“Eighteen!”
You wait impatiently for the family servant to enter. Once he does, you notice that from his body language, he isn’t in a very good mood. Beneath the PVC bodysuit, his shoulders are slumped over, as his head. But with it encased inside a steel helmet, you can’t actually see his face and know what he looks like. But you, quite frankly, don’t care. You have other things to worry about.
“Is my appointment for dinner set yet?”
Eighteen Twenty Five (your family calls him eighteen for short), shakes his head.
“You idiot!” You yell. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to reserve seats this late? Cheryl and I are never going to get there in time!” Furious, you stomp to your feet, walk over, and slam a steel paddle across his buttocks. He flinches, probably yelling, but that permanently installed gag silences him. Pulling out a pair of handcuffs, you yank his arms behind his back and cuff them in place, making sure the cuffs dig into his wrists ever so slightly. He’ll have all day to think about his impotence.
“Get out of my sight.”
Eighteen submissively leaves. You wonder just what the hell is wrong with him. You were looking forward to that dinner with your best friend tonight, but it appears that things are going to have to be rescheduled. Growling, you gather your car keys and lipstick. Even if Eighteen is feeling down, he doesn’t have any right to sulk. His masters expect him to carry out their every wish, no matter how he feels.
Besides, whatever he did before becoming a domestic servant for life was no doubt awful. He earned this job, and he has no right to complain.
Your cell phone rings. You hope its Cheryl, but groan when you see your father’s number on the display screen.
“What is it daddy? I’m very busy right now.”
“Samantha, where are you?!”
“At home, but I’m about to go get my nails done.”
“No you’re not! You need to be over here right now! The hearing is going to begin in an hour!”
Confused, you glance at the calendar. Oh yes, the sentencing part of your trial is set for today. In between scheduling perm appointments, shopping sprees, and girl’s night outs, you had forgotten. But seeing it now, you groan again. No doubt that high strung judge is going to give you community service. The thought of walking around on the side of highways, getting your nails dirty is enough to give you shudders.
“Can’t you pull some strings daddy? I have a lot to do today.”
“Samantha McClintock!” Your father’s voice is enraged, and it’s enough to make you stop. You’ve never heard him this angry. “I’ve already pulled enough favors to make the courts as lenient as I can, and this is how you thank me? Your trial is going to end today, and you have to be here! Or God help me, I will not bail you out again! Is that understood?!”
You’re strongly tempted to just blow it off, but if daddy is this angry now, how much more angry would he be if you were late? Sighing, you roll your eyes.
“All right daddy. I’ll be right over.”
“You’d better be.”
You hang up before he can unleash another lecture about responsibility and consequences. You’re in no mood to hear any more of those.
You get dressed, pulling on your fanciest, most expensive clothes, dressing up. If you’re going to be stuck in some dinky courtroom for the next few hours, you might as well make a fashion statement. No doubt bright colors and heavy makeup would go against the dress code, but you don’t care.
After all, you have daddy on hand to bail you out if things get really bad.
Putting on a fur coat, you call out, “Eighteen!”
Eighteen walked into the room. He’s still slumped over, but there’s a hesitation in his movements. No doubt he’s afraid of whatever you’re going to be demanding of him.
“I have an appointment at the courthouse,” You walk over, unlock his chains. “Drive me there.”
***
The drive itself takes longer then expected, due to heavy traffic. You look at all the other cars, see that half of them are being driven by other domestic servants, all dressed in many different ways, but all wear the same helmets that completely enclose their heads, making it impossible to see who they are.
You wonder if perhaps they’re driving slowly on purpose, just to irritate their masters.
“Eighteen, hurry up! We’re going to be late!”
Eighteen nods, tries to drive faster. But he can’t do much with the traffic as thick as it is. Glancing at your expensive wrist watch, you’re annoyed to see that you have just twenty minutes to get there, and the court is at least half an hour away.
“Eighteen, I don’t care what you have to do, get us through this traffic! I don’t care if you have to drive over other people’s cars, just do it!”
