Inside - Part 2 (Short Story)

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Inside

Inside - Part 1

The noise was still prominent. But, there was new noise now. Much closer was the sound of rustling fabric. Shifting bodies. Unspoken word, they made their presence known. Jaradin was not alone here.

The smell became clear. It was let loose with the movement. It was the smell of body odor, old clothes, stale smoke, and even a light hint of old alcohol. Invasive scents entwined and attacked.

Guards walked back through the hall, in the direction they had come from. "Back to your cells!" One of them commanded as they passed. Their voice boomed through the complex.

The noise died down with their scream, and now the only apparent sounds were the shuffling as a mass of people found their way back. To have that much power, that simple words could silence and send.

Boots against concrete became the only noise. A drum beating over a chorus of hushed whispers. It stopped, out of sight. "Close them!" Their command a crescendo. Then the steel section rang. Churning, as the cell doors closed. Magna-locks engaged like an explosion of bass.

Silence. Calm. Soothing silence. For the briefest moment, a freeing sense of relaxation washed over him. From the quiet came another round of laughter. Jeering. Noise. It placed him back in prison. Back in his cell. Attention turned to the people with him. The ones whose home he just invaded.

A yelp in the distance caught his attention. His focus drew to it like a light in the night. Laughter. Distress. A plea. A scream. Muffled words.

Jaradin turned from the bars to his cell. A Human, gaunt. Shaggy brown hair, long. Beneath it were two piercing blue eyes peering at him. Sunken. Hollow. Dark rings framed them. The Human stood in the corner of the cell near the toilet. Old and unclean, both.

Opposite, there were two beds, one atop the other. Resting against the wall was a Beskin. Dark fur, matted. They blended almost entirely against the dark wall. Their trousers, the same as the Human, the same as Jaradin's. Dark blue. The white, stained shirt was the only thing that made the Beskin stand out against the wall. Without it, they would have been almost invisible.

Jaradin looked at the Beskin. Then at the Human. Then his eyes drifted to the beds. "Where do I sleep?" He asked after a brief moment of contemplation.

"Where does he sleep? Where does he sleep?" The Human repeated, as he scratched at the wall lightly. His head jerked as he looked around. "Can I answer? Can I, please?" They looked up at the Beskin. "You answer?"

As they finished speaking, Jaradin's eyes caught the Beskin, who shrugged in response. With the wave of a hand, he leaned back against the wall and started scratching at his cheek.

"I'll answer." The Human stepped forward boldly, and then backed up to his position against the wall. "You want to know?" He stepped forward. "You can sleep on the floor, for now." He retreated to the corner. "Not this patch, though. This is mine. Tell him! Tell him it's my patch! I earned it last time, right? Didn't I? You said it, you said it yourself. You said it the same way my mother used to say stuff to me. Dunga, you're a good boy, you earned it. You know, but not like that! Don't even think that's what I meant!" The Human rattled on, their words like a whirlwind that made them angrier as each one passed their lips. "I killed for this place. I never killed anybody before I came to prison. I came because of something else. Then I became worse than what I was before!"

Jaradin nodded cautiously and then turned his back against the wall. There was no way he was going to sit down. If he had to, he'd stand all night.

"Every cell holds two. That's the way it is." The Beskin said.

"Yeah, that's the way it is. Those bastards get a lot of money, don't they? They love it when the place gets crowded. Bastards. I wish I had money too. I'm not sick enough to get their kind of money, though, right?" Dunga rattled as he spoke.

"That's right, Dunga, the sick are certainly creative." The Beskin replied. "Or, maybe the creatives are all a bit sick."

"I think, you know what? I'd shake your hand on that one. We're friends, right? So we have to shake on it, just so we understand each other." Dunga held his hand up toward the Beskin, who just glanced at it for a moment.

"Only slightly out of reach." The Beskin replied, which made Dunga pull his shaking hand back.