Precarious
Page 2
He shrugs, staring down the hall. “Fine. You ready to do your rounds?”
I nod. Usually rounds are what I do first. I go around, check out the cells and the prisoners, and then I’m usually sectioned in a certain area where I’ll spend the day. Sometimes it’s in the break room, other times it’s in the yard, and there are also times when I do paperwork in the office. It just depends on the behavior of the prisoners that day.
I head in to get changed, gather my weapons, and then join Luke back at the gates, ready for our rounds.
Our uniform is quite simple. We wear a dark green pair of pants, a light green button-up, long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of solid boots. Our hair—in a female’s case—needs to be either short or tied up tightly. No jewelry.
“We’ll check Maximus first, and move down from there.”
I nod, following him down.
Maximus is one of our more difficult prisoners. He’s been behind bars for only about a year after murdering his wife in a rage. He’s an angry, bitter man who barely makes progress, spending most of his time cramped in his cell.
Maximus is serving life in prison. He’s in his early thirties, and has a history of violence. His first crime was at the tender age of fifteen, when he held up a gas station with a gun. He beat the woman behind the counter so badly she had to have reconstructive surgery to her face. That was just that start of his spiral into a violent life.
Maximus is tall, bulky and bald. He’s got a range of tattoos on his body, running down his arms, and even over his fingers. He has got stark blue eyes, and a cold smile. His inner thoughts are quite disturbing, and I feel it has a lot to do with his life as a boy. His father was sent to prison when Maximus was only four for sexual assault. His mother was a drug-using whore, and spent most of her time high and in the arms of other men.
We stop at his cell and look in. As always he’s staring at the wall, fists balled tightly.
We are guards, but we are also sent here to be role models for the prisoners. They notice how we behave and how well we interact; we can hold our own, but we also show them a certain level of respect that is said to help them cope.
“Good morning, Maximus,” I say.
He turns and locks eyes with me, narrowing them just slightly.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” I ask him, returning his stare, holding his gaze.
He glares at me. “I don’t fuckin’ sleep.”
“Any reason why?”
He growls. “Because I don’t trust any fucker in this place. They’re all out for blood.”
Did I mention Maximus has a bad case of paranoia? He’s probably not entirely wrong. There is a certain ranking within the inmates; certain groups that stick together, and certain people who tend to be targeted. Anyone who murders or rapes children barely ever make it through their sentence alive. It’s like a secret code. The next in that line are men who hurt women. There are a lot of those, but they too seem to be a target.
“Has something happened we need to know about?” Luke asks, his voice firm but kind.
Maximus shifts, his big body extremely daunting.
“I see them lookin’ at me. They’re just waitin’ for the right time to wrap their hands around my throat and squeeze the fuckin’ life out of me.”
“Why would you think they want to do that?” I ask. “Has something happened? You know you should report anything that happens.”
His eyes narrow and his whole body rattles. “I killed my fuckin’ wife. I put my hands around her throat and took her life. They’re just gettin’ back what she lost.”
“Perhaps you need to speak to Mandy again,” I say, referring to our Prison Psychologist. “It would seem you’re still struggling to deal with—”
“Listen to me, bitch,” he hisses, cutting me off. “Hows about you go back to your hoity-toity little palace and leave us here to live with what we’ve created. I don’t regret killing her; I don’t regret watching the life fade from her eyes as I held her to the floor. Nothing your little psychologist will say can change that, so give it up.”
I get this a lot, too. The name-calling, the ‘give it up, you can’t help me’. I guess, in a sense, they’re right. I can’t truly help them if they don’t want to be helped. After all, they’re in prison because of the crimes they committed; I’m just here to make sure it all runs smoothly, however I do try to make it as comfortable as possible for them. I make a note to tell Mandy about his comments, though.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Are you eating? Joining in the other activities?”
His eyes flash. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t fuckin’ want to. Because I want to get out of here alive.”
“Why do you want to get out of here alive?”
He clenches his fists. “Because I have unfinished business.”
I raise my brows and he snorts. “Don’t look at me like that, Wildcard. I know what you’re thinkin’.”
Oh yeah, did I mention the nickname has spread? The prisoners learned it very quickly the day I put one of the inmates on his ass for lunging at me. It was in the yard, and he decided he’d had enough and tried to take me out. It lasted a matter of seconds before he was on his back. I don’t like to go down easily.
