by TylerRose.
The water stopped and they filed out the other door into the towel room. Piles of towels waited. They each took one and moved on, drying as they stepped toward the open corner. The next piles were nightgowns. They put one on. Combs were next. No blow dryers, so their hair would have to dry naturally. Those with longer hair braided it so it wouldn’t be so fluffy when dry.
Follow the corridor out the door a few feet from where they’d gone in, and they were in the larger exercise room. They were allowed to walk the track, mill about and talk, play ping pong on one of the six tables in the middle. She chose to walk. No one approached her.
Group after group came out as prisoners were cycled through the shower. Eventually, a line of kitchen workers brought in tall rolling carts.
“Supper,” was announced from the door, the guard’s voice booming enough that he didn’t need a microphone.
The procedure was the same as for supper except that they were allowed to get up and go back to walking or playing ping pong, or standing and talking, as soon as they finished eating.
“Group one line up,” was called from the exit.
She had forgotten what group she was. Eyes scanning faces, she found the woman who had been directly in front of her in the shower line. Walking over to stand near her chosen guide, she waited and lined up when the familiar face did. They were taken in these smaller groups back to their cells. Doors clanged repeatedly until all the groups were shut up.
A time of quiet and it started again. A cell near hers was opened, the guard telling its occupant it was time to go to her execution. Some laughed. Some had a scornful voice. None of them cried over it. Then all was quiet again for about an hour.
“Already?” a voice near her cell asked.
“That asshole Thor is here. You know him. Now he works for the Advocate, he shows up out of the blue to kill half a dozen. They need three for the library cages.”
A key sounded in her door. Her heart pounded with anticipation that she would soon be dead.
“No, not that one. The House Master hasn’t even talked to her yet. She just got here in the middle of the night.”
“Oh, okay.”
The key left the lock, going into the neighbor instead.
Disappointed was not the word. She was in tears not to have gone and had it over with.
“Prisoner, you can turn off your light and go to sleep whenever you want,” came a voice over a speaker in the corner of her cell.
When she was tired, she did. The cot wasn’t the most comfortable thing, but it wasn’t the worst either. Her door opening woke her. The guard gave her a fresh nightgown, waited for her to change into it.
“The House Master is ready to see you,” he told her when she came out. “Follow me. Stop when I stop. Do as you’re told.”
She only nodded. A second guard stepped into place behind her as they started off around the square to the exit door. She recognized the corridor they exited out into. The next door was where they’d gone down to the laundry. The door on the left was the kitchen, with a keypad entry. At the end of the airlock space was another door that led into a fabulous building rather like a large house or a gentleman’s club.
An open library with gaming tables and some chairs was all she saw as she was taken to a corridor with a door leading out into the sunshine. Turning right, away from the sunshine, they went into an office with two doors. Leather upholstery, heavy drapes.
“The House Master is ready for you,” the secretary told the lead guard.
An executive office with big desk and a man in a suit sitting behind it. She was ushered in to stand in front of it.
“Thank you. You can wait outside,” he said to the guards.
No salute or returned words, they left. The executive wore a dark blue suit with a silver and red tie. His cufflinks were some form of crest, as was his tie tack.
“When can I expect my execution?” she asked.
“Why are you in such a hurry to die?” he asked rather than answer her.
“Because I am guilty. I see no point to wasting the time or money for a jury or judge to find me guilty two months from now. I am guilty. I did it. Execute me.”
“What about your life is so bad that you will readily seek your own death in this manner?”
She gave no reply.
“I require an answer,” he said.
“I have the right to remain silent and you do not have the right to compel me to answer anything.”
He held her steady gaze. She was unflinching in her posture.
“Fine. We will not compel you. Until I know your reasons, I will not allow you to be executed.”
“Nice backhanded coercion,” she sneered.
“Do you have anger issues? Is that why you did it?”
Lips closed firmly together. His intercom beeped. He held the button down with his pinkie.
“Yes?”
“Sir? Her medical file has arrived in the doctor’s email,” came the secretary’s oddly unsettled voice. “He says it is over five hundred pages long and the earliest date he has so far is only three years ago. He would like to see her at once, and you as well, Sir.”
“Thank you.” His eyes met hers. “Something you want to tell me before the doctor does?”
“I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of giving you the details and you’re intelligent enough to understand.”
“You have a very smart mouth,” he said in more of a warning.
“Yes, I do.”
“You need to learn discretion and when not to speak.”
“Not going to happen,” she said.
“What was your issue in the shower yesterday?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You accused the guards of changing your water temperature.”
“Did I?” she said.
“Why are you playing games with me?” he asked, about to lose patience.
“I’m not. I don’t remember taking a shower yesterday.”
“Tell me what the doctor is going to say,” he went back to.
“How the fuck should I know? I’m not telepathic.”