Eighteen hesitates. No doubt he’s fearful of what could happen if he speeds up and get caught, but you’re not in the mood to care. You have an appointment to get to, and by god, you’re going to make it.
You unbuckle your seat belt and scramble to the front of the limo. “Out of the seat eighteen! You’re too slow to drive!” You barely give him enough time to unbuckle his seat belt before you shove him aside, grab the wheel, and gun the engine. The limo takes off, slamming into cars and shoving them aside. Almost immediately, horns blare, but you ignore them. More important matters are at stake!
“Idiot!” You yell to one car that refuses to get out of the way. In defiance, you hit him in the trunk, finally getting enough room to squeeze past. Reaching the off ramp, you cut off a few slower drivers and press onwards, ignoring the horns and the yelled obscenities. They’re all beneath you anyway.
It takes some more frantic driving, as well as a few ignored red lights, but you finally reach the court, park, and get out, straightening your coat and hat. You can’t afford to look unfashionable or dirty. That would be just wrong.
“Stay here,” You tell Eighteen, locking the car. You walk to the building and head inside, ignoring the stares of the building’s occupants. All that matters right now is that damn court and getting this over with. You pull out your PDA and look at the calendar, hoping that whatever community service you’re given doesn’t interfere with all your parties and important events.
You finally reach the courtroom and walk in. The judge is there, along with your parents, and a few guards. They all look unhappy to see you. Glancing at the clock, you see why. Despite your frantic driving, you’re still ten minutes late.
“Sorry,” you say in your most chipper voice. “Sorry everyone. Traffic was so bad, I like, thought I would never get here!”
Your father is almost red, seeing what you’re dressed in. But he can shove it for all you care. After all, he raised his voice against you!
“Samantha McClintock, please step forward,” the judge says. She doesn’t sound happy.
You walk out and stand before the judge, wondering how long this is going to take.
“Can we hurry this up?” You ask. “I’ve got a hair appointment in an hour.”
The judge glares at you. “Young lady, do you even realize the magnitude of why you’re here? You’re on your third strike.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Listen, can you go ahead and give me my community service? I’d rather not be here.”
The judge pulls out a stack of papers. You groan. No doubt she’s going to try and intimidate you by reading how grave the implications of this are.
“Samantha McClintock, twenty five years old, daughter of famed billionaire Jon McClintock, and already you have a long history of run ins with the law. Numerous citations of disorderly conduct, appearances in public while drunk, resisting arrest, being rude to law enforcement officials, and numerous speeding tickets.”
You roll your eyes. So what if you’ve gotten into some trouble? It’s all in the name of having a good time, after all.
“It appears to me that you have no respect for authority, or the law. And…Mrs. McClintock, will you please pay attention!”
You glance up from your little mirror, putting away the lipstick. “Yeah, what?”
“Young lady, I can have you arrested in contempt of court. Now pay attention, or I’ll put you in jail for a month, is that clear?”
You roll your eyes, making sure she can see you do it. “Fine.”
The judge glares at you. “It’s clear to me that, by all appearances, you’re a spoiled little brat who deserves what’s coming to her. Now, with the three strikes law in effect, I could have you put away for twenty five years to life.”
“For some traffic tickets?! Come on lady!”
“I am referring to your drunk driving records. You’ve injured many people, and so far your father’s lawyers have managed to keep you out of jail.”
You smile.
“But not this time. Now, this is your last chance, because if you get another felony or another strike, you’re going to prison for a very long time. For this period, I will give you five hundred hours of community service, to be spent picking up trash along freeways and highways. This case is…”
She’s about to bring the gavel down when an officer runs in the court.
“Yes?”
The officer glares at you.
“We’ve gotten reports that that woman’s limo sped through traffic and caused some serious injuries. And we have the video camera footage to prove it.”
The judge glares at you.
“Hey, like, I had to get here, otherwise I was going to be late,” you say. “So I had to speed up a bit.”
