Chapter 5
Prism
I often contemplated my limit.
How much it would take to snap.
I teetered on what I assumed was the edge quite often, a feeling that filled me with fear and anxiety.
That limit was higher than I expected, and I wasn’t sure if I should be proud for surpassing my own expectations or embarrassed I’d finally snapped.
I’d been doing so well. For years, I’d managed to not go off the rails, sometimes wondering if this was how addicts felt, counting the days they were sober and proud of each one. Except I wasn’t counting sobriety. I was counting the days I managed not to lose my shit.
Well, today, shit hit the fan. And the fan sprayed it back down as it flew. Look at me now, all covered in my mess.
The pounding of my heart was loud in my ears, and just behind it, the piercing, endless ring. The urge to crawl out of my skin and run was so strong I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from yelling as I was forcibly guided through the station and into a narrow hall.
The farther we went, the heavier my feet grew against the floor. It was on the tip of my tongue to beg, to try and plead my way out.
You deserve this. Take your punishment like a man.
I was so very tired of being punished. It felt like that’s all there was. I shouldn’t have done what I did. However, I could only fight against my instincts so long. Keeping so much bottled up inside was physically painful, the need for release near crippling.
The narrow hall opened into a large room, and my heart leaped in my throat, noticing how the space was divided into holding cells, each one separated by dingy cinderblock walls and sectioned off by metal and wire.
Cages. Cages for people. For me.
My stomach heaved. The burn of hours-old beer set fire to my throat as it tossed itself into the back of my mouth. I gagged at the putrid flavor but swallowed it down, only for it to burn again.
We stopped in front of a cage labeled Westbrook Holding 3 and the officer produced a set of keys secured to his belt by chain and quickly unlocked the door.
It slid open, the unoiled hinges screaming in agony and setting my teeth on edge. Even still, I hesitated in the doorway, staring into the space that was barely a hundred square feet. There was no window, and against the wall was a rudimentary cot on four metal legs and a “mattress” that was maybe two inches thick.
Along the other wall was a bench seat made of metal so scratched and dull I recoiled thinking about how many asses that thing had seen.
The cuffs fell away from my sore wrists, and I was nudged forward. I went over the threshold without saying a word, not accepting my fate but resigned to it.
It’s not a closet. I reminded myself. The whole one side is open.You can see through the bars.
It’s still a cage. You’re trapped. Can’t come out until someone else decides. You were bad. You lack self-control. This is your fault.
Fear flooded my limbs, and I spun to look at my warden as he slid the door closed. My lips trembled with the urge to part, to ask not to be left alone.
“Wait.” Arsen’s voice cut mine off as he entered the holding room.
The officer “escorting” him was practically being dragged as Arsen led the way. If I wasn’t in the middle of a mental breakdown, I might smile because he looked eager to get locked away.
Arsen slid a cursory glance in my direction, then stopped in front of my cell, hitching his chin to the door. “Open it up.”
The officer with the keys scoffed. “This ain’t the Hilton. You think you can pick your room?”
The little bit of reprieve I felt rising inside me shriveled.
Arsen’s sneakers shuffled over the concrete as he sidled close to the man.
“You better watch yourself,” the cop warned.
“Look at him,” Arsen insisted, keeping his voice low and even. “He’s obviously two seconds away from a massive panic attack. So you have a choice. You can let me in that cell to calm him down, or you can call an ambulance when he starts freaking out.”
The urge to deny it was right there, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie. Instead, my face flamed with shame as the two officers shared a glance between them.
“Whatever,” the one with the keys muttered and pushed open the door, indicating for Arsen to go.
He paused long enough to have the cuffs removed and then joined me inside. I stared at him as the door shut and the locks turned.
“Enjoy your stay,” a voice echoed down the hallway as they left us there alone.
He said nothing, but the heaviness of his unflinching stare was demanding. I couldn’t even relish the silence because that look on his face was so disturbing.
