Sinners 01 - Branded (10 page)

“Because he loved her.” Cole cuts me off. Without any invitation, he keeps talking.
“Everyone’s known about Mac and Claire for a while. Mac’s been a friend of mine since
we joined the guards. I have no doubt he did it because he loved her. He knew they’d
torture her just to break him. And they’d do it in front of him.” Cole pauses and
closes his eyes for a moment. “He killed her out of love. The very love that most
of us will never feel because we aren’t allowed.”

“Wow. How did I not see that?” I ask.

“Because you don’t know what it feels like to be in love.”

“And you do?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“What was up with Zeus back there?”

Zeus cocks his head when I mention his name. Cole leans against the wall and puts
his hands on top of his head.

“That’s him being protective of you, I guess. Not sure why he didn’t rip off the guy’s
head in the garage, but he didn’t.”

“He can do that?”

“Have you not seen his teeth?”

“Okay, stupid question.” I look down at Zeus as he presses his wet nose into my thigh.
I place both of my hands around his head and kiss him between his ears. “Thank you.”

Nothing more is said. One, because I’m trying to block out what I just witnessed,
and two, because I want to forget about the “him being in love” question. The elevator
heaves to a stop. Getting off at the eighth floor is harder today than yesterday,
but I put my shoulders back and walk toward the desk, attempting to mentally compose
myself.

Cole signs me in. “I’ll be back at seven,” he says in a brusque manner.

“Yes, sir.” The trauma of the morning has me itching to go back to my dirty room and
lie on my mattress.

Without any further instructions, Cole reenters the elevator with Zeus. Rage is written
on his face as he punches the buttons. His eyes narrow to slits and his posture stiffens
as if ready for a fight. I make eye contact with him just as the door closes with
a squeal.
If anyone accused him of rage, he’d have a hard time proving them wrong.

The monotony of work comforts me, although it takes forever to fold the huge mounds
of linens. I’d prefer to hide in a closet somewhere, alone in the dark, away from
the eyes of the guards who pass in the hallways. Most of the nurses avoid me because
of the attention the guards pay me. I don’t blame them. No one wants to make herself
anymore of a target than needed, and I seem to be a magnet for it.

The hours pass quickly, and at seven, Cole and Zeus show up right on time. Cole looks
no less enraged than when he left. His fingers jab the buttons in the elevator and
he says nothing as we jostle downward. Then, once outside, he walks briskly ahead,
never acknowledging me or speaking.

Did I do something wrong?
I’m too afraid to ask because of his outburst at the table this morning.
Maybe the execution made him afraid to talk to me.

Once inside my quarters, he spins around and shoves me against the wall. I bite my
lips in fear, shaking in his grip.

“Don’t mistake my niceness for weakness, okay?” he asks.

I nod.

“Yesterday, I saved your life because it was my job. Nothing more.” He releases me
and I’m not sure what hurts more, my arms or my feelings.

“Okay,” I say, unconvinced and trembling.

Yet, this morning, he seemed to think my life was worth something.

He turns, drags Zeus with him, and slams his door.

I crumble to my mattress, unable to shake my fear and the memories.

The salacious look on the head guard’s face as I passed. The icy blue eyes of the
guard in the garage, how his fingers in my hair made me shiver under his control.
The way my stepfather looked at me with greediness.

I wake up sweating and panic, bolting upright in the dark.

When I calm down, I hear someone knocking on a door nearby.

“Sure, man. Come in,” Cole says.

A parade of feet shuffles into his room, followed by laughter and the sound of cans
popping open. I press my back against the wall and pull in my knees. My chest heaves
with the agony of the unknown.

What if they see I drew on my walls? What if they come into my room and beat me… or
worse?

Then his door creaks open and a sliver of light trails across my room. I freeze.

“Lexi, come in here and serve the men,” Cole says.

I stand cautiously, staring at his silhouette in the doorway, unsure of his demanding
voice.

“Did you not hear me? I’m ordering you to come and serve them. Now!”

