Scene from something I've been writing recently
(Warning: Foul Language)
JACKSON COLE
JUVENILE TEMPORARY DETENTION CENTER - CHICAGO
“Get up. Piece of trash.”
Jackson was lying inert on his front, feeling his body throb with a stagnant, gnawing ache. He had lost count of the bruises he’d found surfacing over his body during the past month. Ink stains on a bare canvas. Disgusting.
He was in jail for voluntary manslaughter. They knew he could kill them. Which was why the f**king candy-asses restrained him before the beatings began. They hit his torso, being careful to avoid his face. ...Not that it mattered. Everyone knew what was happening. No one was going to stop them.
He would never tell them what they wanted, though. He didn’t care if they added more years to his sentence. He didn’t care if they drove him half to death. He would never say.
Why? Because f**k them.
“Get the hell up!” the warden spat.
The thug slowly exhaled and heavily rose from the plastic mattress, the material crinkling loudly as he gradually shifted his weight to the floor. His muscles screamed as he forced them to move, begging for him to remain still.
“Hands through the bars.” the officer ordered, no trace of yielding evident in his expression as he executed the next command. He had done this too many times to be surprised when the thug actually complied.
Jackson's eyes trailed down and instantly fixed on the manacles, clasped between the officers clammy fingers. A heated scowl immediately shot over his already dark expression. F**k. Not those. How many other greasy offenders had worn the damn things? There wasn't a chance in hell that they'd ever been disinfected, that was for f**king certain.
The thug didn't move, merely bit back a wince and folded his arms over his chest. A subconscious bid to pre-rid himself of the abhorrent restraints.
He had to wonder though, why the filthy things were even needed. He wasn’t going to be beaten yet, it was still daylight. They must be taking him out. But they'd only be taking him out with this much precaution, if he’d had… a visitor. That would be the only reason. But that was impossible. there was no one left to visit him. It's not like anyone from his streets would ever dare show their faces in here. They'd risk being locked up themselves. Plus, none of them would care enough to visit.
The officer sighed exhaustively, his words bored as he slowly enunciated. Repetition was getting old. “Put. Your hands. Through. The bars. Inmate.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow, his gaze flashing to the officer’s. “Who is it?”
The officer blinked, slightly perturbed by the thug's quick conclusion. He seemed to think better of being surprised though, and quickly narrowed his gaze. “Will you move if I tell you?”
Jackson stared back for a long moment, before nodding, severely unwilling to conform to anything.
“Guy’s called Parker Hunt.”
...Parker… Hunt. The name had cropped up more than once, during the evenings that the officers conversed on their current cases. And the name had always been referred to in derogatory terms. The man seemed to be severely disliked in the field. By what they said though, he didn't seem to be part of the police, but he did seem to hold some sort of status. He was involved somehow and they didn't like it. Maybe he was a public official. Or a perhaps a private detective. Probably the latter. It would account for the fact that they didn't seem to like him sticking his nose in.
Jackson moved forward, reluctantly forcing his arms away from the safety of his body and through the bars. “Private detective, huh?” he murmured, more to himself as he watched the first manacle click into place. When his second wrist was still free a moment later, he glanced up, quickly realising that the officer had frozen in his movements.
He was startled, staring intently at the thug with a mix of awe and a kind of disgusted confusion. His attention snapped back before his mouth decided to drop open, and he scoffed quietly, continuing to clamp the second manacle to Jackson's wrist. “The hell do you do that, kid? You special-needs or something?” the man sighed heavily, before stepping back and shouting to the main desk for cell number 145 to be opened.
“Nah.” Jackson said, pulling his newly shackled hands back through, a sudden sharp buzz indicating the opening of his cell door. “It's called perception. Something you brainless f**ks clearly lack.”
The officer grunted as the bars slid away, knowing that he had just been insulted, but not knowing exactly how. “Shut your mouth and walk, inmate.” He growled, gesturing to the long stretch of hall before him.
“Thick shits’.” the thug muttered, amusement flickering over his expression as he passed the warden and began slowly making his way down the hall. Before he could take more than a few steps though, his body jolted forward as he felt a sudden sharp jab in the back of his ribs. Jackson grunted, a hot pain spreading acutely from where he had just been prodded. The officer was trying again to assert the dominance he didn't have. The thug faltered, pausing in his steps as he very seriously debated whipping round and beating the living s**t out of the man. Guy deserved to be taught a lesson… or ten. F**k, make it thirty! Jackson’s body jolted again as another pain stabbed at the base of his spine.
“Move.” The warden growled.
Jackson’s fists violently balled by his sides as he made a supreme effort to keep his temper in check. If he fought back now, he would be re-detained and made unable to see this... Parker Hunt. And he wanted to see Mr. Hunt. If only to take the piss out of the pathetic b*****d. The prison wardens’ had probably brought in the private detective to try and squeeze the information from him. Heh. He’d like to see the f**ker try.
 Alisa Chatoyant · Fri Dec 22, 2017 @ 07:34pm · 0 Comments |
