Inmate Islet

So, this is prison.

The cold air hung like a noose chilling everyone’s bones in its presence. It was like the air was laced with ice, and there was nothing to be done but pretend it wasn’t there, threatening death.

Bron laced her thin fingers in front of her and stretched her arms up to keep warm while two guards escorted her to the cafeteria. It was lunchtime, and she had just made the cut-off for meals. Lucky her.

It was mostly men that sat on the small circles the prison deemed worthy of being called “chairs,” but there were women scattered amongst them. She was almost glad to not be the only one. Almost.

The women were more frightening than the men. Despite their brute muscle, the men didn’t have the same daggers in their eyes as the women. Their stare told her not to go near. Do not engage.

She didn’t, and instead grabbed the last reluctant tray handed to her by a grumbling chef and set out for a table with only one other inmate. A boy—and he was a boy, maybe thirteen—with messy hair and a scar over one of his eyes. She chose not to engage with him either.

“Bronwyn Islet,” a voice came behind her followed by more than one set of footsteps. “What. A. Coincidence.”

A woman with no hair and two different colored eyes sat across from her. A man stood behind her, burly and tattooed, while another man (quite the opposite as the one behind her) sat next to the mystery woman. Bron had never met her, or at least didn’t think she had. Yet, she seemed to know her name. Her full name.

The boy that had been seated at the table made himself scarce, and Bron didn’t like wherever this conversation was headed. She wished the air weren’t so damned cold, but she knew the reason it was. It dulled her fiery magic to nothing but the idea of a spark.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the woman said taking a bite of the meal mirrored in front of her. Neither man seemed interested in food, and Bron took a hesitant bite hoping it wouldn’t taste as bad as it looked. It didn’t, but it also wasn’t good.

With a subtle tilt of her head, the woman’s eyes gleaned forward, narrowing in on Bron. “Maybe this will jog your memory.”

A wave of panic and desperation for any hint of magic ran through her, but nothing. There was no magic, nor were there any guards to be seen. The ones who brought her in had vanished right when she wanted them. Or rather, needed them to help protect against the strangers who had now begun to attack her.

Magic was her only defense. She was a bony girl with thin legs and thinner arms. Her hair was thin, her cheeks thin, and it wasn’t from lack of eating. She’d tried to gain and make some muscle out of the skeleton she walked around with, but nothing worked. Not when the magic coursing through her ate away at everything she put into her body.

Now she had no muscle and no magic, and a large, tattooed arm heaved her into the arm and onto the ground in one quick movement. Any air that was in her lungs had been expelled and she clawed at nothing for one breath.

One breath. But nothing came.

She felt as though she’d been frozen and shattered all at once. Pieces of her lying around, scattered. The woman now eating from both of their trays as she smiled.

The thin man straddled her, and she looked into his eyes which seemed to be glossed over. His hands traced her face, and she wished her body could find the strength to buck him off. No breath. No strength. Only struggle.

Regaining what little energy she had, she twisted her neck to get away from his fingers, but he kept feeling until he found what he was looking for. Her eyes. He closed her eyelids with his thumbs, and she braced for him to push down when the weight was lifted off of her, and she was pulled up from the ground.

Illegal magic. That’s what she was in for. That was her crime. Whoever this woman thought she was, even with her full name, she had the wrong criminal. She didn’t have the ability to overpower anyone and push out their eyeballs.

Then again, maybe she had. The blank in her mind swelled as she wondered if maybe her magic hadn’t been a gift, but a prize stolen away through force. But the woman had both of her mismatched eyes. Unless she wasn’t there for her own revenge.

She thought of the thin man over her, his glossy eyes, the way he felt her face. At first, she had thought it was a way of making her feel weak. She couldn’t even stop him from looking, much less touching. But now she understood it was something more.

He was blind.

The guards threw her into solitary confinement for her safety (or their annoyance) and scowled as they walked away.

“Not even ten minutes with that one,” a guard said.

“She’ll be dead before the end of the week,” said another.

The first guard laughed, “I’ll take that bet.”

The silence was interrupted by a grumbling stomach. It echoed through her small, cold cell.

“Hungry?” a small voice emerged from her left.

“Guess,” she retorted.

A piece of bread landed on her head, and she looked up to see a small opening between the ceiling and her wall. A crack, not much bigger than a fist.

"You’re welcome.”

Bron didn’t thank the bread-thrower, but she did take the bread. It was dirty from hitting the ground, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t even the dirtiest thing she’d eaten before.

If she was getting cleaner food in prison, maybe it wasn’t so bad here after all, she laughed privately.

But this wasn’t a joke. She was locked up and had been attacked seconds after arriving. Someone wanted her eyes, and she wasn’t about to give them up without a fight.

Bron could never keep weight because of magic, but now she had none. If she could eat more and try to gain some meat on her bony frame, she could stand a chance. Joining a gang temporarily could provide protection, but it also meant initiation and earning trust.

The whole block had just watched her flail and become a target. No one would want her.

Finishing off the bread, Bron sat in a corner and knew she had to play the long game. In here, she had nothing but time. Out there, in gen pop, she had nothing. Keeping herself in solitary confinement would be key, just until she had the strength to do what was necessary. Only then could she strike.

And maybe then she’d unlock the mystery of the blanks in her mind.