Destiny Taken (Destiny Lost Book 1)

by Giulia Napoli

  I started laughing right in front of her, I couldn’t help it. She angrily asked me what was so amusing. I launched into this meaningless pantomime, looking at the guard for some support, to keep myself from being Tuba’s target for something cruel. The guard started laughing too, and told Tuba I was laughing at something funny Altaf had done. Tuba sort of grunted, put her hand in her blouse, made an “umm” sound of sexual pleasure, and walked away. The guard and I laughed until we cried.

  Behind her back, all of the inmates took to mimicking Tuba, playing with their numb nipples or pussy, obviously mocking the nasty, young matron bitch. Only the small production team knew what had really been done to Tuba. I think sweet Inbar had forgotten all about it.

  The following Monday morning, Tuba showed up with a one-inch, gold ring piercing her through her septum and hanging down to the top of her upper lip.

  Matrons and guards weren’t allowed to wear jewelry for obvious reasons – it gave a convict something to grab onto and do some damage with in the seconds before she was paralyzed by a controller. According to another matron, the warden, apparently more than in on what was being done to Tuba, had given the young matron victim permission to get her nose and nipples pierced, since she was “Sponsored by an important government official.”

  The final alteration to Tuba that I noticed was her gradually changing attitude towards, or response to the inmates. I saw her get very angry at an older woman in the courtyard one day. Her hand flew back and she was clearly going to strike the prisoner. But when her hand came around, it went right into her blouse and cupped her breast! When she went to yell at the hapless inmate, she began to stutter and couldn’t get any words out!

  Tuba attempted to swing with her other hand, which ended up right down her skirt. More attempts to shout only resulted in more stuttering. That’s when everyone around, inmates, matrons and guards, started to laugh. As soon as the laughter started, Tuba shut up and began to disrobe, right there in front of everyone, until she finally stood there as naked as any inmate!

  Tuba moved right up to the prisoner whom she’d intended to slap and castigate, until their naked bodies were touching. Tuba reached down to the pussy of the older inmate and began to finger the woman’s unfeeling intimacies.

  Another matron, trying to stop laughing, went up to Tuba. “Tuba, you’ll need to let her go and get dressed now. This recreation period is about over.”

  Tuba, still unable to speak, nodded numbly, got dressed, and stood there with her hand in her skirt as though nothing had happened. “Are you alright?” The other matron asked her.

  “I’m fine now,” she said.

  As I understood it, the scene was more or less repeated a number of times. Finally, Tuba came to the realization that anger and outbursts would result in loss of speech and an overwhelming compulsion to strip off all her clothes. I don’t think it ever occurred to Tuba that her response to anger was no longer normal. Whoever the matron was who had messed with her mind, she had done a masterful job of bringing the young bully under control.

  Tuba was never the same again. I thought she might leave the Control Institution altogether, but she never did while I was there. During that time, she continued to shave her pretty little head, remove any eyebrows, and wear the nose ring. When she’d get angry, which happened less and less, she would succumb to an incomprehensible stutter and a frantic groping of herself beneath her clothes. If she was further angered, she’d strip off her clothes and grope the woman who was the object of her fury.

  Her playing with her nipples or pussy never stopped. I did hear one matron say that she’d gone out shopping and to a restaurant with Tuba, and Tuba played with herself in public, as though no one were watching. I had no doubt that her mind had been finely tuned to make her like that.

  I became convinced that they had also done some things to her that lowered her overall intelligence, and left her somewhat confused all the time. I would have bet $1000 that she had an IQ of 125 when I first saw her, and that they had somehow lowered it to 95 or less. They had affected her ability to think. They had changed her from nicely above average to below average. That very thought scared me to death, and I vowed never to give them a reason to do anything to me beyond what they’d already done at the time I’d been inducted into the Control Institution.

  Unfortunately, happenstance and boredom caused me to draw attention to myself, and take risks I should have avoided.

