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Kerri
This guy looks familiar. I've seen this spider web tattoo before—yes, that's right. Now I can place him. He's the man who cracked Lucien's clavicle.
"It hurts right here," he says, pointing to his ribs. He's mouthing this to me through the glass door, and I'm reading his lips. The guards are changing shifts and it seems odd that he's standing outside of my door unattended. He has a wild look in his eyes and a strange feeling settles into my gut, but he grimaces and the skin around his eyes wrinkle, and I feel bad. Maybe he's just in a lot of pain and needs treatment. I'm sure someone must have sent him. It's my job to help these people without bias, right?
"Can you describe the pain that you're feeling?" I ask. I'm talking loudly and using hand gestures through the glass.
He has a confused look on his face. "I can't hear you."
I repeat myself, this time even louder. I'm practically yelling.
He shakes his head. "I still can't hear you." And then I see him grimace again, and he is bending over at the waist, holding his side. It looks like it could be serious and I hold a debate in my head. Should I open the door? One part of me says I should have opened it when he approached. This inmate deserves treatment and should be examined. But the other part of me knows that it's inherently dangerous to treat patients without the safety net of a guard standing near by. I look at him again and feel bad, so I decide to open the door. Kindness wins.
"Come in," I say. "Let me take a look."
He takes a step toward me and it's like he is suddenly free of his pain. He looks around. He peers down the hall and takes a quick mental survey of the room. Then his eyes settle on mine. It's as if he's undressing me with his stare. I take a step backward, and he moves toward me, closing the distance between us. He's now so close that it's unnerving and I'm having second thoughts.
My pulse quickens and I say, "You should have a seat over there. A guard will be here shortly and I can start some x-rays." But it's clear he isn't listening and I know I've made a terrible mistake. One of the nurses left a bottle of hairspray on the desk and instinctively I grab it. I figure it's my only protection. Maybe I'll spray it in his eyes. I mean, I don't have anything else near by to use. But he sees this and smiles. The way his mouth curls up—as if he's enjoying this—makes my blood run cold. My heart is thumping in my chest like a rabbit caught in a steel trap. What the hell am I going to do if a guard doesn't come in here soon? I don't stand a chance against this man. Shit, why didn't I sign up for that self defense class I always wanted to take months ago?
I begin to raise the bottle of hairspray for protection but he knocks it out of my hand with force and the bottle smacks against the floor and rolls under the desk. I then feel his tight grip on my arm. He's squeezing so hard that marks are forming. I try to pull it back, but his grip only becomes stronger. "If you cooperate—and I guarantee you'll want to cooperate with me doll—this is going to be a whole lot easier for you," he says, his hot breath on my ear and neck. I feel sick.
I have so much adrenaline coursing through my body that my vision becomes blurred. It feels like televisions are positioned behind my eyes. Flight or fight is taking over and despite what he has just told me, I want to run—I want to run as fast as I can and never stop. But that's not what happens. I'm practically frozen with fear and when that fear thaws just enough for me to try and yank my arm free from his grip, he grabs a fistful of my hair in his other hand and pushes me toward the desk.
"Bend over!" he snarls.
"You don't have to do this. Let me go, please—we can pretend this never happened."
"Shut the fuck up! I warned you—I told you to cooperate and by the looks of things, you're not listening. Big mistake."
His body is pressed against mine and my scalp is hurting from how hard he is pulling my hair. He finally lets go—just long enough to firmly grab my hips—and he bends me over the desk with force. His body is pushing into mine. I can barely breath with his weight on top of me and I'm now face down. The top of the desk is fogging up with my frantic breathing. I try to scramble free—maybe I can wiggle out from under him, but this effort only makes him angry. He grabs the back of my neck and squeezes hard, keeping his grip firm and pushing my head down.
"Stay still, doll—I mean it—I'm not fucking playing around."
He grabs my pants and yanks them down to my knees and he again presses his body into mine. I can feel his hard cock against my ass. I'm gripping the desk so hard that the blood seems to have left my hands and my knuckles are white. I feel him pulling down the band to his own pants and I squeeze my eyes shut. I can't believe this is happening. His body is grinding against mine. I go to scream, but it comes out as a squeak—feeble. It's like having a dream where you are being chased, and instead of having the ability to run, your body seems to move even slower, betraying you. I try to scream again and this time it comes out louder.
"I told you to—" he begins to say, and then stops. I feel his body move. He releases his grip and I can breath again. Now's my chance to try and run.
I hear a loud smack and he stumbles back.
"I should have finished you off back in the yard—should have really fucked you up and taught you a lesson!" a familiar voice growls.
I grab my pants, pulling them up frantically and I retreat to a far corner of the room because the door is now blocked by not one, but two men. I'm having a hard time coming to terms with what I'm seeing, but it's true.
It's Lucien.
I watch as he pulls his arm back—his tense muscles quivering, and connects his fist into the man's face with a sick-sounding crack. A thick stream of blood flows down his face and I watch as he spits a tooth onto the floor. The man tries to retaliate but Lucien blocks the punch and delivers two swift blows to his body and by the looks of it—if his ribs were fine before, they certainly aren't now. He's doubled over but Lucien is rage blind, and doesn't stop until three guard finally rush in. They are holding cans of mace and they waste no time spraying it at my attacker and Lucien. Both men stumble and blink back the burn, their eyes red and watering.
"Grab 'em!" one guard yells, and I watch as they are both handcuffed and dragged out of the room, a trail of blood following them out the door.
"Kerri! Kerri! Oh my god, what happened?" another guard asks, rushing to my side.
"I'm okay," I say. "I'm shaken, but I'm okay. I was assaulted—inmate Stone came to my aid."
"Let's get you checked," he says, but I shake my head.
"There's no need—honest. I just want to go home."
The residual fumes from the mace are still hanging in the air and my eyes begin to water. It looks like I'm crying but it's from the intense, lingering burn. I wipe them with shirtsleeve and as I do this, I look at the ground and I see something blue out of the corner of my eye—my journal. How did it get on the ground? I know it wasn't there earlier. I rush over and scoop it up, quickly thumbing through the pages to see if everything is still intact and my eyes land on a page. I see marks that are clearly not mine. In thick pencil, two words have been circled over and over—The Alcove.
