes.” How did she know?
“They are very angry with you. The only way to make them stop is to confess.”
“The man who whips…” My lips quivered.
“Officer Jaxson Chase…” she said with bitterness. Again, how would she know that he was in charge of whipping me?
“Yes. I don’t understand…he plays games with my mind. One moment, he shows sympathy. The next, he is whipping me as hard as he can or dragging me against the ground. I hate him.”
“We all do, Dear. Every last one of them. Barbarians.”
Chapter Eight
In the night, the cell felt alive with spirits of the dead. The stench of sweat and piss overwhelmed me. I was uncertain which was worse: the relentless cold, the smell or the unnerving feeling that someone was watching me. A sinister feeling hung beneath the cold stone ceiling. The clang of cell doors closing rung in the night.
I heard the keys hanging from the belt of an approaching guard. The pain in my back sent electrified throbs throughout my limbs. I had a cramp in my calf. I massaged it to relieve the pain but I knew it was of no use.
The ground was hard. No mattress and no pillow. My head pounded as if it would explode. The word acetaminophen rung in my mind when the keys stopped jingling at my door. The key clanked and the door creaked open. I winced at the new light that shone in from the corridor.
“You didn’t sleep last night,” Officer Chase commented as he knelt down to fidget with my chains. The mask still covered his mouth. He seemed to be stalling. I ignored his comment as I wiped the sleep from my eyes.
He glanced at me and seemed eager to hear me respond. At my silence, he looked away again, paused and then, finally, stood up.
Once I exited my cell, I stood with my eyes to the floor and just waited. Eventually, he began to walk down the hall.
I followed along at a fast pace and didn’t give him the satisfaction in needing to pull on the chains. I didn’t look at him or make any attempt at conversation. I was scared. Truly terrified.
My mind was shattered and I needed help. There was no help here. If only I had someone who could hear my story and have them tell me I was not crazy. I needed someone to tell me I was going to be okay; someone who could make me feel like I was whole and not a woman breaking into pieces.
He walked in stony silence.
When we arrived at the room where I had done the Program before, he didn’t stop. I didn’t ask him where he planned to take me although goosebumps rose on my arms. The man in the suit told him to take me to the Program. Where was he taking me then? I didn’t shift my eyes or change my gaze.
He glanced at me a few times but remained quiet. I remained expressionless.
He halted at the doctor’s office with a smooth white door. Instead of dragging me through it, or pushing me, he held the door open until I walked through.
“Come. Sit down,” the doctor with the kind eyes told me. She put on a mask as I approached. “Let’s see what I can do with these.” She put the clipboard down and pulled up my shirt which stuck to the dried blood. “Oh, these lashings are deep.”
My eyes shifted back to the doorway where Chase stood. His
shadow was still hovering near the door.
“I can give you some ointment for those.” Dr. McFadden dabbed some liquid onto a cotton ball from the jar and touched it to the wounds. I winced.
How could she work here when she knows what is happening? I mean, I didn’t do this to myself. So why aren’t you stopping it? Why bother cleaning the wounds?
“Okay, Miss Anderson.” She read the newest entry on my chart. She went to the counter and came back with a paper cup with a pill inside. “Take this.” I hesitated. “There’s a nasty virus. This is an antibiotic.” In a cup, a light blue pill waited for me. She passed a disposable cup of water to me.
I took the pill and pretended to wash it down. I hoped her kind eyes were trusting; If she checked my mouth, she’d find it under my tongue. But then she reached for a pen light to do her job and locate the pill. I quickly said, “Can I have more water? It didn’t go down.”
“Of course.”
I had no choice but to swallow the pill. Once she was satisfied, she said, “Okay, let’s see your wrist.” She took my arm and looked at my stitches.
“It’s a little angry. I will put more ointment on it, but you need to leave it bandaged to prevent infection.”
“Then the antibiotics you are giving me should prevent that from happening.”
She didn’t respond and purposely moved to a cabinet to retrieve new gauze.
“What is it? What did you do with my wrist?”
“She ran a test,” she said.
“What kind of test?”
She waited a long moment, using her gloved finger to apply an ointment. I waited her out.
“A blood oxygen level test, also known as a blood gas analysis to measure the amount of oxygen and carbon dioxide in the blood.”
“Why did Dr. Cook have to knock me out for that?”
“It is quite painful but Mr. Parr called for it.”
“Since when does a doctor take medical orders from a warden.”
“Officer Chase. I am done here.”
I slid off the medical bed.
“I will see you again.”
As I approached the door, Officer Chase appeared in the doorway. With my head hanging low, I stopped so that he could adjust the chains. “This way,” he said.
Back at the Program room, he opened the door and I sat down and placed my hands on the table, the chains clanking. When he locked the cuffs, he left them loose. I didn’t move my eyes from the glass pane in the doorway.
I didn’t look out of the window at the sunshine and pretty glass buildings. I planned to sit there all day with very little movement or strain to avoid wrist burns and to save my neck from cramping. I wouldn’t watch the clock. I would sit and wait. I thought about what I could say that would make this go away but I just didn’t understand any of it. Remember. Remember what you’ve done. Please.
As I sat, my mind fluttered around but didn’t land on anything specific. I thought about the glass walls. The beautiful buildings, sidewalks and plants. The flowerbeds. The way everyone dresses in white. Except for those working here, that is. Dark uniform. Metal embellishments, including a metal shoulder badge and cuffs hanging at the belt. A name plate above the left shirt pocket with the guard’s last name sprawled in capital letters. Combat boots.