A flush crept up the back of my neck, slithering around and up to heat my cheeks. I went on autopilot, delving into the front pocket of my jeans for what was always there. When my fingers came up empty, I lost the battle of avoiding his eyes.
“They took my AirPods,” I explained as if that were somehow a good enough reason to punch a cop. As if I owed him a reason at all.
“They made me empty my pockets too.”
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but that answer wasn’t it. But then again, I hadn’t expected him at all.
“They were going to let you go.”
“I’m not going until you do.”
“You punched a cop.”
“You’re a bad influence.”
My lips curled up before I could stop them, the blast of happiness so foreign among the landscape of desolate panic that it was like a spotlight on everything I was trying to ignore.
I sucked in a breath, but it was more gasp, over-breathing to the point I could practically feel my lungs filling with carbon dioxide. It was supposed to be tasteless, but it wasn’t. I always knew when my body wasn’t expelling it fast enough. It was a sour tang that started in my throat and climbed up the back of my tongue. Sort of like an army invading my taste buds.
“Hey,” his rough voice demanded, much closer than it was before. Calloused fingers grasped the back of my head, pushing it forward until our foreheads pressed together. “Breathe,” he commanded, but I was past listening.
I wheezed while trying to keep my sour-coated tongue from touching the roof of my mouth.
One of his legs slid between mine, my thighs automatically squeezing around it. The hand not fisted in my hair wrapped around my back and pulled me in until our chests were flush.
“Match my breathing, princess,” he said, his voice a warm murmur.
Through watery eyes, I stared down where our chests touched, watching his rise and fall easily, the rhythm of his breath much more controlled than mine. The hand pressing against the small of my back flexed, then pulled me closer, my body obeying even as my mind still stuttered.
“There you go,” he hummed. “Good boy.”
The praise lit me up inside, and I hurried to drag in another deep breath.
“Another,” he cajoled, inhaling deeply so I could mimic the action. Our breath mingled on exhale, and the tightness in my lungs eased as pressure was expelled.
“I’m so proud of you.” That simple praise wrapped around me like a blanket. “Keep breathing.”
I squished my hand between our chests so my palm could absorb his steady heartbeat, the constant thrum making my lashes flutter closed.
Quiet permeated the empty space around us. Gradually, the most aggressive panic loosened its chokehold, and my lungs seemed to sync with his.
I like being in sync with you.
The thought ruined the moment, and instead of lingering where I wanted, I took a step back.
“What happened out there?” he asked.
When I didn’t answer, he snatched my arm right above the elbow. “Prism. What did that cop do to you?”
I stared at him, completely caught off guard. What did he do to you? Not, What have you done? Or, What is wrong with you?
For once, someone seemed to understand what I did was not an action but a reaction to something triggering.
My chest swelled, making me feel too tight and overwhelmed. “W-what?” I questioned, convincing myself I’d heard him wrong.
His penetrating stare didn’t waver as he searched my face and kept hold of my arm. “Did that cop say something? Hurt you?”
My forehead wrinkled. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you leaped over the damn desk and clobbered him.”
I blinked, speechless. He is worried about me?
“Prism.” His voice was rough and impatient when I continued to stare.
“It’s Matthew,” I said, glancing down at his hand gripping my bicep.
“What?”
I wet my lips with a quick dart of my tongue. “My first name. It’s Matthew. Matt.”
He grunted softly, and my scalp tingled when the hand on my arm moved to cup the side of my face. “Matthew,” he murmured, shattering a piece of the wall I desperately tried to keep between us.
His fingers found the shell of my ear, lightly rubbing it between them.
“Matthew, did that cop hurt you? Tell me.”
I swallowed thickly and shook my head. “No.”
“Then why’d you do it, princess? Hm? Tell me why we’re in here right now.”
“He was getting on my nerves.”
His laughter burst the bubble enclosing us, and my eyes whipped up to stare at his perfect teeth. Obviously, I thought he was sexy, but he was handsome too.