The judge shakes her head. “I pity you Samantha. I think your father’s money has gone to your head. You think you can do whatever you want and get away with it. But not this time. You’ve proven that you just don’t care about society’s laws or rules. And if you will not abide by our rules, then society will kick you out. Because of the three strikes law, I hereby sentence you to life in prison with no possibility of parole.”
She bangs the gavel.
“This court is adjured.”
Your knees buckle, and your heart stops for a few moments. Life in prison? Maybe you didn't hear her right. Maybe your ears are clogged with wax, because there's no way she could have just sentenced you to spend the rest of your life behind bars.
The sight of the guards coming towards you, ready for a fight, only confirms that this is really happening.
“Get your hands off me!” You scream, trying to knock them away. “Get off me!” But they easily overpower you, and drag you away from the podium, and towards a small door near the back, the one that guards drag defendants through when they're heading for prison.
Your parents are sobbing, both stunned at what's just happened. You yell out at them for help, begging them to come and get you out of here. But it seems that, for once, your daddy's deep pockets can't help you.
Then they're gone, as you're shoved through the door.
The other side is a world you've never known. It's cold and bare, with white walls and no decorations, with only the flimsiest, most bare furnishings. You can hear weeping and sobbing from behind some the doors in this hallway, but you're too startled to really pay attention. The shock is insulating you from the reality of what's happening, but even then, you can barely operate, and the guards have to practically drag you around.
You're taken to a side room, which one of the guards unlocks. It's bare inside, save for a few benches and a few O rings bolted to the floor. The door is locked behind you all.
“Strip down,” one of the guards says.
“Excuse me? No way in hell!” You spit.
“Strip down, or we will force you to.”
“You can't do anything!” You yell. “My daddy will get you all! I know my rights!”
“Missy, you don't have any rights now. And your father can't help you. Now strip.”
You spit at the guards. “Fuck you!”
They come at you, start yanking your clothes off. You struggle, scream, try to bite them, even moreso when they yank off all your fancy clothes, toss your purse across the room, careless of the expensive phone and perfume inside. The beautiful shirt and dress you've been so proud of, is casually torn off like tissue paper, leaving you naked.
“Damn you!” You scream.
They take a dark blue jumpsuit and force you into it, zipping it shut.
“Now we can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” the chief guard says. “It's your choice honey. We can use handcuffs, but if you resist, we'll have to use tighter restraints.
Even though the four of them are holding you down, you don't give a damn about what they're saying. You want to bite them. One of the guards leans too close, and you do exactly that.
“All right, get the jacket and a muzzle,” the chief guard says. “We've got a biter.”
A straightjacket, thick and white, is brought in. Upon seeing it, you go utterly ballistic. The cold, hard reality of your helplessness hammers home as it's forced around your body, your arms going into the closed sleeves. Your upper body is forced up, and then your arms are grabbed and forced into a loop on your chest, then buckled down tightly behind you. You frantically struggle, thrashing your arms even as the straps are tightened down, and the crotch straps threaded through your groin.
“No, no, no no!” You scream. It's the last words you give before a muzzle is produced with a built in gag. It's forced into your mouth, going over your tongue and to the very back of your throat. As it's tightened around the back of your head, you try to scream, but the muzzle and gag work together to plug your mouth.
Leg cuffs are latched around your ankles, so as to stop your struggles. You're lifted to your feet and forced out of the cell, the remains of your former life lying in tatters on the floor.
You struggle against the jacket, fighting it, but it mercilessly holds you, containing your body effortlessly. You can barely walk as it is. When you reach the end of the hallway, the double doors are opened, and a large prison van is waiting, other restrained prisoners being put on board.
“No!” You try to scream. “No, this isn't fair! This isn't fair!”
Nobody can hear you. And they wouldn't care if they could.
You're marched up to the bus, then put onboard, forced into a seat, and chains shackle you to the floor of the bus.
The bus drives away from the court, taking you away.
***
The ride to prison is the most terrifying ride you've ever taken. You're trapped in your seat, unable to move, unable to have any say in what's happening. You can't even talk. You no longer struggle against the hold of the jacket and the cuffs. You're too emotionally drained to do so.
