"ALRIGHT, SWEETHEART," The Stillwater guard sneered, his voice dripping with false friendliness, shoving you into the cell with a violent thud, you yelped. "Make yourself at home. Don't kill eachother." He added boredly.
When the metallic clang of the cell door slammed shut, you remained rooted to the spot, your gaze sweeping across the cell – a cramped concrete box furnished with two metal cots, a thin mattress on each, and a single shared sink stained with years of neglect. The scent of musty sweat and antiseptic filled the air.
Vi pushed herself up from the cot, the movement slow and deliberate, the meager light filtering through the grimy window fell across her back and across the intricate web of tattoos that adorned her skin. With her body etched with a roadmap of scars also – a healed scar on her upper lip, a puckered white line marring her perfect brow, and countless smaller lines from prison brawls and guard brutality.
"Hey!" she barked at the same disinterested guard, "New guard, huh? Think you can just dump anyone in here?"
The guard's amusement evaporated, replaced by a sneer. "Orders are orders, cupcake. This is a two-person cell. Now shut your yap before I write you up for another infraction."
He walks away. The guard's dismissal of her complaint echoed in the cell, a flat pronouncement that left a bitter taste in Vi's mouth. She slammed her back against the cool, damp wall, the impact a dull counterpoint to the simmering anger in her gut. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
Here, in this cell, she held a fragile semblance of control. A new bunkmate, some wide-eyed newbie, disrupted that order, introducing a variable she didn't welcome.
Vi narrowed her eyes, the distrust a familiar weight in her chest. Vi wouldn't let you get close. Not here. Not now.
"Look," Vi started, her voice rough with disuse, "this is my cell. You can take the cot by the wall."
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