I’m screwed if I haven’t.
I also hope she doesn’t notice that my hand is in a fist. A person like this might take it as a sign of aggression when, in reality, it’s just to hide what I’m holding.
I mutter, “I’ll get up.”
Now my ankle hurts where she’s gripping it like she’s falling off a cliff and I’m a rope she’s hanging onto for dear life. “About time.” She releases her grip and I let out a breath, rolling over to sit up. Once more, she’s left the room and I hear her all but shouting to someone out there, making me realize her regular speaking voice is just plain loud.
But she’s given me a second, so I quickly lift my pillow.
There’s one small yellow tablet and I snatch it, curling my fingers around it before lifting myself out of bed—just in time to see this ogre who had my ankle in a vice.
With her thin red hair piled in a messy bun and light brown eyes with brows furrowed, she looks permanently angry. Maybe she had mean parents growing up or an abusive spouse later. No, I get the feeling she’s the abuser in her relationship—if she’s in one. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to spend more than five minutes with her—and I’ve only known her for two.
“Fall out, Clawson.”
I’m a soldier now?
Knowing instinctively that I don’t dare question her authority, I keep my eyes looking down and begin walking out the door. I keep both my hands in loose fists and hope she doesn’t notice. I consider putting them together in front of me, but that might arouse even more suspicion. I know I’ll have to figure out some other way to get rid of my pills in the future, and I wonder how Joe’s getting his all the way to the bathroom. Maybe by putting them back in his mouth?
Just like yesterday with Rose, we head toward the bathroom, but this woman is picking up people along the way so I’m soon surrounded by several other women. I feel relief knowing those pills in my hand will be harder to spot in a group.
She’s picked up just enough people so that we can all have our own stall. As we walk into the area—more crowded with lots more bodies than yesterday—one woman with blonde hair and brown eyes looks me up and down. “There’s something different about you, Anna,” she says.
This can’t be good. Can she tell I’m not taking my meds?
“What is it, huh?” She gets close to my face, close enough that I wish she’d brushed her teeth already, and stares me down. I try not to let emotion through, including that bit of fear that I’ve been found out, because I know that could make my pupils get larger.
It could give me away.
“Get a move on, Stewart,” says the woman who feels like a drill sergeant, but at least the woman in my face backs off.
“Ooh,” says her friend, “I think you made Anna mad. Look at how she’s clenching her fists.”
“Hmm.” The blonde raises her eyebrows before heading into a stall.
Unfortunately, that means two of us are stuck out here waiting to use a toilet—which means more potential time for me to be caught. When the first person exits, I don’t want to cause a scene or be too obvious, so I nod, letting the other woman go—but she shakes her head violently. Whether I were to go or not, she is not going to step in the vacated stall.
So I do—and immediately understand why she didn’t want to. It smells like shit.
Literally.
But I lean against the door with my shoulder and use my one free hand to turn the lock. Hurrying, I grab some toilet paper to try what I’d thought of before—wrapping the pills up so they go straight down. I put them in and flush before sitting down to empty my bladder. When I stand up to flush again, I have two problems—one is that the wad of toilet paper is circling in the bowl and the second is that the water pressure isn’t enough to take it down. I’m going to have to wait. Meanwhile, the stench of shit is making me want to throw up.
Someone bangs hard on my door, making me jump. “Hurry it up, Clawson. We don’t have all day!”
Yes, a far cry from gentle Rose’s treatment yesterday.
I don’t say a word, because I don’t want to be found out. I continue watching the water swirl and swirl and swirl, water seeming to drip from the edges of the bowl, but it seems to be slowing, so I wonder if I should take a chance flushing.
More banging. “Clawson, you have thirty seconds. Otherwise, I’m coming in there.”
Desperate, I flush again and it’s still not going down, meaning I didn’t wait long enough—but I’m out of time. If it hasn’t gone down now, thirty seconds won’t be enough for it to flush.
I need to think fast.
Another wave of shit smell—this time from the connecting stall—hits my nose, and I decide to let it happen. I breathe the stench in deeply through my nostrils and conjure up disgusting images in my head (hard to do when your memory is short) and, as soon as rude Red opens the door, I puke loudly into the toilet.
More than once.
She actually apologizes. “Shit. Sorry, Clawson. Take your time.”
But that’s something to remember. They can unlock the stall at will.
I have no privacy here.
Maybe Joe is right. Maybe we are prisoners.
*
Later that afternoon, Joe and I are in my room—door open as he says we’re supposed to—talking. “But I wondered if maybe there’d be a way I could drop the pills in the small drain in the shower.”
“You could, Anna, but don’t do it in the morning.”
“When else am I gonna do it?”
“You go to the bathroom—either right after they medicate you or later after lights out. But if you do it then, they’ll usually just let you go.”
“Why do they follow us to the shower in the morning anyway? It’s creepy.”
“I guess a while back there were some women raping other women.”
“How does that even work?” When Joe opens his mouth, I say, “No, I don’t really want to know.”
He gives me an easy laugh, crinkling up the corners of his eyes in the most adorable way.
“Also, they took the book from me. I don’t know if they took it in the middle of the night or when I was in the shower, but when I looked for it after that, it was gone.”
“Fuckers. I wonder what they think we’ll find in there.”
“I don’t know. Maybe they put it back—maybe they returned it to the bookshelves for me.” When he tilts his head, gazing into my eyes, I ask, “What?”
Then he gives me the softest smile, tracing the side of my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I love that about you, Anna.”
“What?”
“You are eternally optimistic.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Here I am, assuming they’re all out to get us, and you’re imagining them being kind and caring, hoping for the best when you have no evidence to support it.”
“What good would it do to be negative?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not about to debate good and bad with you. I just…wanted to say I love that about you.”
Love seems like such a strong word, but I am not going to debate that with him.
Mainly because my emotions for him are crazy strong, stronger than maybe they should be.