The scenery outside the windows change from the towers of the city, to the houses of the suburbs, and then the hills and flat plains of the desert. The heat inside the bus begins to rise, and your thick jacket doesn't make things any easier.
You want to ask for water, for anything to quench your rising thirst, but you can only mumble with the thick gag.
The bus turns a corner, and you see your new home...a giant, concrete prison that stands in the center of the desert. It looks like hell on earth.
You sweat, shaking as the bus passes through the multiple gates, before being swallowed up into the complex. As the bus comes to a stop, guards file into the bus, unlatching your fellow prisoners from the seats and escorting them off. You're the last one. When they unlatch the chains holding you to the floor, you try to kick them. While emotionally drained, you're still angry enough to fight, no matter how useless it is.
The guards don't take kindly to that. You can't hit them, considering that your ankles are shackled together, and to punish you, they handle you roughly as you're forced off the bus.
Entering through several checkpoints, you hear distant shouts and yells. The air reeks of despair and helplessness. Ahead of you, the other prisoners are being sent through X-rays, strip searched, and then being issued prison uniforms. The thought of being stripped naked and having a complete stranger grope your most private parts makes you shudder with disgust.
But after you pass through the X-ray, the guards direct you away from the others and through a side door. Despite your fear, your pounding heart slows. You're curious about what's happening.
You're taken into what looks like an operating room. And before you can try to figure out what's going on, your gag and muzzle is removed, only to be immediately replaced with a clear mask held over your mouth and nose.
“What are you doing you bastards?!” You yell.
“Watch it, she's a bitter,” A guard says. “Turn up the gas.”
“Let me go! Let me...go...le...”
Your protests are silenced as a sudden, unstoppable fatigue slips over you. Legs buckling, you helplessly fall to the floor, unable to stand. You hit hard, unable to use your arms to stop your fall. It hurts, but the pain quickly vanishes as you're overcome with darkness and silence.
***
When you wake, things are different.
Blinking, you look around. You're in a cell. Your jumpsuit is gone, as is your straitjacket. For that alone, you're relieved. In their place are cuffs around your ankles, a belt around your waist, with your cuffed hands locked to them.
Thankfully, you're not naked, nor are there any signs that you've been taken advantage of. You're wearing a skin tight body suit, but the fabric is unfamiliar to you. It's like spandex, only heavier, yet tighter.
You try to stand. With your arms restrained, it's difficult. As you try to rise, a pounding headache slams into you. There's a mirror on one side of the wall. Glancing at it, you see a bandage on your head, which no longer has any hair.
“My hair!” You shriek. You beautiful, beautiful hair, which you've spent hours keeping clean and pretty (thanks to hundreds of dollars from daddy's pocket), is now gone. “You bastards! What did you do to my hair!”
“Shut up lady!” An unseen voice says.
“No! I won't! Why did you take my hair?!”
A bored guard comes up to the door of your cell. “Because you're not supposed to have any. Now shut up, or I'll have you gagged and jacketed again, only the jacket's twice as tight as before.”
“You can't do that!”
He smiles. “Lady, you got no rights no more. I can do anything I want to you, and nobody's going to care. I could put you in solitary, blindfolded, for ten years, and nobody would question it. You want that?”
You go silent.
“Didn't think so. Now shut your pot hole, and stay quiet.”
He walks away, leaving you in your cell.
The next several hours go by torturously slow. With no clock to tell you the time, and no windows to hint where the sun is, you're stuck in the room with nothing to do, and with no idea on how you can possibly adapt to this.
Lying on your bunk, you try to think back to what you know about prison. Given your privileged upbringing, it's not much. You know that since the crime waves the mid century, the system in place is harsher on those who commit crimes. Parole is virtually unheard of. Prisoners spend almost all of their time in restraints while behind bars. A few end up as indentured servants for life, like eighteen at home.
Looking down at your shackles, you're terrified at the idea of wearing them for the rest of your life.
