Chapter 4 WHO IS HE

CHAPTER 4

EMMA'S POV

The jail is a dark cold place.

My questioning was hours ago but my jaw still hurts from the blows from the officers.

I have an inkling they were paid by the Orsons to make life miserable for me.

I feel my body tremble with rage and pain.

Nothing is going as expected.

I was so close, but everything came crashing down with her.

Currently, my inmates are out. Giving me a small reprieve. I haven't had rest since I came in

While I'm not being interrogated and beaten up for information, I'm being panel beaten by my inmates who have somehow made it their purpose to make my life hell.

My hatred for Caliste swells.

How does she get so much? Why can't I ever be happy?

The door to the cell swings open with a whine and my inmates list in again

Talk, gnarly women with feral faces and scowls on their faces.

They all smell putrid and unwashed.

I'm different from them, I don't belong here. And get, here I am. Because of that bitch.

"Please" I whimper.

They cast glances at themselves before falling into a bout of raucous laughter.

"She said please", "How cute" and "This slut".

Their voices are grating, and terrifying as I huddle deeper into the bed.

"Grab her," the leader, a tall Mexican woman with a full-sleeve tattoo and gold teeth, says.

"No, no please, I beg you, I'm still hurting please"

They still drag me away from the bed and blows start to rain down on me. On old bruises and cuts that reopen from the brutality.

"Please, please" I mutter, my body shaking from the pain

They continue to jeer and laugh. I don't know how long they spent hitting me. An hour, a few minutes, an entire night, I don't know. But when they're done, shoving at each other and laughing as they mount their beds, the pain feels like it'd take years to stop.

I lay there, bleeding and whimpering

What even is the work of the warden if he lets inmates be maltreated like this?

After a while, it's hard to tell the time with my head swimming like this. I wobble to my bed, to rest and recover from the agony of today. But an inmate kicks me to the floor and I feel something break as I land roughly.

"Why'd you do that" one of them whispered yelling at her

"They said to make her life miserable, that's what I'm doing. She's going to sleep on the floor tonight"

"But it's cold," I said weakly. The bed is already difficult to manage. It's ridden with bugs and smells like sweat and spit, it's also as hard as the board but at least it's better than the floor.

The cold floor smells like dried urine and mud.

They begin to laugh again at me. I want to leave this place, I want to go.

"My girl, if you don't want a second beating, shush and sleep like a good girl, who knows, we'll give you a little water tomorrow" they laugh again. I don't understand what is funny about my misery but then a little voice reminds me that I enjoyed Calista's misery and I shake my head

"No, Caliste took everything from me, she deserves it. These people, I barely know them, I haven't done anything to them"

"Uu, the little Bird has gone cuckoo" one of them jeers and they all laugh again

More jokes are being thrown in. About my hair and body. I never thought a group of criminals would get to degrade me like this.

Turning away, I face the wall, away from them but someone comes up with the bright idea of throwing things at me.

Shoes mostly, socks, clothes, dried rotten food, and one time, a lamp. I know the things they threw at me because they'd ask me to retrieve it like a dog and bring it back to them, then go back to my position and let them throw it at me again.

After an hour, they got bored and eventually tired so I left alone.

I sigh, in relief and anger.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I'm finding a way out of here and if I don't get out, I'll find a person who can. A person who'd ruin Caliste and the Orsons for me.

I swear it.

............................................................................................

THE NEXT DAY

"Why did you do it?" I turn away from the officers, glaring at them.

I've never seen police this unyielding, but I guess when fueled by bribe money, they become little more than hounds.

"You understand we only want to help you, Miss Caliste," he prods, and I nearly laugh. The moment I give them the statement they want, I'll be dragged into court and handed a death sentence.

That's not happening.

"Don't make this any harder for yourself; we all want to resolve this and move on." I ignore him.

"If you confess to your crimes and plead guilty, the court will reduce your sentence," he insists, and this time, I do laugh. The minute I offer a statement, the Orsons win, and they'll have me completely at their mercy.

He sighs, studying me for a moment before signaling to someone. I brace for the inevitable physical intimidation, a last-ditch effort to make me talk, but it never comes. Instead, I'm lifted and escorted out of the room and into the cafeteria.

The other inmates regard me with cold eyes as I'm seated at an empty table, and I can't shake the feeling that the Orsons have paid everyone to make my life hell.

Lunch is always some dreadful slop mixed with gravel, and it's absolutely foul. But I'm hungry, so I attempt to eat.

One of my fingers on the right hand is broken from yesterday's altercation, making it difficult to pick up the food without spilling it everywhere.

I'm on the brink of a breakdown when a spoon suddenly hovers in front of my mouth. I look up to see an older man, perhaps in his late 50s. What's he doing here?

"Come on, eat," he says, motioning the spoon toward me again.

I evaluate him, weighing my options. He's the first person to approach me here.

Who is he?

Is he just a random inmate with a shred of empathy left? Or does he have other intentions?

There's something he wants from me, but I want something too.

I need something.

I let him feed me.