I’ve even noticed I’m attuned to her scent, she smells like life against the dead, recycled air of the prison, the laundry fumes and the sweat.
It would be so easy to slide my hand under her neck and pull her against me. I can almost feel the phantom weight of her in my arms, the way her heat would sink into my marrow and quiet the noise in my head.
But I don’t move. I can’t.
There’s a different kind of cage between us now, one I’ve built myself out of every bad choice and every blood-stained day of my life.
It’s made of the fact that I’m a fighter from the gutters and she’s a girl who still has starlight in her eyes. It’s made of her youth and an innocence that would be smothered to death by the shadows I carry.
I grip the edge of my mattress until my knuckles ache, forcing myself to look away. I’ll be her guard dog, her shield, her shadow—but I won’t be the man who destroys the last beautiful thing in this hell.
12. AURORA
The bruises on my abdomen shift from an angry, midnight purple to a sickly greenish-yellow. That’s how I mark time in Quo, not by a calendar, but by the fading marks on my own skin.
My father being dead hardly enters my consciousness. I’ve tucked the knowledge away with the rest of my unwanted thoughts.
I’m more concerned with the dull, familiar ache starting in my lower back and the heavy pull in my abdomen. Seems like my bruises are fading just in time for my body to start its next cycle of misery. My first period in a prison.
I imagine this is going to go great.
This is the first month of my teen years where I haven’t had a healer ease the cramping pain—or have a maid draw me a bath filled with lavender, peppermint and chamomile.
Instead I have a morning of heavy lifting and heat. I’ve a permanent role now at the steam presses.
I spend the walk to the laundry block trying to ignore the grinding ache in my body.
“Get to it, Barbie! Who the fuck gave you PTO?” Dot doesn’t seem inclined to coddle me. Fair enough.
“Morning, Dot,” I mutter, wiping my forehead before I’ve even started.
Circling around the twins, I head to my station.
Keisha and Alanna, of course, work in unison heaving the wet piles of fabric from one machine to another. They’re always humming something under their breath. Today I think it’s that fucked up "Happy Hanging Day" song again. Keisha catches me staring. Pulling a wet towel from the basket, she rubs it against her cheek, grinning, then winks. The cloth is absolutely covered in blood stains.
Delightful. So good to be back.
When I get to the steam press, I can’t see Candy, so she’s probably tucked away behind the giant dryer units. Her little hands clear the lint traps and debris, as she’s crammed into a tiny gap.
Talk of the tiny devil.
She crawls out with an armful of fuzz. I kick the trash can in her direction, but Candy shakes her head. “It’s for Dot,” she whispers, stuffing the gray tufts into her pockets. “She said I can have her bread tonight if I get at least a bucketful.”
“Why does Dot want lint?” I ask, my mind trying to find a logical answer and failing. Candy looks startled. “Rory, you shouldn’t ask questions, it’s bad.” Her eyes dart around the room, like someone is going to beat her for breathing.
It makes my heart hurt. “Hey, I understand that’s what you’ve learned to survive, but I promise you this. It’s always OK to ask me questions, anytime. Anything.”
Candy bites her lip, then nods, immediately goes back to harvesting the wool like it’s gold. Whatever Dot is doing with all that fluff, it’s a Digger secret I’m clearly not privy to yet. Maybe she’s just trying to make a softer pillow. Though “soft” tied with “Dot” is an oxymoron.
“Barbie!” Dot’s voice cracks like a whip from across the room. “The old industrial unit at the back is banging harder than a priest with his choir boys. Move your ass and hit the shutoff before the bitch finally blows a gasket. Now!”
“On it,” I call back.
Fearing an imminent appliance explosion, I skid round the corner into the dim, humid room at the far end. The vibration back here is intense, a rattle that makes my bones shake.
Stumbling to a stop, I freeze. Uh, what?
Sitting atop the oldest, most violent dryer in the block is Jolene. Her legs are spread wide, and she’s riding that thing like it’s a square, metal bronco. Her head tilts back, eyes squeezed shut and her moans join the chorus of banging and shaking.
