Slammer

CHAPTER 12

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THE MORNING WAS uneventful. Apparently, I’d been wrong about the inmates coming at me during my weakest point. I grabbed breakfast and ate in silence as Scoop ran his cocksucker about some shit going down on the block. I wasn’t all in the conversation—instead, my head kept swimming in the shit that happened over the last few weeks—drowning in Lyla. I was sure those thoughts had a lot to do with the headaches that kept me up at night.

“So your girl’s back in the clinic,” Scoop said, finally catching my attention.

I looked up from my eggs, and he chuckled. “I thought that would get your attention.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I muttered, digging back into my breakfast.

He laughed and shook his head. His eyes moved around the cafeteria, and his face cleared. Leaning forward, he cleared his throat. “Listen, maybe you should take a break from the infirmary for a bit. I know you want to protect her, but let the COs do their job.”

I snorted. “Those fucks can’t protect their own asses, much less Lyla’s.”

“That’s true sometimes, but the boys are talking, and I think maybe you should lay off on your visits.”

Dropping my fork, I gritted my teeth. “What are they saying?”

“Not much, but everyone knows you saved her from Carlos. They’re saying you killed him because he attacked her. You don’t want them connecting the two of you. That could be more dangerous for her.”

He was right. I had to lay off going to the infirmary. Getting close to Lyla was dangerous for her. Instead of responding, I nodded my understanding and pushed my tray away.

After breakfast, I always went to laundry to get my day started. The smell of death still lingered around the laundry room. I was sure they’d never get all of Carlos out of the dryer he’d died in, and when I loaded it every morning, I could still see his bent, melted body inside. It was a fucked-up way to die, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he deserved it. I’d seen him do worse to other inmates.

Today was different. Usually, I made plans to get into a fight so I could see Lyla, but I knew I couldn’t do that anymore. It wasn’t safe for her. I watched my back while I worked, knowing the inmates would pull some shit. The Mexican Mafia lived by the credo: An eye for an eye. I was sure they were going to try to kill me the same way Carlos had died. I wasn’t interested in taking a ride in the dryer.

The rumors were still flying. Death threats had been carved in the cinderblock outside my cell. Word was getting around that I was weak just like I knew it would. I figured it wouldn’t be long before someone pulled some shit.

I walked into the laundry, and my stomach dropped. Inside were three members of the Black Guerillas, and they were busy holding down one of the boys from the 803. He was young and new to the block, and he cried as they fucked him roughly in the ass.

They had him bent over one of the folding tables while they took turns raping him. Blood seeped down the back of his dark thighs, glistening in the muddy light of the laundry room. He was beaten pretty badly. His lip was split and one of his eyes was swollen shut, but still, he begged them to stop.

“Take it like a man, bitch boy,” the one of top of him whispered into his ear.

I closed my eyes against the scene, the sounds of their bodies slapping against his echoing throughout the room alongside the sounds of the washers and dryers. Disgust rolled around my gut, sending spicy bile up the back of my throat.

When I opened my eyes, his eyes were bugged while the one behind him choked the life out of him and continued to drill his hard cock into his bloody ass.

I should’ve walked away. I should’ve minded my own business for once, but I couldn’t. He was so young and defenseless. It was wrong to let this continue. I went at them with full force, ripping them away from him. They pulled up their pants with a curse. I shuffled the young boy out of the laundry, him dropping to the floor on weak knees, and then I stood there and waited for the three of them to attack me.

“That was a bad idea, motherfucker,” Jerome said.

We’d never really talked to each other before, but he was a big motherfucker… almost as big as I was. He moved toward me, his two boys flanking him, and I stiffened my spine. The room smelled of laundry soap, burnt flesh, sweat, and blood, which was smeared in a rusty mark of the beast on Jerome’s khaki pants.

“You should’ve just minded your own damn business, white boy.”

They cornered me; the one on Jerome’s right, I thought his name was Marcus, ran his palm over his thick, black cornrows and smirked. I tried to figure out which one would come at me first, but it didn’t matter. I was weak and tired, and I wasn’t sure I could take on all three.