“What is it you think I’m thinking?” I ask, leaning my hip against the cell.
I nod. Usually rounds are what I do first. I go around, check out the cells and the prisoners, and then I’m usually sectioned in a certain area where I’ll spend the day. Sometimes it’s in the break room, other times it’s in the yard, and there are also times when I do paperwork in the office. It just depends on the behavior of the prisoners that day.
I head in to get changed, gather my weapons, and then join Luke back at the gates, ready for our rounds.
Our uniform is quite simple. We wear a dark green pair of pants, a light green button-up, long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of solid boots. Our hair—in a female’s case—needs to be either short or tied up tightly. No jewelry.
“We’ll check Maximus first, and move down from there.”
I nod, following him down.
Maximus is one of our more difficult prisoners. He’s been behind bars for only about a year after murdering his wife in a rage. He’s an angry, bitter man who barely makes progress, spending most of his time cramped in his cell.
Maximus is serving life in prison. He’s in his early thirties, and has a history of violence. His first crime was at the tender age of fifteen, when he held up a gas station with a gun. He beat the woman behind the counter so badly she had to have reconstructive surgery to her face. That was just that start of his spiral into a violent life.
Maximus is tall, bulky and bald. He’s got a range of tattoos on his body, running down his arms, and even over his fingers. He has got stark blue eyes, and a cold smile. His inner thoughts are quite disturbing, and I feel it has a lot to do with his life as a boy. His father was sent to prison when Maximus was only four for sexual assault. His mother was a drug-using whore, and spent most of her time high and in the arms of other men.
We stop at his cell and look in. As always he’s staring at the wall, fists balled tightly.
We are guards, but we are also sent here to be role models for the prisoners. They notice how we behave and how well we interact; we can hold our own, but we also show them a certain level of respect that is said to help them cope.
“Good morning, Maximus,” I say.
He turns and locks eyes with me, narrowing them just slightly.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” I ask him, returning his stare, holding his gaze.
He glares at me. “I don’t fuckin’ sleep.”
“Any reason why?”
He growls. “Because I don’t trust any fucker in this place. They’re all out for blood.”
Did I mention Maximus has a bad case of paranoia? He’s probably not entirely wrong. There is a certain ranking within the inmates; certain groups that stick together, and certain people who tend to be targeted. Anyone who murders or rapes children barely ever make it through their sentence alive. It’s like a secret code. The next in that line are men who hurt women. There are a lot of those, but they too seem to be a target.
“Has something happened we need to know about?” Luke asks, his voice firm but kind.
Maximus shifts, his big body extremely daunting.
“I see them lookin’ at me. They’re just waitin’ for the right time to wrap their hands around my throat and squeeze the fuckin’ life out of me.”
“Why would you think they want to do that?” I ask. “Has something happened? You know you should report anything that happens.”
His eyes narrow and his whole body rattles. “I killed my fuckin’ wife. I put my hands around her throat and took her life. They’re just gettin’ back what she lost.”
“Perhaps you need to speak to Mandy again,” I say, referring to our Prison Psychologist. “It would seem you’re still struggling to deal with—”
“Listen to me, bitch,” he hisses, cutting me off. “Hows about you go back to your hoity-toity little palace and leave us here to live with what we’ve created. I don’t regret killing her; I don’t regret watching the life fade from her eyes as I held her to the floor. Nothing your little psychologist will say can change that, so give it up.”
I get this a lot, too. The name-calling, the ‘give it up, you can’t help me’. I guess, in a sense, they’re right. I can’t truly help them if they don’t want to be helped. After all, they’re in prison because of the crimes they committed; I’m just here to make sure it all runs smoothly, however I do try to make it as comfortable as possible for them. I make a note to tell Mandy about his comments, though.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Are you eating? Joining in the other activities?”
His eyes flash. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t fuckin’ want to. Because I want to get out of here alive.”
“Why do you want to get out of here alive?”
He clenches his fists. “Because I have unfinished business.”
I raise my brows and he snorts. “Don’t look at me like that, Wildcard. I know what you’re thinkin’.”
Oh yeah, did I mention the nickname has spread? The prisoners learned it very quickly the day I put one of the inmates on his ass for lunging at me. It was in the yard, and he decided he’d had enough and tried to take me out. It lasted a matter of seconds before he was on his back. I don’t like to go down easily.
“What is it you think I’m thinking?” I ask, leaning my hip against the cell.
