It takes a long time to fall asleep after witnessing Ox get dragged away.
My mind won't stop racing about it and recalling those terrible sounds of a baton striking hard flesh. Not only am I haunted by it all, I'm also just terribly uncomfortable. My back aches from the thin mattress that is no better than a gymnastics mat. The blanket is thin and barely keeps me from shivering. Mace is snoring loudly below me and the sound is like grating two stones together.
I can't even think properly from all the shock of the day. All my brain can do is conjure the occasionally unhelpful images I'm trying to forget about; Lieutenant Bridges' smarmy face… Ox's tattoos… Mace's scar…
Eventually I wake from a fitful, uncomfortable sleep to the sound of heavy footsteps returning. I glance to the window above us near the ceiling—too small and too high—to see a bit of light breaking through. It's probably the ass crack of dawn, but Ox is finally returned to his cell.
I sit up and lean forwards, watching with bated breath as four guards drag Ox's limp body forwards. The man can barely stand up straight. As a guard bends to adjust the huge arm slung over his shoulder, I can see a portion of Ox's face.
The damage is bad. Both of his eyes are swollen completely shut. His lip is split and blood is still dripping down his chin from it. Black and blue welts mark his face up and if he wasn't completely tatted, I'm sure they'd be visible all over his body too.
It is a strange feeling that comes over me as I watch the guards throw Ox into his cell and seal him behind the steel door—effectively locking him in confinement.
Mace said Ox deserves it; that he's the worst inmate in Third Block.
I want to believe him. A large part of me does believe him. But there is a small part that sympathizes with Ox. He didn't even get a chance to prove he wouldn't be a problem…
I'm too caught up in my thoughts I don't realize I've been staring at the small window of Ox's steel door until Mace jump-scares me out of it.
"What are you doing?" he snaps, appearing out of fucking nowhere. He's still bare-chested and in the near light of day I notice more scarring down his body. It's like he fought a bear and won or something. "Keep your snotty little nose out of this shit, kid. I can only tell you so many times."
I bristle at the insult. "Snotty little nose? You're the one snoring all night," I bite.
I don't expect Mace to smile, but a small one suddenly appears on his lips. His usually dangerously hard grey eyes become lit in amusement.
"A brat like you worth seven packs a day?" he muses with a shake of his curls. "I'm starting to second-guess it…"
I discreetly shuffle just out of his arm's reach as I mutter the next retort. "It's six packs a day for you… one's mine."
Mace steps away from the bed and even though he's still smiling, I get a sense that I'm about to hit a point where he'll start ignoring me again. "Your pack is an allowance for good behavior," he reminds, voice low so our conversation is as private as possible. "But you haven't done a God damned thing I've asked since you got here. All you can do is glue your eyes onto a serial killer and pity him."
Serial killer?
"Ox is—?" I catch on the word, upset this is the first time I'm hearing about it from Mace. He could've told me yesterday, but all he mentioned was that Ox had previously attacked newbies in Third Block.
Mace's grey eyes turn from mine as he throws on a white tee and clarifies his exaggeration. "He's as good as a serial killer. He's a hitman, kid." The word is just as heavy in my mind. "Ox kills people for money. He's bragged about a baker's dozen."
As if my mute surprise is some kind of victory, Mace's eyes turn softer and he gestures me to climb down off the top bunk.
"Why didn't you tell me this last night?" I seethe, moving from my spot and climbing down to the cold concrete.
"I didn't want to scare you on your first night here, Jesus Christ," Mace retorts, like this is only obvious and I'm an idiot for not knowing that. He looms over me once I'm standing in front of him. His grey eyes flick back and forth between mine as if he's checking how seriously I'm going to start taking things now. "You don't belong in Third Block," he says bluntly, "but if you want to survive here, start listening to everything I say."
"Sir, yes sir," I manage sarcastically between gritted teeth.
Mace chooses to ignore me.
"We'll be in Commons today, where half of these bastards are going to want to play with you. Keep your head down, your eyes on the ground, and don't think of leaving my side."