Authors: Kayla Hunt
Caged Eagles
Eagles
by Kayla Hunt
PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974
[email protected]
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www.publicationconsultants.com
ISBN 978-1-59433-164-0
eBook 978-1-59433-174-X
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2010939029
Copyright 2010 Kayla Hunt
âFirst Editionâ
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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Mom, Dad, Ryan, and Loyal Friends.
HAPTER
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NE
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“Wells, git up! You have an exciting day,” said the fat old man who came to drop off food. His scruffy beard was peppered with various shades of gray. The wrinkled blue uniform had an oily stain over the nameâPatterson. This was not surprising because not many people were well kept in their appearance.
Trevor Wells rolled over to face the wall. He desperately wished he were asleep and cursed the dirty old man for making him forget his dream. Trevor was certain she was in it, but he strained to remember for sure.
“You heard me, boy, git up!”
Trevor rolled over to look at Patterson. If it was food he brought, he wasn't interested. Trevor saw that the man leaned against nothing but an old mop. No food tray was visible. This interested Trevor a little because it was out of the ordinary. Not often did something so exciting happen in his small world of a prison! Usually the fat old man brought his food, verbally harassed him, and then left. Trevor was also beginning to wake up, which slowly aggravated him more and more.
“You deaf or just plain stupid? I always figured you for a stupid one.” Patterson began the harassment. Trevor was now furious and knew he would never get his dream back. The young man sat up and stretched his strong body.
“Did your mother always swing from trees and eat her own snot?” Trevor retorted. The old man's face flushed red and he cursed under his breath.
“What's up your butt? You mad that you're never gunna get out of this place? You'll die alone in here.” Patterson's lip curled. “I also heard you're gettin' another counselor, will this be number three or four?”
“I guess dying in here knowing I have loved ones on the outside's much better than your situation. How does it feel knowing no one cares about you? Oh, except for your girlfriend, a half-starved dog living in the trash outside your apartment.”
Patterson's eyes narrowed into slits. “Someday you're gunna get it, boy,” he glanced around to make sure none of the staff had heard him.
Trevor kicked his legs over the side of the bed. “What do you want, Patterson?”
“I want nothin'. You better make room in there; you're gettin' a roommate today.” Patterson gave Trevor a dirty look because his fun had been ruined. He mumbled curses under his breath while walking off down the hall.
Trevor had been told repeatedly he was getting a roommate over the last few months but none had ever come. He decided it was probably another false alarm, stretched, and yawned. Sleep had been lost. Trevor walked around the three-foot privacy wall to use the toilet. He heard the TV built into the wall turn on. After finishing in the miniature bathroom area, he stood in the center of the room to begin his daily routine of push-ups and sit-ups. The cold floor felt good against his skin. He focused on the tension in his arms as he pushed himself up and down.
A sound resonated down the long corridor, the director's voice. He was in charge of the inmates and staff of the prison. Trevor could hear footsteps on the cement floor. He didn't have the interest to listen closely. The director was probably reciting the rules to a new prisoner. Trevor sat up, grabbed the T-shirt off his mattress, and pulled it over his head. The director appeared outside his door, a giant man in a blue lab coat, carrying a clipboard. One of the many Siamese clones, as Trevor called the managers, led a young man to his door.
“Good morning, Mr. Wells,” said the director in his strong bass voice. Trevor looked up at the massively tall man.
“Morning,” he climbed to his feet.
“I've brought you a roommate. I thought you were tired of being alone. I hope Mr. Evans will be good company for you.”
The director punched in the ID number to release the lock on the door. The manager, a frail man, led the new roommate in and unlocked his restraints. The director was the first to speak.
“I see no one has been by with your breakfast or allowed you to shower and shave.” His eyes scanned Trevor's shaded jawline. “Would you like to now?”
The clone returned to the director's side. He rested one hand on the manager's shoulder. Trevor shook his head. “No, I'll be fine until breakfast comes.”
“Then have a pleasant morning.”