I skitter nervously into his room. Four guards and Cole sit around the table, playing
cards, drinking beer, and laughing. Their eyes all lift to mine in expectation and
they smile in unison.

“Grab them another beer,” Cole says.

I breathe deeply and retrieve four beers. Cracking them open, I set the drinks on
the table. I look at Cole, waiting for him to say something. He raises his eyebrow.

“Did you forget something? Where’s mine?” he asks.

The others roar with laughter.

“She’s real smart, buddy,” the dark-haired boy says. A part of his right ear is missing
like something or someone bit it off.

Gross.

“Aww, come on. If she was smart, she wouldn’t be here now, would she?” Cole says.

“How’d she manage to escape red-light duty? What makes her so damn special?” one asks.
“Sucks to be you, dude. If she were my assignment, I’d go nuts not thumping her.”

Their comments make me dizzy. I give myself a mental slap, pull myself together, and
pop open Cole’s drink. I want to run from the room, but it would only make things
worse.

“Why are we ordering our entertainment when we have her?” Cole asks while raising
his beer. The others tap their cans against his and down their beers in thirsty, sloppy
gulps. Setting down their drinks, they get back to their game.

I stand against the wall, heat rising up my neck from the humiliation. Every time
they need a new beer, they motion for me, and I scramble to get one.

“Sit on my lap, sweetheart. I don’t bite,” one says.

“He might not, but I do,” Cole says.

The one chokes, spewing beer all over Cole’s shirt, and smacks his back like a good
ol’ boy.

I roll my eyes.
Drunk, dirty, and disgusting.

“Naw, seriously, go back to your room. Our girls will be here in three, two, on—”

A knock on his door brings cheers from the others and barking from Zeus. Cole opens
the door and prostitutes pour inside. They’re tall, leggy, painted ladies wearing
clothing that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. One of them immediately sits
on a guard’s lap. He runs his hands up her back and fondles her beneath her clothing.

Slinking away, I fumble for the doorknob. Cole steps in my path, blocking my exit.
He’s so close I can almost taste the beer on his breath. His eyes are glazed over
but dark as ever. Unsure of what to do, I wait.

Please don’t make me stay.

He turns the knob, opens the door, and follows me out. His hand catches my wrist,
jerking me back.

“It’s not what you think,” he gruffly whispers.

Then he slams the door.

What?

Walking back to my bed, feeling defeated, I trip over my own feet and crash onto my
knees. I don’t have the strength to rise. All the goodness I so desperately clung
to doesn’t exist here. I bang my fists on the bed in anger, pain, and suffering.

I just don’t understand anyone or anything.

With gaudy music playing in the background, I fall asleep, pleading with God to make
tomorrow bearable.

Dawn breaks through my window in one glorious streak of white light. My head aches
from lack of sleep and the pounding music last night. I must’ve clenched my teeth
while I was sleeping because it hurts to open my mouth.

I rub my eyes and drag myself out of bed. As I get dressed, Cole’s statement—“It’s
not what you think”—keeps playing over and over in my head. I want to ask him about
it, but I doubt I will… at least not now. But it frustrates me because he could be
referring to so many different things. My thoughts swim laps in my head, trying to
make sense of his words.

The hospital does nothing to dull the now-roaring scream in my mind, and the noise
sets off a constant ringing in my ears. The smells are too putrid to block. So all
around, I feel like a disaster.

And today of all days, they give me my first assignment—other than folding laundry.
Lovely.

The charge nurse pulls me aside immediately upon Cole’s departure to let me know she
has work lined up for me.

“What do I do?” I ask.

She leads me to the patient’s doorway and stops.

“Go in and see if she needs anything. Change her linens. Clean out her trash can…
if she has one. Otherwise, pick up the trash on the floor, and if you moan about it,
I’ll send you over to Horny Hank’s room. Which I’m pretty sure is the last place you
want to go.” Her round face scowls at me. Whenever she talks, the imposing mole on
her chin speaks to me with its three straw-like hairs protruding. It’s hard not to
fixate on them.

Why doesn’t she pluck them?