He stared hard at her, holding his tongue for the moment. There was obviously much more to this situation.
“Fine. Let’s go to the doctor.”
The guards joined them to return through the airlock and corridor. Near the far end, instead of going left into the cellblock, they went right through the open door. The man at the desk with a pile of papers looked up from his task, the printer still chucking out page after page.
“The doctor is ready for you, House Master.”
The guards remained in the front room while she and the House Master went through. Doctor’s office was doctor’s office. Dude in a white coat, slacks, dress shirt, tie. He was reading a page from what was obviously her file, and looked up when they entered the room. His eyes landed on her first, with a mix of knowledge and curiosity that she’d seen before.
“Shut the door please, House Master.”
Door shut, she was gestured to a chair.
“Nicks Mary?” the doctor said.
“It’s pronounced Kneez Mally, but you can call me Mally,” she replied.
“I am Doctor Faulk. I’ll be responsible for your care while you are here. Let’s talk about your current condition.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m here to be executed. Do it already.”
“Is that why you killed him? So you would get the death penalty and end your life legally?” he asked.
Mouth closed, she said nothing.
“Do you even remember doing it? Or did you plan so carefully and go over it so many times, that you know what you did even though you can’t remember.”
She said nothing.
“What is her condition?” the House Master asked.
“She has a number of tiny tumors in her brain. They are dotted all around and fire off reactions in the brain. So far in the file, I’ve found notations of short term
memory loss; adverse sensory reactions to minute changes in temperature; verbal dysdecorum—“
“What’s that?” the House Master interrupted.
“The loss of brain to mouth self-censorship. She has no verbal filter. She literally says what she thinks when she thinks it. To not speak her thoughts is a terrific effort, so the fact that she’s gotten this far speaks to her knowledge of how to manage her own symptoms. Expect sudden, unpredictable surges in anger, frustration, and other emotions, especially when she’s under stress. I see you were treated for a time but stopped. Why?”
“Because they did a fresh scan and saw I had more instead of less. Some go away while new ones appear. There were fourteen on the last scan I remember having done,” she said, and gave a short sigh of resignation. “Treatment doesn’t help. Pills do not help. Surgery cannot be done.”
“When was the last time you held a job?” the doctor asked.
“Over a year ago.”
“Are these cancerous tumors?” the House Master asked.
“No,” Dr. Faulk replied. “Adrenaline producing. One lets out a drop of adrenaline and that area of the brain fires. Might be an emotion. Might be loss of memory or loss of appetite. Until you killed your uncle, had you ever been violent?”
“Not toward any living thing,” she said. “I throw things. Break things.”
“If you don’t remember, how would you know you’ve not been violent toward another person?” the House Master asked.
“Because I’d have been arrested by now. Duh,” she sneered sideways at him. “Stupid ass.”
“That would be a firing of the emotion center and lack of filter,” the doctor gestured to her while talking to the House Master. “She literally cannot govern her tongue.”
“Or uses it as an excuse to say whatever she wants,” the House Master said.
“I’m going to say it doesn’t really matter, Hank,” the doctor told him. “This is a real condition. She can’t fake being well or being sick. She hasn’t been here much more than 24 hours and she’s already exhibited enough symptoms that we’d have evaluated her anyway. She’s tried to hide it and failed.” He looked to her again. “What was the final thing that set you off?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I don’t want to appeal. I confessed to end my pain and my suffering.”
“Is there much pain?” Dr. Faulk asked more gently.
“Sometimes. It come and it goes. Might be a few minutes. Might be a few hours.”
“Did any of the medications help at all?” he asked.
“Not that I noticed. I didn’t like them. To calm the bursts of anger, they turned me into a zombie and I still couldn’t function,” she complained. “I stopped taking it all.”
“What if we tried a much lower dose?” he offered. “Just enough to take the edge off without impairing you? I think we can find a dosage that you won’t notice much of a difference but the people around you will.”
“No more drugs. Just execute me,” she said.
“Step outside, please, while I talk to the House Master.”
She stood to go, stopped and turned back to him. “You’re going to tell him I can’t be held responsible for killing my uncle. I did it. I know exactly how I did it and why. I was not under the influence of any drugs. It was not caused by the tumors. I planned it for years. I carried it out according to my plan. I was in possession of all of my faculties.”
She left, shutting the door behind herself.
“Bottom line it for me,” the House Master said.
“She’s damn smart, that’s for sure. The tumors are tiny. The size of a grain of uncooked rice. They swell and release adrenaline, they shrink for a while. Some grow while others vanish. It’s completely inoperable. Any of them could kill her at any time or she could live to be ninety. There is no drug to make it go away.”
“But she cannot control her outbursts, so she cannot be held responsible for what she says or does,” the House Master said.