The young men were left alone. Trevor looked his new roommate over. He was approximately his own age, give or take a year, lean frame, and jet-black hair. His eyes unnerved Trevorâthey were so dark, almost like black holes in outer space. Never had he known a white man to have such dark eyes. This new roommate stood an inch or two taller than Trevor. He had a soft face and demeanor, which led Trevor to guess that he was standing in a room with an innocent man.
“Trevor Wells, welcome to hell.” Trevor held out a hand and smiled at his own humor.
“Forrest Evans,” his roommate faintly responded as his eyes scanned the room.
Trevor's hand dropped to his side. “I hope you aren't always so quiet ⦠you need to learn how to get along in here.”
“I shouldn't even be here.” Forrest met Trevor's evergreen eyes. Trevor looked away to avoid Forrest's ebony stare.
“I thought you were an innocent one. I could tell the second you stepped over the grand threshold,” Trevor gestured to the door before pointing behind Forrest. “That there is your bed â¦
these wonderful hospitable people
,” Trevor raised his voice and turned toward the doorway again, “won't get rid of these old mats and give us real beds.”
“Does it matter?” Forrest slumped onto the lumpy mattress with a cold, dead expression on his face.
“Um ⦔ Trevor didn't know what to say. He was beginning to wonder if he was in a room with a mass murderer. He was usually so good at characterizing people when he first saw them.
“Listen, it's not going to get any better.”
Trevor walked over to the door and took the two breakfast trays from the clone. He handed one to Forrest and balanced the other on his knees. He continued, “So what did you get blamed for that some other mentally defective idiot did? Or does that not matter either?” A smirk crossed Trevor's lips. Forrest looked up and smiled slightly.
“You get into trouble here a lot, don't you?”
“What, with this quick wit of mine?” He tapped his temple with one finger. “You would think so, but no, they treat me like a king. They treat everyone like royalty actually. They think because you are in here you have this massive personal dilemma and they hope to help you fix it.” Trevor tore his bread in half and stacked a forkful of scrambled eggs on top of it.
“How long are you in here for?” Forrest poked at the food but ate nothing.
“'Till they say I can go. What about you?”
“I've been told there's no set time limit.”
“Yep,” Trevor answered with a mouthful of eggs. “That's how it's run around here. If you are a good boy and do everything they say then you get out earlier. I knew a guy who physically abused his wife. He victimized her in the worst ways a man can. Finally, he cut her into bite-sized chunks and fed her to the neighbor's dogs. He got out of here within two years.”
Forrest set his fork down and placed the tray on his mattress. “How did he get out so quickly?”
“He had a good lawyer that knew how to manipulate the laws and regulations. The very things that were suppose to keep her safe.”
“Didn't her family fight to keep him locked up?”
“Yeah, but â¦.” Trevor didn't have time to respond because one of the little mousy-faced clones appeared in the doorway.
“It's time for therapy,” he squeaked out to Trevor. “I guess we will have to finish later.” Trevor stood up. “I have to go meet with one of our fine therapists to discuss why I'm a bad person.” The manager clipped on Trevor's restraints and led him out of the small cell.
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The entire prison was much larger than Trevor could ever figure out. He had tried to form some sort of idea of how many men were there, but couldn't. Each prisoner remained in only one area of the building. He knew there were other wings with cells full of prisoners. He often lay in bed at night wondering what would happen if they all rebelled against the staff. This couldn't happen. Half of the men were on medication, and most of them were addicted to it. He found it ironic that they were in a rehab center to fix what social problem caused them to be there, but then the staff allowed them to become addicted to their medications. The only reason this happened was to keep the men under better control. This was especially true with the aggressive. The rehab was overpopulated because the system put men in there whether they were guilty or not. It was easier to throw someone in rehab for a few months and then let them go. Trevor considered the system lazy. It was to hard to find out if a suspect really committed the crime.
The manager led Trevor down hallways and through doors until they reached the therapy area of the prison. He patiently stood as the Siamese clone hovered over the ID box to the door. He punched in the number as fast as possible. The door remained silent instead of clicking open.