But then again, is that really going to happen? Your daddy is surely doing everything he can to get you out. His billions will get you out of here, and you can go home, and forget about this horrible place.
But what if that doesn't work? The thought is only brief, but horrifying. If daddy can't get you out of here, then you really will be stuck here...for life.
Life...to stay here for the rest of your life until you die.
The thought terrifies you.
***
Time passes slowly. You sleep a few times, but for the most part, you have no idea how long you stay in the cell. It could be several hours, or several days. Others are brought in, getting their own cells across the hall from you, and like you, they're dressed in the bodysuits, and chained up in a similar fashion. It appears that for whatever reason, whoever is in charge is waiting until there are a sufficient number of you before moving on.
Finally, after one last individual is brought in, guards enter the hall, three to each door.
You watch as the cell door slides open, but you don't try to fight. The restraints alone that make impossible, but you can't fight your way past three guards. So, biting your lip you let them grab your shoulders and march you out of the cell.
You're marched down the hall and out, into what appears to be a classroom...only this room has desks that are bolted to the floor, and there are no decorations, only harsh lights hanging from the ceiling.
You're taken to a desk, where several belts are strapped across your body, lashing you to the chair. You bite your lip as the belts are tightened, vowing that no matter what it takes, you'll make these guards pay for this indignity.
When you're lashed down, as are your fellow inmates, the guards go the side of the room and wait. The door opens a short time later, and a man walks in. He's dressed in a fancy uniform, and regards all of you.
You can't help but notice that he's carrying a briefcase at his side.
“I am the warden of this facility,” he says. “And I’m here to tell you that you are all no longer people. You are criminals, the scum and trash of society.”
He puts the briefcase on the desk.
“You are all here because of your criminal actions, and all of you have been given life sentences. But because our prison system is ever evolving, and ever adapting to protect the citizens of this country from the filth in the streets, you are all the latest volunteers for an experiment.”
“You might as well not even bother,” you say.
The warden looks at you. “And why is that?”
“Because whatever it is, my father's going to find out about it, and he'll take care of you.”
The threat however, doesn't intimidate the warden. To your amazement, he actually smiles.
“A little daddy's girl, aren't we? Missy, your father can't help you anymore. You're never going to see him again. You're here for life, and there is no escaping it. So just accept it.”
“Accept it? Accept it?! I'm only twenty five! I can't be here for life! That's unfair!”
“Society putting up with you for as long as it did is unfair.”
“You bastard! I won't...”
“You won’t do a thing, except comply with our orders. Do so, and you will be rewarded. Fail to do so, and you will be punished.”
He opens the briefcase.
“When you were all brought here, you were put under using anesthesia. The next thing you knew, you woke up in your cells. During that time you were asleep, our surgical team here did a minor operation on your brain, and implanted a small stimulator deep inside it.”
He holds up a remote control.
“Normally, each device is controlled separately, but they can also be linked together, so that one remote can control several at once. These implants control both the pleasure…”
He presses a button, and you suddenly feel euphoric. Pleasure flows through you, overtaking every essence of your being, making you moan involuntarily, shaking and shuddering against your restraints, your body going out of control.
Then, a second later, it stops.
You go still, immediately disappointed, wanting the pleasure to come back.
“And the pain receptors of your brain.”
The man presses another button on the remote, and a second later your body suddenly goes taut with pain. Your nerves scream as fire seems to sear them, and it feels like knives begin jabbing you. You scream, thrashing in your restraints, your voice joining the howls of the others as they writhe in agony.
A moment later, and it stops.
Panting, wheezing, you look up at the warden, and the remote he’s holding.
“We have learned that no matter how hard we try, we cannot create a system that rehabilitates all people. But we did discover that we can modify an individual via pleasure and pain, the two most basic senses of the human mind. The concept is very simple. You do as you are told, and you will be rewarded.”
He presses a green button, and the wonderful feeling of euphoria comes back. But it only lasts for a moment, before the high wears off, and you're left in your chair, feeling horribly neutral.