“Exactly. I can understand why she’d want to end her life. She can’t keep friends or relationships because she’s so utterly honest in what she thinks and feels. She can’t keep a job for the same reason. Suicide being illegal, she found a legal way out.”
“Is there anything in the file to indicate why she killed him?”
“I’ll read it to see, but I have an educated guess. Why would a young niece want to kill an uncle? Sexual abuse. I’d bet my license on it. One more thing. You have to avoid head injuries. No face slapping. A single strike could kill her.”
“Her condition is that grave?” the House Master asked.
The doctor only nodded.
“Thank you, Faulk.”
He left the office and told the guards to take her back to her cell.
“I’ll call for you in a while. I have to speak to the League President first,” he told her.
“No you don’t!” she burst into rage. “You can—!“
“Stop there,” he cut her off sharply. “There are rules here, and there are laws. I have been lenient with you until I understood what was going on. Shut your mouth and go now.”
Mouth clamped shut, face red and hot, she stomped out with the guards. At least she wasn’t disobedient.
Locked in her cell, pacing away the fury, she had that sinking feeling her plan was completely ruined. Everyone always blamed the tumors for any anger. She couldn’t genuinely be angry about anything anymore according to them.
The door slot opened, a tray slid onto it. She’d missed breakfast. This was a roast beef sandwich with potato salad. Most of the prisoners were in the laundry for the day. She wouldn’t be going this time. Prisoners were taken away or returned sporadically.
The House Master went directly to the President’s office, knocking lightly on the open door to get his attention without intruding on the phone call. Daidh waved him in, thanking the person on the phone and hanging up.
“How goes your day, Hank?”
Hank sat hard in his usual chair and rubbed a hand across his forehead.
“That well?” Daidh remarked.
“We have a bit of a problem with the new girl.”
He explained her condition, medical treatments undergone, medications she hadn’t taken in months or more. He fully disclosed the doctor’s comments and conclusions.
“We cannot execute her,” he finished.
“No, we can’t,” Daidh agreed.
He took a moment to think on what to do.
“Room L is empty. Put her there. I’ll look into a few things on my end and see her once I know more. Thank you for letting me know.”
Hank left it at that, going back to his own office to call down to the Warden and issue the order to move her. Intake of a prisoner was always interesting. This one, however, was going to be quite a challenge.
Her door opened and she was taken to the corridor near the doctor’s office. A door on his side opened into a smaller corridor. The last door on the left opened after the one behind them was closed. She was shown in, locked in without a word. Alone again.
It looked like a hotel suite, but at least she had a window. She could see a green lawn, two men playing golf with a nude woman as their caddy. Another pair were playing tennis on a terrace to the rear of the building. A nude woman was the ball retriever. She could just see a swimming pool on the next terrace down. A man standing under a shed was getting a blow job from a nude male, and whipping the giver with a belt.
The League, one of the guards had said during the drive here.
The Culpation League? she wondered.
She’d heard of it on her last job. One of the lawyers was talking about a former client who had gone to State Prison 23. She remembered him saying it was a men’s sexual playground. She’d not made the connection before now.
Great.
“Prisoner to the spot.”
Male voice over a speaker. She looked around for a “spot”, finding a six inch wide red circle of light on the beige rug. S
he stood on it facing the door.
“Prisoner, turn your back to the door.”
So the voice was live on the other end and they could see her. She’d not seen any overt cameras like in the other cell. She turned around and the door opened.
“Come on. The President will see you now.”
“If I try to run away from you, will you shoot me?” she asked, having turned but not walking forward.
“There is nowhere for you to go. The other door is closed. The doors in the corridor are closed. Come on.”
She went, taken back through to the secretary’s office. This time, she was shown through the other door, to the rear of the outer office. It was bigger. A man in his late 40s or early 50s, in a black suit with ivory colored hanky point, sat back in his chair reading a page. Short black hair, business cut. He was vaguely familiar. She’d seen him somewhere before.
“Wait outside. Shut the door,” he said, meaning the guards.
He didn’t look up from the page he was reading. She stood in front of the desk, seeing the erotic pictures on the wall, the framed business license of State Prison 23.
“Mally, is it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“There are some basic rules in the Manor. You end responses to me with Sir or Master.”
“Or what? You’ll execute me sooner?” she challenged.
“No, you’ll be caned on your ass so hard you’ll have bleeding stripes that won’t heal for a good week and bruises that will last for two weeks. If you earn another punishment before they heal, it’ll be to the front of your thighs. If you earn another quickly, it’ll be to the back of your thighs. Then your calves. Then the bottoms of your feet and you won’t be able to walk for at least two days. Then we’ll up the stakes with an old fashioned whipping to your back. The one thing we will not do is kill you.”
“I have a right to my execution!” she snapped.