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“You did something with all that, didn’t you?” He gestures up and down my body.
“All what? You mean all this scarred, damaged fucked-up-ness? I look like a fucking Picasso, Rook, and not to mention the stretch marks, which actually aren’t as bad as the scars, but still, and there’s that flabby, what do they call it… apron? Yeah, that’s it. That just hangs where my six-pack used to be. Yeah, being tortured and having twins was fucking fun. I’ve never looked so fucking sexy, and don’t get me started on my motherfucking face.”
“Just calling it as I see it, something’s shifted, and that man there, is no longer wanting to be your brother.”
I dig him in the ribs. “You're an arsehole, you know that?” but as I go to turn and look for Priest, Rook pinches my chin and slides my gaze forward. “Don't wanna seem too keen. Let him watch you at work and see if he still feels the same.”
“Rook, don't be stupid, he's my brother. And totally not my type.”
Rook barks out a laugh. “That man is totally your fucking type, a little more clean cut than the normal ones, admittedly, but definitely your type.”
“Fuck… what if you’re right? What do I do?”
“Well, do you like him like that?”
“I don’t fucking know. My dead husband is still fucking warm, for Hades’ sake. I don't think I could ever love someone like I love him.”
“Love doesn't have to be the be-all and end-all, Ray. You're not the person you were then after everything. You're darker, more feral, if anything else, and it's been nearly a year, Ray!”
I sigh.
“Just allow yourself to feel. You don't love him any less if you love someone else and you don't owe him anything. He would want you to be happy, wouldn't he?”
“Not with his brother,” I mumble.
“All I'm saying is, he's been gone longer than you were together. Don't forget, but allow yourself to move on, at least try.”
We reach the end of the platform, and I wait for Priest. “Are you coming in?” I nod.
There's a walkway out over the sea, and there's a single cell at the end. There are twenty of these cells here, all isolated, all as cold as what's left of my swinging brick. They're filled with the worst of the worst excuses for human beings, but people we need information from. They all snap sooner or later. No one’s talked to Roach in months. They feed and water them, and that's it. When they give up the information, they get released into gen pop. I chuckle to myself. They think it's the general population, but gen pop is what we call the ocean. They get a bullet between the eyes and released into gen pop, the ocean, destroying what's left of them.
Turning to the guys, I say, “Ready?”
King and Rook Grin, but Priest looks at them both and then back at me. He just nods but doesn't look so sure. Maybe he shouldn't watch this. He will never look at me the same again once I start.
“You don't have to.'' I reach out and grab his hand, stroking my thumb over the back of it. He looks down at the contact and freezes. “Hey, King, will you take him back to the chopper?”
“Wait, no. I'm staying.” Priest steps closer. “I'm staying.”
I nod and pull out the bandanas from my pocket. I tie mine around my face and then pull it down. I'll bring it up to cover it when needed, but for now, it just swings around my neck.
“So I may be a little unorthodox here. If any of you have any problems, please just leave.” They all nod, and we step through the door, locking it behind us. Roach is laid on his bed, well, cot, bunk, whatever you want to call it, in the thin scrub-type uniform with a threadbare blanket wrapped around him. His teeth are chattering. As I step in, I can see my breath drift through the air in front of me, and his eyes widen.
“Well, hello, Sixteen.” They're given a number, just the cell number they’re in when they arrive.
“R… R-Reap-per?”
“Today is your lucky day, Sixteen. If you're good, you'll get released into gen pop.”
“R-r-eally?” he chatters, and I smile.
“Really. Before we do that, though, we need to have a little chat.”
I drag the metal chair over to the side of his bed, and he sits up, wrapping himself in his blanket. He's skinny, real skinny now. His sunken eyes and defined cheekbones stand out like carved marble through his thin, pale skin. He's lost the muscle he'd built, and he now has a lollipop head, which makes his bug eyes even more prominent. He's covered in bruises, when the guards come to check the cells and leave food they are not gentle with the inmates, for lack of a better word. The only criterion: don’t speak to them. That's it.
“So, Sixteen, I have someone who wants to speak with you.” I reach into my backpack and pull out a telescopic tripod. I set it up at the side of my chair and pull out the iPad, making the call.
“Hey, beautiful.”
