Author’s Note: This
takes place the morning after Part 36
---------------------------------------------------
XXXVII
Day 01
The clank of metal jolts me awake. I squint my eyes in the light, cobwebs fill my dizzy head. My wrists ache and yesterday’s bruises throb
across my body. The chill bites through
the thin cloth of my uniform, my body trembles in the cold. Mistress’s scent lingers in my nose. I slowly regain my bearings as I slump
against the cold metal walls of my cage.
The feeding bottle hitched to the bars catches my eye. I’m starving and dehydrated.
I prop myself up on my knees and shuffle to the cage door,
the chains between my ankles rattling as I go.
I tip forward and lean my head toward the metal straw. Clang.
A fist slams against the bars. I
slump back in fear, my mind fully awakened by the shock. The guard steps into view. Based upon her height and hair, it’s
Tabitha. She taps the glass bottle with
her gloved finger. The light shines
through glass showing its half full contents.
“Inmates must prove their commitment to rehabilitation
before they get a full portion.”
Her tone is cold and clinical, the mask and goggles blocking
any display of emotion. I long to see
Mistress.
“Two minutes to eat, inmate.”
I lean forward again and press my face to the bars. I struggle to line up the straw with the
hole in the gag. It’s close.
She tilts the bottle just out of reach. I strain and push forward with all my
might. I hear her foot tap against the
floor. She torments me.
“One minute left, inmate.”
She releases the bottle and it sways back into reach. I quickly press the gag into the straw and
drink.
My hunger outweighs the foul taste. I take it down in gulps.
“Time.” Tabitha
pulls the bottle from me. I moan behind
the gag as I watch the bottom inch of the bottle slosh around as she detaches
it from the bars. I feel even hungrier
and thirstier than before. I watch her
from behind as she casually strolls away.
The sense of loss would be unbearable if not for my past experiences
with food being withheld. I must
endure.
I sit in silence as the battle rages on in my mind. I know this torture will end but I don’t
know when. They aren’t pretending I’m a
prisoner, I am their prisoner. Am I
playing along or is this my reality?
Two guards approach me from across the building. Their presence fills me with a mix of fear
and anticipation for release from this tiny cell. Lauren steps up with a clipboard.
“Head count!”
Dominique approaches and unlocks my cages. The latch clangs and the door swings
open. I shuffle out of the cage with my
head down and struggle onto my feet.
Her gloved hand grabs me by the collar as she leans her face close to
mine. I close my eyes and tremble in
fear. I hear her inhale deeply through
her nose. I’m certain she smells
Mistress’s scent.
“001 present and accounted for,” announces Dominique.
Lauren approaches me, tapping the clipboard with her
pen.
“Welcome to your first day of rehabilitation, inmate. Bathroom privileges are provided twice a
day. Shower privileges and uniform
changes twice a week. Two meals a day
and a third meal if you meet your work quota.
Prep the inmate for the bathroom break.”
Dominique extends her hands and puts them on my
shoulders. She quickly spins me and
slams me up against the cages. I grunt
on impact as my breath is forced out of me.
She unlocks the handcuffs from around my wrists. I immediately rub my wrists, restoring
circulation. Dominique gives me a
shove.
They take my arms and lead me to a toilet sitting against
the wall. My face flushes red with
shame; there will be no privacy. I lift
the back of my dress and sit on the seat.
I lower the tights down to my knees.
I hang my head; this is a humiliation I was not expecting.
“I think our poor little inmate, has stage fright,” says
Dominique, followed by a laugh. I close
my eyes, clench my hands into fists, and force with all my might. The all-liquid diet makes things simple and
I finish urinating in a matter of seconds.
The chastity belt makes aiming a moot point.
Dominique makes a motion with her hand. I rise slowly as both guards approach. Hands force me face first against the
wall. I let my body fall limp in their
grip. I am at their mercy. They force my arms behind me and I feel the
metal cuffs close around my wrists, securing with a series of clicks. A hand grips my neck and bends me down. They lead me across the building while I
shuffle my feet as the leg irons jingle and clank with each labored step. Mistress and Tabitha await me at the other
end.
A boot to the back of my knee sends me to my knees. I look up at the women surrounding me. The masks and goggles hide their expressions
completely and unnerve me. Tabitha
steps forward.
“Inmate, today is day 1 of your rehabilitation. You are entering stage 1 of 3 of the
process. Think of this as the ‘penance’
stage. You will suffer as a punishment
for the crimes you have committed. The
suffering will be pointless except in the lesson that it carries. It is up to you to earn the privilege of
returning to society. 40 bags of sand
await you in the field. Each bag weighs
50 lbs. You will move them 1 by 1
across the field and stack them neatly 50 yards away at the other end. When you have completed this task, kneel with
your hands behind your head and wait for guard approval. You will have 60 minutes to complete this
task and meet your labor quota.”
She paces back and forth before me, her boots clicking on
the hard floor.
“You will repeat this task 12 times today and move a total
of 480 sand bags. If you move 160 bags
in the first 4 hours you will be rewarded with lunch. If you complete all 480 bags within 12 hours tomorrow you will be
rewarded with a coat. To move on to
stage 2 you must meet every hourly quota for 2 consecutive days.”
My fear and the cold leave me trembling. This will be painful.
“First guard shift, Cassandra and Dominique. Mount up your snowshoes, we got a few inches
last night. Prep the prisoner for labor
transport.”
