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"Says who?" I challenge.
"Says me."
"Yeah, well, you can go fuck yourself."
The man's eyes flash hatred at me. He doesn't blink, but instead moves closer. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"You heard me."
"If I heard correctly, you've just signed your own death certificate," he taunts.
"Right or wrong. It doesn't fucking matter," I say. "The only thing that matters in here is winning."
I notice he is clutching a sock in his right hand. I wasn't born yesterday. I know what he's planning to do. There's a lock buried in that sock, and I'm not going to let him have the first swing. Without thinking or saying another word, I strike my right-elbow into the bridge of his nose and I hear it crack. It's like turning on a faucet because a river of blood runs down his face, across his lips, and under his chin.
"You fucking bastard," he growls. He is beyond pissed now. He swings the sock. Predictable. I bend my knees and dodge it, and when I come back up, I bring my fist into his temple. He stumbles and I notice a small crowd has formed a ring around us. Some men are laughing. Some cheering. Some are even making bets.
He charges me like a ram and slams his head into my collarbone. A sharp pain radiates down my chest but this spurs me on. He may be big, but he doesn't stand a chance. I put him in a headlock and we tumble into the dirt. He head butts me and I feel a hot cut form on my cheek. His neck is now in the crease of my arm and I squeeze harder. I'm on top of him and I put my knee into his jaw and pummel his ribs with my fist. Our brawling is kicking up a cloud of dirt and I blink rapidly, trying to keep it out of my eyes.
My anger is boiling over and I deliver blow after blow. Finally, I release him and he stumbles back. His face looks like a child has used it as a finger painting canvas. Red smears are everywhere.
Two guard rush in. They get between us. I see one guard has a can of mace on his hip. "There's a zero tolerance policy for violence boys," the first guard says. "This is going to land you both in solitary."
The second guard adds, "But seeing as you've gone and messed yourselves up pretty good, we're getting you examined first."
They grab us both and march us to the infirmary in handcuffs. Having my hands behind my back causes the pain in my chest to flare again. The bald-headed man is taken into another room while I sit in a hard plastic chair and wait. My anger has subsided but my head is throbbing something awful—like a marching band of pain. It's intense. I've always heard that the best way to combat pain is to face it head on. So instead of trying to ignore it, I visualize it as a small man with a spear, and I mentally tear him limb from limb. Just as I'm getting my pain under control, a woman walks in. She's a part of the medical staff. I read her badge: Kerri Curtis.
She's standing in the doorway. Her body is nearly silhouetted against the fluorescent overhead lights. If I would've known what kind of women they employ in the infirmary, I would've injured myself sooner. Her fiery red hair cascades down her shoulders in waves big enough to engulf me. I tell myself that if her hair was a halo of fire, I'd gladly be scorched those flames. My eyes travel down all of her perfect curves. I can't help but watch the way her thin gold necklace nuzzles in between the secret crevice of her breasts, or the way the gold matches the brightest strands of her hair. I find myself swallowing involuntarily. My cock twitches in my pants and I realize it's been a while since I've fucked a woman.
She looks at my scrapes and makes notes on her clipboard. She sees the cut on my face and grabs a square of gauze. She squirts an antiseptic ointment into the gauze, leans in close, and gently applies it to my cheek. She's so close to me now that I can pick up the faint smell of laundry detergent on her uniform. Mountain fresh.
A strand of hair falls into her face and she pushes it behind one ear. "We'll need to do x-rays," she says. "I'm concerned about your limited mobility in your arm."
"Anything you say."
"I'm glad you agree."
I wonder if she's really the most beautiful woman in the world or if my mind is playing tricks on me because I haven't had contact with any woman for nearly a year. She has no idea that right now, I'd agree to just about anything.
Kerri
Looking down at my clipboard I read the name "Stone, Lucien." I lift my gaze to the inmate sitting in front of me to put a face to the name. It's clear that this man has been in a fight. His hair is ruffled and I can see a small bleed on his cheek. His eyes are the color of granite and his jawline is just as chiseled. I think how fitting his name is. I glance down at his body and notice the muscular ripples in his chest and arms, and I wonder what he looks like outside of handcuffs. My pulse quickens for a moment and I quickly divert my eyes before he notices. What's wrong with you? I ask myself. Keep it professional. Its been six months since I left Jonathan and I couldn't be happier. It wasn't easy getting to this point; it's been a painful journey. But this job saved me. This is a good job. I can't allow myself to be attracted to a good-looking man locked up in this place.
Being a medical assistant in a correctional facility isn't easy. Being a medical assistant at San Simeon County Jail is something else entirely. This jail was built in the 1890s. And it’s got more nooks and crannies and idiosyncrasies than I can imagine. Despite the risk, the age of the jail is one reason I said yes to working there. Too bad it came with a patient base that were hardened criminals. It boils down to medical necessity. I can't make personal connections. In a hospital I can give the confused dementia patient a hug, or show empathy by sharing a funny story with the guy wearing a finger brace about the time I dislocated my own pinky finger in a bet that I wouldn't try out for my school's softball team. But in here? Forget about it. I can't do that. I have to stay focused on the care. It's all about boundaries. Without that, inmates can—and from the stories I've heard—will walk all over me. Without boundaries, I set myself up for being taken advantage of. I've been here for six months and I know all of this, but there's something different about this man sitting in front of me, humbled by handcuffs, but still proud despite his situation. His presence threatens to seep between my own limits.
I look at his scrapes, at the bruises that are just now threatening to form, and at the way he seems to be favoring one side of his body. I make notes in my clipboard. There's a good possibility that he broke a bone in that fight. It's not uncommon. I see those kinds of fractures all the time.
I notice that the cut on his face is starting to drip—not much, he won't need stitches, but still enough to pay attention to. So I leave the room to find a square of gauze. I squirt some iodine into the gauze and dab his cheek. The iodine makes his cheek appear even redder, but the bleeding stops and at least now his wound is sterilized.
"We'll need to do x-rays," I say. "I'm concerned about your limited mobility in your arm."
"Have you seen these handcuffs?" he says with a smirk. "Maybe they're the reason for my limited mobility."
"Very funny Mr. Stone. It's obvious you're favoring one side. I'd like to take a closer look."
"Anything you say."
"I'm glad you agree."