“This time maybe you should slow down and put the ID numbers in correctly,” he said to the little man. The manager had two tries to get the code for the door right or it would set off alarms. This was a security measure to make sure prisoners weren't trying to break in or out of a room. The Siamese clone looked frustrated.
“
No
.” the little man squeaked defiantly.
“I just want you to slow down so my x-ray vision can see through your body to get the code exactly right for when I plan to escape.”
Trevor chuckled. The manager's wrinkled face scowled at him and then turned, hovering over the box. One arm shielded the key pad as he slowly punched the numbers in. The latch inside the door clicked and he led Trevor through.
This hallway was much different from the one he had just come from. A soft blue paint covered the walls and posters hung off the advertisement boards. Several giant hybrid plants stood in the corners. Empty chairs were placed outside each office. When they turned the corner one patient sat waiting for his session. The two clones nodded to acknowledge each other. Trevor stared into each room, looking at other doctors and patients at work. Most of them were in the middle of their own therapy sessions. He couldn't hear what they were saying. The clear doorway prevented sound from escaping. This was the same material the door in Trevor's room was made of. The only difference was that the cell doors allowed the staff to talk to the inmates as if it wasn't there.
The manager led Trevor down the hall, turned to the left and buzzed the button outside the very last door. A female's gentle voice could be heard inside. She appeared at the door and punched in the ID code. Her light blue eyes welcomed both men into the office.
“Good morning, Mr. Wells. Thank you for bringing him, Milo.” She spoke kindly to the manager. He leered at her while nodding.
“You should know he was trying to find out the code for main door number fourteen.”
“Thank you; I will discuss that with him.” She held the door open for Trevor to enter.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Wells. I'm Dr. Leslie Taylor and I will be taking over your therapy sessions.” She sat down across from him and folded one slender leg over the other. Trevor watched as she reached out and grasped her clipboard and glasses. She placed the glasses on her nose. They made her look very attractive.
“Some things don't go out of fashion, do they?”
“What do you mean?” Her pen hovered over the clipboard prepared to write down the next words from his mouth.
“Glasses.”
“Excuse me?”
“All these years we've had the technology to repair damaged eyes and people still prefer to wear them.”
“Yes, I suppose you are correct, but I believe we have more important things to discuss than eye wear. I see here, you were admitted for stabbing â¦.”
“Incarcerated,” Trevor corrected and continued with his first topic. “Do you think people wear them as a fashion statement or because they actually need them?”
“Mr. Wells, you feel that you have been incarcerated here? Is there a particular reason you say this? Is someone causing you discomfort or is your room not accommodating?”
He ignored her question. “So do you need the glasses or do you wear them to look more attractive?”
“Mr. Wells, my job is to help you. This session will not become a comedy act. Please answer my questions.”
“This is a modern-day prison in my opinion.”
“Why do you feel â¦.”
“Is that camera on? Hi.” Trevor waved to the security camera in the corner and smiled at his doctor. His whole goal during a therapy session was to see if he could aggravate the counselor so much that she wanted to scream. His last counselor would sneak shots of whiskey, hidden in her bottom desk, before Trevor arrived.
“Mr. Wells,” she peered over the rim of her glasses. “Please, stick to the questions.”
“I'm sorry, you are right, please proceed.” He leaned back against the chair.
“I'll change subjects to make you feel more comfortable. Why were you trying to get the code for one of the security doors?”
Trevor stared into her ocean-blue eyes. He wanted to see if she would hold his gaze. She did.
“Are you seriously asking me this, Leslie?”
“Yes, please answer the question, and my name is Dr. Taylor.” She remained perfectly calm. Trevor wondered how.
“Okay, we walked up to the door and he acted like I could see through him and get the damn code. He went too fast and messed up so I told him to slow down. There was no way I could get the numbers with him hovering over the ID box like a chicken over her chicks.”
“Do you want to get the code?”