Mistress approaches me and closes a metal collar around my
neck. She tugs the attached chain in
her hand making sure it holds secure.
Another pull and I struggle to my feet.
She avoids looking at me. My
heart longs for her. My throat still
feels the pressure from her thumbs.
We exit the building in a line with 2 guards in front and 2 guards behind me. The wind howls and bites through the thin cloth of the uniform. The gag is the only thing preventing my teeth from chattering. Tabitha and Lauren walk towards a pair of snowmobiles parked next to the building. I turn my head and see Dominique’s home in the distance. The prison building is only slightly fancier than a shed and located somewhere on her estate. I find it a little disturbing that she has a building with rows of cages, almost like a scene out of the old OWK.
Mistress leads me by the metal leash across the snowy
field. Dominique follows behind
me. I have no idea what time it is but
I can picture her caffeine starved morning face behind her mask. My boots sink into the snow. Each step is a labor as I struggle against
the leg irons and barely keep up. At
the center of the field is a metal post with an eyelet at the top. A very thick chain hangs from the top. Mistress reaches into the snow and pulls in
its length. Hand over hand she
continues, the snow collapses in a trail as its end approaches.
She picks up the end in her hand. Dominique turns my shoulders away as the chain is locked to the
back of my belt. She removes the
handcuffs and walks away back toward the shed.
Smack. A strap
stings my back and I spin quickly remembering my task. Mistress towers over me with her snowshoes
keeping her near the top of the snow while I shiver as the snow begins to
penetrate my boot tops. She taps her
wrist and points to the sandbags across the field. I bow and hustle as fast as I can, stumbling in the uneven depths
of snow as the chains prevent me from lifting my feet high enough to avoid it. I try to remind myself this isn’t real. The wind gusts and I raise my hands to my
face, it burns my eyes. The chill cuts
through my entire body, the fur on the uniform is mostly for show, it provides
minimal warmth if any at all. This is
very real.
As I approach the sandbags I feel the ground slope
upward. It will provide a downhill run
at the start but it will be harder at the end when I am tired. I reach out for the top bag. Clink.
The chain attached to my waist stops me in my tracks, an inch or two out
of reach. I grab the chain with both
hands and pull.
My leg buckles as the baton strikes my thigh. I tumble face down to the ground. A knee digs into my back. A hand pins my arm behind me. I thrash my legs in vain. The cold on my body intensifies as the snow
presses against my body. What did I do
Mistress?
With her other hand she presses my face into the snow,
mashing it deep. I struggle as snow
melts against the exposed skin of the eyeholes. The gag’s air hole plugs, my nose presses against the packed
snow. I can’t breathe.
“Inmate, it is against the rules to touch the guide
chain. This will be marked as an escape
attempt on your record.”
I struggle in her grip to no avail. Her knee presses painfully into my spine,
she presses my arm tighter. The wind
drowns out my muffled pleas. I let
myself fall limp in her grasp. She rubs
my face from side to side into the snow and dismounts hard, knocking the little
bit of air left in my lungs out of me.
Instinct takes over. I kneel and
bow before her. She kicks me in the arm
and paces away. I lie motionless and
catch my breath. She terrifies me.
I sprawl out on the ground and reach out with all my
might. I barely reach a corner of a
bag. I latch on and tug with all my
might. The bag weighs a ton. The sand is frozen and the snow accumulation
doesn’t help. I shake it back and
forth, my hand numbs with the pressure.
It finally slides an inch. I
reach out with both hands and strain. I
give a firm tug, and it slides. Another
tug results in more movement. I rise to
my feet and pull the frozen bag toward me.
It slips off the pile and tumbles into the snow in front of me.
I bend down and lift.
It’s not so much heavy as uncomfortable, bulky, and awkward. My arms and back strain to hoist it to my
shoulder. I wobble at first while
trying to find a grip and begin the 50-yard trudge across the snowy field. I mince my steps to avoid tripping on the
ankle chain. Running will not be
possible. As I shuffle through the
snow, Mistress approaches and matches pace with me. Her snowshoes and long strides easily keep up.
“Welcome to hell, inmate.
By the time we’re done with you, you’ll never want to commit a crime
ever again. You have 42 minutes
remaining to meet your labor quota.”
She breaks my resolve.
I had resigned myself to working my ass off and trying to keep myself
from thinking about anything except the task at hand. If anything is clear to me it is the knowledge that I will
suffer. My morale hits rock bottom.
I pass the metal stake in the ground signifying the halfway
mark. My arms and back tighten. In warmer weather or adequate clothing this
wouldn’t be nearly as bad. I shake the
thoughts from my head. This is supposed
to be painful, be miserable, and its design is purely to make me suffer.
Smack. I recoil and
grunt as the strap hits my back.
“Pick up the pace, inmate.
I get a bonus if you meet your quota under my watch. If I miss out, you’ll just have to make it
up to me later. I have a strap on
that’s itching to split you in half.”
50-yards may as well be a mile in these conditions. My steps slow as I reach the incline on the
far end. My heart lifts as I trudge up
the grade, I am almost there. The snow
crunches under my boots, my heaving breaths dissipate like smoke into the cold
air. The chain stops me in my tracks. I drop the bag into the snow in front of
me. I straighten it so it is oriented
like the others back at the pile.
That’s one down, 479 to go.
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