The way the city lives right outside of the gates of this prison was breathtaking and in here, it was made to beat a person down. It was a chilling reality; I had no intention of calling this place home.
Then I thought about a home that I remembered. A world of luxuriously thick grass which lead to the inevitable grass stains on the knees of the children’s jeans. The primary- coloured ball caps and jean jackets. The cargo pants and leggings. Sandals or running shoes. It was a place that held such wonderful people and happy families. How could such vivid memories not be real? It must exist. I can remember it. It must exist.
This place demanded restrictions on emotions. There were too many confusing challenges and struggles which were foreign to me. It was a place to break down a person’s strength and will. These conditions could ruin me if I let it. I wanted to stand strong and hoped that despite the sleepless nights and the horrific conditions, I could remain brave and bold.
After a while, something strange began to happen. My mind became foggy. I closed my eyes and felt my body flush. I strained to remember specifics from my childhood. My life. Specific memories of the people I knew and loved were untouchable. Unreachable. Maybe those memories aren’t real. My mind drifted to thoughts of work. To making this place better. To doing better. To being better. I sat there for hours like that.
The keys banged against a guard’s hip as he approached. I opened my eyes after drifting off. I glanced at the clock. I had been sleeping likely a few hours. That wasn’t what I had planned to do but my eyes felt heavy.
Officer Chase clicked the lock with his key and walked in. I didn’t have the energy to force myself to ignore him. The forced lack of emotion portrayed on my stone face was no longer easy to manage. My mind was in a fog.
Chase placed bread and water on the table. My stomach growled and yet my arms felt as heavy as lead weights. Chase's watchful eyes studied my demeanor. He rubbed his chin in frustration, the mask shifted, but I fell back to staring at the mark on the wall. It was in the shape of a ladybug and it seemed to move. Chase glanced at the wall too and then back to me.
“Inmate?” He leaned in to study my eyes closely.
I couldn’t speak. My body felt heavy. No pain. I didn’t have the energy to open my mouth. I was in a trance.
“Miss Anderson? What did they give you?” he whispered. He took my face in his hands. “What did you take?”
It would take far too much energy to make an audible sound.
“Saige. I’m sorry.”
My eyes felt heavy and then I passed out. Numbness.
I woke in my cell.
“Are you there?” The woman’s voice.
“Yes,” I said. How many times had she spoken to me as I lay passed out on the floor?
“You have been sleeping for hours.” I heard her chains scrape as she pulled herself closer to the vent. I turned my ear to the vent to hear better.
“They gave me something…for the pain…no…wait…for the virus,” I explained. The pill knocked me out.
“Yes, keep taking those. You don’t want that nasty virus,” she whispered.
“Right,” I said.
“How are you feeling now? Remember anything about the crime you committed?”
“No. My mind can’t reach it. It’s like I have strange memories that aren’t mine.”
“Well, I’ve heard of people going through very traumatic events and then their mind copes by shutting down. Some people lose parts of their memory. Maybe yours has done something to help you forget the really bad things that happened in your life. Maybe there’s something you don’t want to remember. Maybe you should just let it be.”
“So, you think that I committed the crime, and my brain couldn’t handle it?”
“Likely. If your brain couldn’t handle the trauma, it can sometimes create alternative realities so convincing that even you can be tricked.”
Maybe she was right. “Why are you here?” I asked her.
Shuffling under the door made me watch the shadow in fear. The door was unlocked and Officer Pake stepped in. He wore a mask now too. He said, “You get ‘em twice a day.”
I stared at the blue pill held between his forefinger and thumb. He waited. I held out my hand and at the shake of his head, it suggested that he was required to put it into my mouth. He took my chin in his grasp, and shoved a pill onto my tongue. “Swallow,” he said, as his brows furrowed, his brown eyes fierce. Trained to be wicked, he was fearsome.
I coughed as it stuck in my throat. He gave me no water. He waited as I coughed. “Open y’r mouth.”
With my mouth hung open, he checked with a small pen light and then asked me to move my tongue. He was thorough. Another guard walked in and
left some bread and water on the floor. Why hadn’t he let me use the water to flush that pill down?
The guard locked the door.
“I don’t want to take these pills. They make me sleep,” I said to the woman in the cell next to me.
“Maybe it’ll be good for your brain though.”
But wouldn’t I want my mind to deal with it without medications?
“Besides, it’s for the virus.”
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t have any idea how to make this right. I don’t know what crime I have been accused of and they want me to make amends.”
“Just tell them what they want to hear.”
“They want specifics. And I don’t remember them.”
“Your mind will remember eventually.”
I’d likely be better off to avoid taking them to allow my mind to heal. But how could I do that if they were checking under my tongue?
“What happens if I never remember?”
“Admit to your mistake, and wait for your mind to break down the wall to the truth. You can’t go through this for the days or weeks it takes your brain to catch up.”
Chapter Nine
A chill numbs my fingers. They crawl into my body like a spider, spinning webs throughout my veins.
The hay isn’t warm enough.
Monstrous headache.
Damp clothes clinging to the lashings on my back.
The stench of a pail of piss.
The bottoms of my feet are black from dirt and dried blood.
A strange skittering in the fracture in the stone wall caught my attention. I peered into the crack and a red light glowed. It emerged and peered out. A beetle with mechanical-like legs skittered out from the crack and scurried to the floor, following the grout like a road.
It stopped near the door and turned to face me. Its eyes glowed red and flashed to green for over ten seconds before it returned to red and continued under the door. Within seconds, it came back, stopping to perhaps scan the room and then ran up the wall, disappearing into another wider crack.
Switched and Fears Page 6