I enter my patient’s room and take a moment to look around. There’s no one here. The
silence disturbs me. Perplexed, I stand and scrutinize the room.

Now what?

I gather the dirty sheets and drop them on the floor. I glance down and that’s when
I see the body. Her snow-white hair lies matted across her forehead. Her urine-soaked
hospital gown is stained with feces and plastered to her body like saran wrap. Her
chest doesn’t move. I kneel and check her for a pulse, breathing, anything to indicate
she’s alive. No response
.

Straightening up, I feel numb. This patient probably fell out of bed and no one heard
or helped her. Maybe she would’ve died even with help, but either way she was alone,
and I can’t help but feel bad for her.

My mind wanders to my father. He abhorred situations like this and that’s exactly
why he spoke out. He risked everything by opposing the commander, yet he did it regardless.
I hope I possess his bravery, his compassion, and his belief in the dignity of others.
Moments like this test my resolve to the core, though. I look at the lady lying before
me, and the indecency of her plight makes my neck tighten and my nerves edgy. I turn
in one swift motion and bolt back to the nurse’s station.

“She’s rotten, isn’t she? Nasty old hag. What did she want this time?” the head nurse
asks.

“She didn’t say a word…” My voice trails off as I try to suppress my emotions.

“Well, did you at least change her linens?”

“No.” I take a step forward and look her full in the face. “She’s dead.”

“Oh. Well, she’s better off stiff.” Her lips draw down in a look of dismay. “I guess
you’ll need a new patient, then.” She flips through her charts like nothing happened.
I wonder how she does it.

“Give her Alyssa,” a quiet voice from behind her says. “I need a break.” A nurse with
silky, black hair peers from behind the charge nurse. She pulls her hair back from
her face, revealing an orange brand—gluttony—which distracts me, and I want to punch
myself for judging her by the color of her brand.

“I’m not sure she can handle her.”

“She needs someone to take care of her, and I’m not going to do it,” the quiet girl
says. “I can’t.”

“Okay, she’s all yours.” The charge nurse points toward a wooden door at the end of
the hallway. “Room six.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I’m not thrilled about meeting another patient after the
last one turned up dead.

“She’s sick,” the head nurse huffs.

I get the feeling I’m missing some crucial piece of information and she’s not willing
to give it to me. So I shake it off and stand straight before putting my hands on
my hips. “I’m not going anywhere till you tell me. You can’t expect me to just walk
in there and pretend I know what’s wrong.” The head nurse gives me a stern look. “Please.”

“There’s nothing we can do for her except try to keep her comfortable. Her pain is
difficult to manage. Sutton’s trying everything he possibly can, but there isn’t enough
morphine here and the commander won’t allow us to have more medicines since it’s all
for sinners anyway. What she has now is all we have left. So we need to make it last
until she—” The quiet nurse chokes on her words. “Until she dies.”

I’m still as a statue, hardened like stone.
They want me to take care of someone who’s dying?
My heart sinks into my stomach, churning with anxiety.

“She’s too weak to get out of bed, so you’ll need to give her a bed sponge bath, and
please, whatever you do, make sure you don’t drop her IV bag. If you do, the gravity
will cause her blood to go back up into the IV line and possibly into the morphine
bag, which will dilute it and make it harder to administer the correct dosage.”

The charge nurse describes the IV, what it looks like, where it hangs, and how it
enters her veins. And she says not to touch her blood no matter what. My head spins
with the newly acquired information.

“Whatever she has lives in her bloodstream and it’s lethal.” The dark-haired nurse
hands me a paper. It reads like a tombstone, her name carved in black letters on the
thin sheet of paper.

Alyssa Jenkins.

I can do this. Just go in, check her, and get out.
Hopefully, she won’t want a bath or her linens changed. I knock on the door three
times, drop my hand to my side, and that’s when I feel just how badly my body is shaking
in anticipation.

“Go away,” Alyssa croaks weakly. I ignore her request and walk in, closing the door
behind me. There’s a sheet hanging from the ceiling, which I assume is for her privacy,
but it blocks my view of her and, for a moment, I’m thankful.