1. Prisoner's Talk
"I am so sorry I'm late." My red woolly hair flopped onto my face and I huff, throwing my bag on the chair to put it up. I haven't noticed the prisoner yet as I pull down my black pencil skirt that stuck to my hips a little too tight due to the shrinkage in the washing machine.
"This. . . is my therapist?" A deep mocking voice came and I cleared my throat, finally meeting the seemingly Black eyes of Prisoner 409. My breath catches in my throat as a slow smirk grazes his face. The handcuffs remained stuck to his wrists as he slowly rubbed his bare chin.
"Behave Four- O- Nine." The prison guard slapped the table before leaving and I was still frozen.
"Why wouldn't I? Chocolate just happens to be my favorite flavor."
"I-I Hello." I clear my throat, lifting my bag to sit on the grey chair. "I'm Ocean and I'm your check in a therapist."
"Pleasure to meet you, Ocean." My mouth drops open at the way he looks at me saying my name. His hair was shaven at the sides, short black curls grazing his forehead. Tattoos dared to run up his arms and for a prisoner, he was really well kept.
"S-so I'm just going to start off today with an a-an introduction. . . getting to know you?" I squeak as he lazily stretches out his long legs, his muscular form reeking dominance.
"What would you like to know?"
"Let's start with your name?" I play with my bag slightly, removing a paper I had written down some notes on.
"Trevor Vatore." He says slowly, his eyes stuck on me.
"Your age?"
"Twenty Six."
"W-why are you in prison?"
"I was in the Mafia, killed a lot of people owned up to it." He shrugs and I try to prevent my jaw from falling off my face.
"O-oh. . . okay um. .it says you're about to leave in two days. . . you must obviously be pleased."
"Why not? No one wants to be afraid to shower." He jokes and I crack a small smile.
"What are your plans when you leave?" I ask a normal, everyday question and his eyes never leave mine as he raises his eyebrow.
"Must likely find a job, maybe at a tattoo parlor or something."
"So art must be your thing?" I smile and he snorts.
"All these tattoos on my skin? I did them myself. Well except for my back but my arm was reachable." My mouth falls open at his smug face. I look closer at the designs, raindrops trail across his wrist, slowly forming into a vine filled with thorns and the huge rose disappeared into his orange sleeve.
"That's beautiful." I murmur, taken off guard.
"Thank you." He answers earnestly.
"What was your experience like in here?"
"May sound cliché. . . but I run this place." I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "Being tied to the mafia no one can really touch me. I get what I want, and I'm protected by the guards because they fear for their families lives. People think because they put me in here that the game's over? But it only continues, its like a CEO on vacation." His eyes got darker as he zoned off, but I was practically falling off my chair with curiosity. 'But that's my old life. . . I just want to calm down."
"Can somebody ever really just get away from well. .the mafia?"
"Never. Once you're in, you're in. But I'm not somebody, I'm everybody."
× × ×
Fifteen minutes left till I could go and I have to admit I spent most of the time either admiring how good he looks or his tattoos.
He spikes fluently like there was no time to waste and there was a hint of an accent. He smiled about three times in all and they were breathtaking.
He wasn't disrespectful like the few others I had dealt with since the start of this job a month ago. In fact he never really let his eyes leave my face.
He was something else.
Strange enough he told me he killed people and was in the mafia and I felt okay around him.
It felt natural to laugh and ask him questions about himself.
"Time to go." The guard barged back in and I watched as Trevor sent him a glare. He cowered back but forced to put on a brave face in front of me. I stand, waiting patiently as Trevor's jaw ticks as he stands also.
His eyes land on mine right before he leaves, throwing me a wink and I give him a small wave.
Trevor Vatore.
× × ×
I was used to violence. To pain. To suffering.
Heck, I dealt with it every day.
"Why do you talk so much?!" He yells and I frown.
"I was just asking if—"
"Get out of my sight Ocean. Move!" He screams alcohol stuck on his tongue.
"Okay, okay." I move away from my supposed boyfriend, who recently lost his mother.
Grabbing my bag, I decided to make my way out of his house only for his hand to come colliding with my cheek. I didn't gasp, nor did I flinch, I was used to it.
"Where do you think you're going?" He slurred. Dain stood a few feet taller than me, he was heavy muscle and a mop of blonde hair. His eyes were always glassy, hiding the true effect of the soft brown orbs
"I'm going home, Dain." I hold in my tears as I state up at him.
"This is your home!" He yells in my face, grabbing my arm. "You are not going anywhere." He throws me onto the floor and me since as the first teardrops.
"Dain—"
"Shut up!" He exclaims as he reaches for his pant button and I close my eyes.
Why do I allow him to do this to me?
I'm afraid. I'm so afraid.
Do you think I haven't tried leaving? I ended up with a dislocated shoulder.
How about calling the cops?
He lied and told them I was mentally ill, those retards probably used my color and believed him, after a beating I was on bed rest for a week.
There was no hope for me, so I hid my scars with my melanin and the visible ones with makeup.
The emotional scars I hid carefully with wide smiles and a kind heart.
I was going to be fine, I would tell myself. But each day I could feel a piece of me break off.
