The Cellblock Trap
MARY’S POV:
“My daughter picks out my shampoo.”
“Aw. That’s sweet.” Her fingers trailed down my hair to my shoulder, then to my collarbone. “You know, we don’t get a lot of your type in here. Most of the women who come through are like us. Hard. Broken. Used to fighting”
“I’m not broken.”
“Not yet.”
Her fingers stopped on my collarbone. I could feel the heat of them through the silk of my blouse.
“The thing is,” she said, “we’ve been told to make an impression on you. Someone wants you to remember this. Someone wants you to understand that you’re not in control anymore.”
“Who?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“It matters to you. It doesn’t matter to us. We just do what we’re told.”
She stepped back, and the tall one stepped forward.
They were trading places, I realized, taking turns and playing with me like cats with a mouse.
“It’s her,” the tall one said. She was looking af me, but she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to the others. The one they told us about.”
The woman with braids nodded. “It’s her.”
The two older women exchanged another glance, then nodded as well.
“It’s her,” one of them said again.
I didn’t know what they meant. I didn’t know who “her” was or what I had supposedly done to deserve this. But I understood, in that moment, that I was not getting out of this cell without a fight.
The tall one reached out and touched my face.
Her fingers were rough, calloused, smelling of smoke and something metallic. They traced the line of my jaw, then my cheek, then my lips. I stood frozen, my body screaming at me to move, my mind telling me to stay still.
“Soft,” she said. “Real soft. Like a baby.”
“Take your hand off me.”
“Or what? You’ll scream?” She smiled. “Go ahead. Scream. See who comes.”


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