  **********

  More days passed in anonymous nothingness and meaningless incarceration. I wondered if Dyana would still find me attractive like this: hairless and chubby. I’d thought about all of them less and less as my time here continued with few diversions. I was sure they’d tried to find me and get me out, but nothing had happened. This prison was so overwhelmingly isolated, in a break-away principality that was even more remote than Eritrea itself, that I came to believe that nothing could be done to find where I was, let alone get me out. Without hope of rescue anymore, I tried to survive within my triple - Altaf, Erij and me - as best I could.

  I had no idea, most all of the time, what was going through Altaf’s mind, since she hadn’t shown a single expression in the months I’d known her. Of course, she couldn’t, thanks to what had been done to her. However, being with her, and we lived together so that was a lot, was borderline creepy. She was always there, and always inscrutable. Everyone tried to avoid her, because, as I found through many, tedious, rough sign-language conversations, Altaf tended to freak out most of the other inmates. They all knew that the matrons had broken her but apparently, ever since she was rendered completely inert when it came to her facial expressions, the other inmates avoided her because they considered her not quite right in the head.

  The Control Institution in general, and a couple matrons in particular, had broken Altaf, but there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with her. The matrons had reduced her to an unfeeling shell of what she had been. They were quite happy to leave her that way.

  I felt terribly sorry for the pretty little plump girl, who didn’t seem to have a mean bone in her body. She had been a happy, sweet young woman, and she was still just as sweet, though they had definitely affected her happiness. I suppose my concern for her showed, and she came to realize that I cared about her.

  I’ll be the first to admit that, back in River’s Edge hanging out with Tia, I was the upbeat, optimistic type, just as the matron observed about Americans in general. It was hard for me to think of specific examples, but I could picture myself with Tia, and I knew what my disposition was then. I’m sure I was that way even when Tia wasn’t around.

  That must have continued through college, though I did find that I had trouble remembering that period in my life, between when Tia was killed, and I first met Dyana. I was an archeologist, so I’d studied that and gone on digs, right? I had friends too, I was sure, though none of them popped out when I thought about that time.

  Sorry. I was about to make a point about my feelings for Altaf. In spite of being the bright, upbeat type, I have a low tolerance for women who are always cheerful or wearing a plastic smile. Those people get on my nerves. I have no reason to believe that Altaf’s formerly happy, outgoing disposition was faked, but I suspect I might not have liked her much, had I known her before they damaged her. As it was now though, I had a soft spot in my heart and a lot of sympathy for Altaf.

  In spite of the fact that we’d never spoken a word to each other, nor had Altaf shared a single expression with me, we sort of became friends over the couple or three months after I was sent to the prison.

  Before and after the Tuba diversion, I tried to treat Altaf with kindness and consideration; Erij was at least civil to her. Most of the other inmates paid no attention to her. I got the impression that most never noticed her at all. Being as neutral as she was, she tended to fade into the background.

  There were, however, a hand-full of women who appeared to go out of their way to torment Altaf, whenever they thought they weren’t be
ing observed by a matron, and sometimes, even when they were. The worst of these was a former meth addict from Saudi Arabia named Habiba.

  Habiba was an all-around, classic, insecure bully. She was taller than I am by several inches, thin to the point of being gaunt, and saddled with a long, unpleasant face and the worst teeth I’d ever seen, probably as a result of her meth habit. One of the matrons told me Habiba was the daughter of some minor Saudi official, a very distant cousin to the current Saudi king. No one knew how she’d ended up here, but she obviously thought she was better than the other inmates, and a lot better than Altaf.

  Fortunately, Habiba didn’t see Altaf often. She lived in another resident group in a pod on the opposite side of the prison. However, as luck would have it, her group shared outside time with mine about once a week. In the informal setting of the yard, the prison tended to only mix groups which lived far apart, to avoid conflicts among closely-housed groups.

