The small barred window near the ceiling of our cell reveals it's beginning to get dark outside. I know I've already missed dinner, but I'm starving. It's the only thing I can really feel; besides the hunger in my stomach, I'm numb all over.
Mace is still giving me the silent treatment. I don't want to push him for his company even though I could sure use it right now, so I lay in complete boredom with my belly aching for hours.
Then, close to what I feel must be midnight, footsteps echo down the mezzanine. So far, the patrols have just been a lone guard pacing quietly every few hours. But the footsteps now are loud; even Mace is startled into standing.
A party of five guards—accompanied by the unmistakable Lieutenant Bridges—marches to a stop in front of Ox's cell. I sit up in the dark, unable to keep my curiosity at bay, and lean forward to listen.
"Ox—you know the drill," Bridges drawls in a bored tone, spinning his hand.
Even in the dark, I can make out the large body of Ox turning on the spot and putting his arms behind his back.
"What's this about, Lieutenant? I've been a good boy, I swear," he laughs. Ox has a deep voice, and his chuckle is both eerie and uncomfortable.
Bridges waves to his guards to enter the cell and restrain Ox, but he doesn't answer. Instead, he makes a show of putting on some thick leather gloves and then his head turns towards our cell knowingly.
I feel like a kid catching Santa Clause in the act, but it's too late to hide. My eyes narrow at Bridges and his nostrils flare again. The loathing is quite mutual, but he is still living up to his promise.
"Mace," I whisper. He hushes me in response, taking a step closer to the action and blocking some of my view. Unlike before, his back is bare and I can't imagine how he isn't freezing right now.
A loud thunk sounds across from us; it's followed by a low groan from Ox. Beyond Mace's muscular back, I see Bridges bringing down a thick baton.
Thunk. Thunk.
My heart begins hammering in rhythm—it thumps loudly in my ears.
Is this the talk that Lieutenant Bridges mentioned earlier? This isn't a talk at all.
Still, I can't look away. I watch in wide-eyed terror as Ox is brought to his knees.
He doesn't say a word during any of it, not even when they grab him by the biceps and start dragging him down the mezzanine and out of Third Block.
"Mace," I whisper again when we can no longer hear any heavy-booted footsteps.
He turns to me, running a hand through his curls and frowning at my look of terrified concern. "What is it?" he hisses.
"What just happened?" I ask, shuffling toward the edge of the bunk. "They're not going to—kill him… right?"
Mace hides his smile, letting his curls fall back over his eyes again. "I can only hope that's what'll happen," he replies. I can't help but notice he's in a much better mood now.
"Bridges—" I begin, still breathless as I recall the sinister way the Lieutenant gloved up, stared straight at me, and then began beating an inmate right in front of us. "Is he allowed to… do that…?"
Ducking back to the bottom bunk, Mace kicks at the mattress under me. "Who cares if he's allowed to do it?" he grumbles—back in a bad mood from my questioning. "He's doing it for you."
Then why don't I feel grateful instead of disturbed?