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“After you answer those questions, you can go.”
That meant he was going to be locked up alone.
I knew I shouldn’t. My dad was going to shit a brick.
They hauled Prism away, but his eyes clung to me.
“Fuck it,” I exhaled and smashed my fist into the detective’s nose.
5
Prism
I often contemplated my limit.
How much it would take to snap.
I teetered on what I assumed was the edge quite often, a feeling that filled me with fear and anxiety.
That limit was higher than I expected, and I wasn’t sure if I should be proud for surpassing my own expectations or embarrassed I’d finally snapped.
I’d been doing so well. For years, I’d managed to not go off the rails, sometimes wondering if this was how addicts felt, counting the days they were sober and proud of each one. Except I wasn’t counting sobriety. I was counting the days I managed not to lose my shit.
Well, today, shit hit the fan. And the fan sprayed it back down as it flew. Look at me now, all covered in my mess.
The pounding of my heart was loud in my ears, and just behind it, the piercing, endless ring. The urge to crawl out of my skin and run was so strong I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from yelling as I was forcibly guided through the station and into a narrow hall.
The farther we went, the heavier my feet grew against the floor. It was on the tip of my tongue to beg, to try and plead my way out.
You deserve this. Take your punishment like a man.
I was so very tired of being punished. It felt like that’s all there was. I shouldn’t have done what I did. However, I could only fight against my instincts so long. Keeping so much bottled up inside was physically painful, the need for release near crippling.
The narrow hall opened into a large room, and my heart leaped in my throat, noticing how the space was divided into holding cells, each one separated by dingy cinderblock walls and sectioned off by metal and wire.
Cages. Cages for people. For me.
My stomach heaved. The burn of hours-old beer set fire to my throat as it tossed itself into the back of my mouth. I gagged at the putrid flavor but swallowed it down, only for it to burn again.
We stopped in front of a cage labeled Westbrook Holding 3 and the officer produced a set of keys secured to his belt by chain and quickly unlocked the door.
It slid open, the unoiled hinges screaming in agony and setting my teeth on edge. Even still, I hesitated in the doorway, staring into the space that was barely a hundred square feet. There was no window, and against the wall was a rudimentary cot on four metal legs and a “mattress” that was maybe two inches thick.
Along the other wall was a bench seat made of metal so scratched and dull I recoiled thinking about how many asses that thing had seen.
The cuffs fell away from my sore wrists, and I was nudged forward. I went over the threshold without saying a word, not accepting my fate but resigned to it.
It’s not a closet. I reminded myself. The whole one side is open. You can see through the bars.
It’s still a cage. You’re trapped. Can’t come out until someone else decides. You were bad. You lack self-control. This is your fault.
Fear flooded my limbs, and I spun to look at my warden as he slid the door closed. My lips trembled with the urge to part, to ask not to be left alone.
“Wait.” Arsen’s voice cut mine off as he entered the holding room.
The officer “escorting” him was practically being dragged as Arsen led the way. If I wasn’t in the middle of a mental breakdown, I might smile because he looked eager to get locked away.
Arsen slid a cursory glance in my direction, then stopped in front of my cell, hitching his chin to the door. “Open it up.”