  About every seven days, I’d seen Habiba walk over from her group of friends, followed by two of her flunkies, equally homely and gaunt but with totally non-feminine, man-like or butch, wiry muscles. Invariably, they’d single out poor Altaf and harass her.

  The harassment took a number of forms, all non-verbal, of course. It amazed me how inventive humans can be when they want to be cruel, even when they look enough like their intended victim to be considered family. That was the situation here because of everyone’s hairlessness.

  Sometimes they’d just surround Altaf, staring at her with blank expressions. Then they’d begin to laugh. Of course, they couldn’t actually laugh because that requires some vocal cord control which no one had. But they could use expressions, and acting out like holding their stomach and bending over as though they were busting a gut, and so forth.

  If there were no matrons looking, they would often grab Altaf, who couldn’t cry out, of course. The goons would hold her while Habiba would get in her face and simply stare or make faces at her, while treating Altaf to a series of obscene gestures. The staring was the worst because it was an undisguised mocking of the sweet, damaged girl, who would try to hold it together, while the tears streamed down her frozen face.

  One day I was with Erij, both of us sitting on a concrete bench that was sand-covered, because the sand blew constantly and covered everything in this hell-hole. We couldn’t talk, but I knew enough of the makeshift sign language by this time to have a half-assed conversation with her. I was facing a prison entrance and didn’t see what was happening behind me. Suddenly, Erij’s head shot up and she stood, a look of anger on her face. I turned to see the two butch girls, friends or even triple mates of Habiba, holding Altaf bent-over, while Habiba tried to jam a narrow-necked bottle or something into Altaf’s rosebud.

  They were about 20 yards away and we both ran over to them. Puffing, I got there first and ran directly into Habiba with my hands in front of me to push her out of the way. My extra 55 pounds were enough to provide all the momentum I needed. She stumbled backwards and fell in the sand. I shook my head at her and gestured no as well. I don’t think she’d expected anyone to come to Altaf’s aid, and sat there moderately stunned. My adrenaline was pumping through me. I know if she would have gotten up or challenged me, I would have started swinging my plump little fists.

  Erij had pulled Altaf away from the two henchmen, and was facing them in a threatening pose. I joined her and we stepped back a few yards with Altaf between us. For a couple minutes, the two triples just glowered at each other. Then a matron strolled up to see what was going on, and the others turned to walk away. Habiba was still glancing back, looking daggers at me. I held 2 fingers to my eyes and then pointed at her, the universal sign for I’m watching you. She gave me the forearm, of course, and followed it with a fist punch into her open hand.

  I’d made an enemy.

  The matron, who’d walked off a short distance, stopped, turned around, and came back to me. “It would be in your best interests, Karimah, to leave Habiba alone.”

  I couldn’t decide if she were warning me about what Habiba might try to do to me, or what the administration might do, if I had another run-in with Habiba.

  Ultimately, I decided it didn’t matter. I’m the kind of person who not only roots for the underdog, but actively supports them when it’s necessary. I would not allow Habiba to torment Altaf anymore.

  **********

  A few weeks passed and nothing happened. In fact, we didn’t encounter that belligerent triple again during that time. I think the matrons were keeping us separated on purpose. Then one day, about a month after my run-in with Habiba, there they were in the yard, sharing a break time with us again. They ignored us; I sort of assumed they’d been severely admonished by the matrons.

  By the time Altaf, Erij and I left the yard, that other triple hadn’t been anywhere near us. As we walked through the door to the stairway leading up to our quarters, I saw Habiba glance our way, but her face was expressionless.

  A week later, I expected to see them in the yard again, but they weren’t there at our time. Erij picked up a soccer ball and she and I and Altaf kicked it around. Running with all that extra weight was hard for me. I guess my muscles hadn’t caught up with my weight gain yet. I wanted to make sure I stayed limber though, so exercising was important. It would keep me supple and eventually add strength, but my weight wasn’t going to change. I was helpless on that front.

