There is nothing protective about the way Lieutenant Bridges lifts me by the bicep and carries me out of the Warden's office in a tight grip.
"Ow—relax man, I'm walking—!"
This bastard shakes me harder as he marches me down a hallway and through a maze of corridors, not even bothering to respond to me. I put up with the manhandling until he shoves the small of my back through a door.
"You don't need to push me," I manage, catching my footing. That's about as much as I can say with the little courage I've mustered.
Lieutenant Bridges proves he doesn't have my safety as a priority at all as he shoves me again—this time at the bottom of some stairs—and I fly to the ground. With my wrists shackled, I land on my elbows.
Asshole. Asshole! Fucking crazy asshole!
I glare up at Bridges, hoping he combusts into flames, then pull myself up and examine the bruise now blooming on my elbow.
"I mean at this point, Third Block is sounding a lot better than being anywhere near you, Lieutenant." I hiss the title like he's scum for having it, and I don't expect it to be so effective. Bridges' dark brows relax and he avoids my eyes for the first time since we've met.
"Hurry up and start walking."
Demanding like that—fucking clown.
But I notice he's no longer holding me in that tight grip and shaking me. When I start walking, Lieutenant Bridges navigates us through dark concrete tunnels and into a whole other wing of the prison.
Guards line entrances reminding me I have no escape from this place.
We pass window after bullet-proof window of offices with guards gathered around dozens of monitors. Always watching us.
No escape. No control.
A strong sense of unease builds in me with each step I take deeper into this place.
Finally, the Lieutenant stops at an office and barks an order to one of the C.O's to bring him mace. I tense immediately. My wild imagination gets the better of me again as flashes of being maced and tortured by Lieutenant Bridges leave me gasping in panic.
He doesn't notice—or at least, he doesn't care. Bridges grips me by the arm again in that same spot and drags me through an exit.
"Mace? Really?" I can't keep a hysterical edge out of my voice.
Lieutenant Bridges pulls me into a small, dimly lit room with no windows, and forces me to sit at a table—anchored to the wall—on an uncomfortable chair—also anchored—across from him.
"I don't know what you're giving me that pissy little look for," he snaps, face twisting with frustration. "This is exactly what the Warden suggested."
"I missed the part where the Warden said drag me by the arm for fifteen minutes and mace me," I insist, dramatically rubbing my throbbing arm. I sharpen my look of loathing and watch his brows dip low over honey-brown eyes.
"Mace is an inmate," Bridges exhales slowly, as if I'm taking all his patience to deal with. "In Third Block."
It's not quite relief that I feel. I go from one dread to the next as I realize I'm not about to be maced, I'm about to meet Mace?
"Wh-what kind of name—" I stop myself, remembering this is prison for God's sake.
Bridges takes out a pack of cigarettes from a uniformed pocket and offers it to me. "Want one?" he asks like he's not a damn maniac who shakes people and throws them to the ground.
Go to hell.
At my refusal, Bridges just pulls one out for himself and holds it in his lips, leaving the carton on the table. His eyes are back on me, scanning darkly, as a hand digs in his pocket for a lighter. "I can tell you're going to be trouble," he mutters.
"You don't even know me!" I stress urgently, waving my shackled hands around and expressing the lunacy I'm even wearing them. "None of this is necessary you know!"
"All of this is necessary," the Lieutenant breathes dangerously. "And it's still not going to be enough if you're not careful who you bat your eyes at."
A hysterical noise escapes me at the absurd implication. Already blaming me…
I force my eyes to the door, mentally promising to never bat them at Bridges.