“Disobey, and you will be punished.”
He touches the red button ever so slightly, and a jolt of pain goes through you. But it's over before you can even flinch.
“This system works on everyone, no matter their deposition, personality, or individual willpower. Drug dealers, murderers, child rapists, all are helpless before the powers of bliss and despair. They can fight, and hold off as long as they can, but it is inevitable that they eventually become putty that we can shape as we please.”
He looks at all of you.
“While you all will serve out your life sentences here, you will do so as part of this program, for we want to see exactly how far we can go with it. Just how much can we do when reprogramming someone? We will find out with all of you. Some of you will be programmed to act like dogs. Others will be trained to enjoy being used as a punching bag. Others…”
He looks right at you.
“Will be programmed to accept staying locked up and isolated with no human contact, where even the slightest whimper will bring pain.”
“Bullshit!” You cry out. “That's bullshit! This is evil! You're evil!”
“My, my, you’re a feisty one. But all animals can be tamed, even the brats and brutes of the world.”
“I'm not an animal! I'm not!”
“Your behavior suggests otherwise.”
“Damn you! Damn...”
He holds up the controller and presses the red button.
Pain surges through you. You scream and thrash, trying to escape it, but there is no escape. The burning hot pain claws and rips into every inch of your body.
It lasts for thirty agonizing seconds.
When it finally subsides, you collapse into the restraints, unable to hold yourself up. You can't even look up as the man looks to the other inmates.
“A prime example of what you will all go through. You will all know pain and pleasure as we program you. Obey the rules, follow orders, and you will know pleasure. Those who resist, and who break the rules…Well, you’re only just hurting yourself.”
You can barely look up at him as the man puts the remote back in the briefcase.
“Prepare them.”
***
No sooner does the warden leave then you start to fight, struggling as the guards undo the belts holding you down. With the cuffs, you can’t do anything, but you still struggle, refusing to accept your fate. The idea of what they’re going to do with you is too terrifying, too horrible to think. Reprogramming? They’re going to warp your mind, turn you into a zombie.
You wail as they drag you out of the room.
You’re taken, along with all the others, to what looks like a large surgical room with dozens of tables. Upon each table is a black leather sleep sack with many belts, straps, and buckles.
You realize what’s going to happen, but there’s nothing you can do about it.
The guards take you to one of the tables and pick you up, forcing you down onto it, and holding you there as they take the sleep sack and unfold it. The inside has internal sleeves for your arms and legs, meaning that once you’re in it, and it’s closed, you’ll be completely helpless and at their mercy.
“No!” You scream as your ankles are released from the cuffs, and then forced into the sack. “No, no, no!”
With your legs in place, the guards go for your wrists. They’re unlocked from the cuffs, and the belt taken off your waist. Before you can punch them, or rake their faces, they grab hold of your arms. Even with adrenaline flowing through you, you can’t resist them as they force your arms down, and slid them into the sleeves of the sack.
You can only watch as they pull the zipper down the length of the sack, closing it, and tightening it around your body. When it’s put in place at your throat, the guards then take the straps sewn into the sack and buckle them together, cinching them down, and tightening the sack even further, compressing it around you.
“No! Let me out!” You struggle and squirm, but the sack holds you tightly, refusing to give. “Let me go!”
Your yells are met by the guards smug grins, and the weeping and sobbing of your fellow lifers.
You look down at yourself and continue to struggle, unable to believe that this is happening, that your body is locked inside this sleep sack, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing you can do to get out.
You’re so focused on the sack that you don’t see the guards pulling out a thick muzzle, and a matching hood.
“Wait.”
You turn at hearing the voice. It’s the warden, and he walks up to you. His eyes drift over your tightly restrained form, admiring your helplessness, the fact that he can do whatever he wants, and you’re helpless to stop him.
“I’d like to talk this one before you do that.”
Only then do you look up and see the hood and muzzle, your heart skipping a beat. How much worse can this possibly get?