  After our yard time, we climbed the steps to our floor, a bit exhausted and definitely sweaty. Erij and I were silently laughing and all three of us were patting each other on the back, congratulating ourselves on a good work-out.

  Erij opened the door at the top of the stairwell and she and Altaf stepped through, with me right behind. Before I could get through the door, I saw two mop handles swing through the air, and each one connected with the side of the head of one of my triple sisters. Both Altaf and Erij crumpled to the floor.

  I rushed forward, shouting – but of course no sound came out of me. Someone grabbed me from behind and held my arms, pulling them behind me. Then I felt another person helping to hold me as Habiba stepped up to me and slugged me in the stomach. The air whooshed out of me and she hit me again. A moment later, I realized that I couldn’t breathe!

  I struggled to stand up, but I was bent over from the force of the blows. I felt a fist hit the side of my head, more in a fist-slap than a punch. My ear rang and I got very dizzy. If I didn’t get away, I was going to be badly beaten. I was kicked in the groin, which did little because there’s mostly no feeling there anyway.

  I managed to straighten up a little, just in time for a punch from Habiba that missed my face and landed on my neck. I stomped down hard on the foot of one of the women holding me and felt a grip lessen. I stomped again and that person let me go. I spun around and the other woman lost her grip. I swung and punched her directly in her nose. She went down.

  I took a vicious punch to my kidney from Habiba who was behind me. I turned again and pushed her away. That allowed me to bring up a kick to her lower abdomen. I kicked out, not up, and she took it right in her gut, not against her numb pussy. As she bent, I put all my force – considerable because I’d been a competitive gymnast - into a kick up to her chin and landed a blow that snapped her head back as I heard a crunch, like someone jumping on a bag of pretzels. Habiba flew backward to the floor, out cold. I was positive that I’d shattered her jaw.

  I turned to face the woman whose foot I’d stomped on and went after her as she turned to limp away.

  The next thing I knew, I was lying immobile on the wet, concrete floor. The matrons had shut me and the others down with their controllers.

  I was placed in a wheelchair and carted off to a solitary cell. Once there, I was released from the controller and allowed to move again. I saw four of the five others being taken past me to other solitary cells. Habiba wasn’t among them, and I found out later she’d been taken directly to the infirmary. They locked five of us up, and ordered each of us to write do
wn our version of what happened.

  I thought I was at something of a disadvantage in that I couldn’t write Arabic. I wrote my account of the ambush in English, hoping that they would take the time to translate it. Since Erij and Altaf were sprawled unconscious on the floor when I was fighting, I didn’t think their accounts would shed much light on what happened.

  As I discovered later, all of us were confined in solitary for a week. They apparently brought Habiba to a cell there at the end of that time, after she was released from the infirmary. It was two days later when each of us was summoned to speak to a panel about the incident. The other four were called individually before Habiba and I were called last.

  Someone had apparently translated my account because each of the panel members had the original summary I wrote and an Arabic version side-by-side.

  Habiba and her triple sisters had claimed they were mopping the floor when my triple appeared through the door and attacked them. Of course, Erij and Altaf said they’d been bludgeoned by the mop handles as soon as they’d come into the hall. Habiba’s henchmen claimed they hit them in self-defense after being attacked, of course.

  They did know that Habiba had been harassing Altaf, and that’s probably the one thing that kept the blame from landing solely on us. In the end, they decided both triplets were at fault. I couldn’t believe it, and tried to hold up hand-written notes in English to defend us, since I couldn’t talk, but they wouldn’t bother to translate or try to read them.

  The most injured party was Habiba. When I’d kicked her that second time, I thought I’d demolished her jaw. As it turned out, my blow had driven her lower teeth against her upper teeth with impressive force. Because they were already so rotten from her crystal meth habit, her teeth had shattered, essentially absorbing the blow which would have broken her jaw to bits.