Maybe I didn’t realize until right now with him this close. He had the whole rocker chic, slightly emo look with his dark features, edgy clothes, piercings, and wrist stacked with bracelets. His hair was coarse and unruly as though it didn’t matter if he attempted to tame it; it always went back to its default setting of flopping over his forehead and sticking out around his ears.
But that smile.
It transformed his features into classically handsome, highlighting his wide jaw, broad cheekbones, and square chin complete with a slight indent in the center. His lips were wide and full, the perfect frame for those marshmallow-white teeth. It was almost like he fought against those natural clean-cut good looks with the wild brows, hair, and piercings.
But to me, it all worked together, creating a perfect storm of a man, the exact type of tempest that could take me down.
“So you hit everyone who gets on your nerves?” he inquired, eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Do you have any tattoos?” I blurted. This was why I didn’t talk. I had no control over what came out of my mouth.
His smile morphed into a smirk, and embarrassment flooded my insides. I wanted to backpaddle and take away the words, but doing so would only make me feel more awkward, so I pressed my lips into a line.
He didn’t lean in, but I swear the space around us grew tighter. The deepening of his voice only made the intimacy increase. “Are you hoping I do?”
My stomach dropped, then continued to flutter where it landed at my feet.
“Why would I care?” I tried to be flippant.
His smile was proof I failed. “Be a good boy and maybe you’ll find out.”
Was he flirting?
Were my balls tingling because I liked it?
Hopefully, I was getting a rash.
It would be preferable. I could slap some cream on. Rub it all in. Call it a day. But being turned on—tingly—because of Arsen… I didn’t have cream for that.
A completely lewd and intrusive thought of him coming all over me and rubbing it in literally assaulted the inside of my brain.
No. That’s not cream.
It’s good-boy cream.
Oh my God, my brain was broken. Completely beyond repair. Maybe he was right. Maybe there was no fixing me. Maybe I would continue to get worse the older I got and all the fighting I’d been doing was for nothing and I’d end up exactly where I tried so hard not to go.
Snap!
The silver band around the base of Arsen’s thumb caught my attention when he snapped his fingers right in my face. I blinked, eyes latching on to that metal band even as his hand dropped to his side. His pointer finger also had a silver ring, but this one wasn’t a solid band. It was more of a thick chain.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked, drawing my attention away from his jewelry.
“Nothing.”
“Empty-headed is the last thing I would use to describe you,” he quipped.
I glanced at him, wanting to know exactly how he would describe me but afraid to ask.
Down the hallway, a door pushed open. “Lights out!” a man hollered, the door promptly crashing shut once more.
Our eyes collided, both wondering what that meant.
Click. All the lights in the room snapped off, the entire place plunging into darkness so opaque I couldn’t see anything, not even my hand when I held it in front of my face.
The shock of it was startling. I was so conditioned to being overloaded that having it all ripped away was equally devastating. For long seconds, I remained frozen as I tried to orient myself in a place with no anchor.
The dizzying sensation of floating upended me, and I didn’t know which direction to go. With my sight robbed, the scent of the room grew overpowering, the stale air stagnant and accompanied by the sharp odor of cleaning supplies. My lips rolled in on themselves, and as my teeth scraped their surface, I tasted the remnants of beer and sweat from the party.
I noticed then how cold it was in this concrete and metal room and how the tips of my fingers were already icy.
Loud groaning rumbled overhead, and I bowed at the knees, trying to get away from the sound. The moan was followed closely by loud rushing water.
Rationally, I knew it was the old exposed pipes I’d noticed running across the ceiling, but as I looked for them now, they were impossible to perceive through the impenetrable darkness. All that remained was the hideous noise.
“When he said lights out… did he mean they were leaving us like this all night?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
If Arsen replied, I didn’t hear because the groaning pipes and rushing water gave way to clicking, which gave way to an insistent drip.
Drip. Drip. Drip-drip. Drip.
Everything around me swayed. My eyes worked overtime to focus.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the sound. But it was still there, and its presence paired with the endless darkness and inability to escape drop-kicked me back into the past.
Back into a place I promised myself I would never have to go again.