“You know, eventually, after we train you all to do what we want, you’ll eventually be shipped off to brothels,” the warden says. “A far better way to serve society as part of your punishment. Now, you’ll be going there as well, but first, you’re going to do something for me.”
“Screw you!” You shout.
The main raises the remote, and your anger is tempered by fear.
“You’re learning quickly,” he says. “Now, I can’t stand rich, spoiled brats like you. You don’t care about anyone but yourself, and I think that earns you some extra punishment on top of your sentence. But then again, I’m something of a gambling man. I like wagers, so I’d like to offer you one.”
You glare at him.
“I’ll make you a deal. I have a cell phone with me that I can use to call your father. If you can convince him to pull some strings, then you’ll go to the brothel for the rest of your life, like all the rest.”
“Why the hell would I want to do that?”
“Because if he doesn’t help you, I transfer you to the private cell block, where special inmates are kept. You’ll be trained to be my little love toy, programmed to accept whatever I put into you without hesitation…as well as being kept in isolation for weeks, if not months, or even years at a time, with virtually no human contact.”
He smiles as he rubs the remote. “Such a delicious idea, no? Of course, you’d be sent to the brothels eventually, after I program you to be totally docile and obedient.”
He takes out the phone. “Now, what’s your daddy’s number?”
It’s an impossible choice. The consequences of what happens if your father refuses to help are too severe to contemplate. That, and knowing that if you refuse, the warden can just take you to the private block anyway means you’re in a loose - loose situation.
There really is no choice. You tell him the number. And as he dials, you try to keep up a brave face, but inside, you’re squirming. After all, Daddy loves you. He’ll get you out of this. He’s always stepped in to get you out of a tight spot.
There’s no reason to believe he won’t do the same here.
With the numbers dialed, the warden holds the phone up to your ear. As it rings, you look over, see your fellow lifers getting the hoods and muzzled strapped on, then carried away to god knows where.
Your stomach turns.
The phone clicks as it’s picked up.
“Hello?”
Hope surges through you. “Daddy! It's me!”
There's no reply.
“Daddy? It's me!”
This time there's a reply, but it's slow and cautious.
“Samantha?”
“Daddy, I need your help! These people, they're doing terrible things to me! You have to get me out of here!”
Your daddy waits for several seconds before replying.
“Samantha, I'm not helping you.”
It's a moment before you can speak.
“What?”
“Samantha, you've always counted on me to bail you out. But I won't. Not this time.”
“Daddy...”
“I won't bail you out. Do you really think you can get away with this?”
“But you have money! You can make it work!”
“Money can't buy anything. I wish it brought me a daughter who wasn't a spoiled brat.”
Your mouth goes dry as you stare at the phone, suddenly unable to speak.
“I'm done with you Samantha. I'm so sick and tired of you relying on me for everything. I'm done. Accept your punishment and be a woman, not a crybaby.” He pauses. “I love you Samantha, but I won't help you. Goodbye.”
The line goes dead.
You stare at the phone for the longest time, before the warden pulls it away.
“Too bad,” he says. “Looks like I win the bet.” He leans in closely. “Your daddy has abandoned you. He's gone. He's never coming back. And you're now alone, in a world that doesn't care about you.”
The guards move towards you with the hood and the muzzle.
“Your old life is gone. The rich, spoiled brat is no more. Now you're nothing.”
He presses a finger onto your sack.
“You’re mine.”
Turning, the warden walks away.
“Take her to the private block when you’re done,” he tells the guards. “I’m going to start training her tonight.”
You can only stare numbly at the ceiling. You don’t resist as the guards take the muzzle and force it into your mouth, then buckle it behind your head, silencing you.
This is the rest of your life. In this sack, in a cell, in a brothel. No more parties. No more fine food and restaurants. No more clothes shopping, no nail polish or fancy fell phones. The only thing you have to look forward to now is constant confinement and restraint, bare cells and bars, and the knowledge that you will never, ever be released.
This is a life sentence.
As the hood is brought over your head, you sob.
Then the hood is on, and is locked in place. And everything is dark.
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10.08.10