For the five sentence asky thingy! ❤️
"Does it hurt?"
for this ask game:
“Does it hurt?”
Derek closes his eyes for a moment. His new cell is no more than eight feet across by eight feet wide, and of the ten men who share the space, only this one has attempted to speak to him.
No one ever speaks to him here; not really. He isn’t sure how much of that is the language barrier, and how much is just the simple fact that befriending him– or, he thinks, even showing him a morsel of compassion– usually lands people in trouble.
He clutches his stomach and curls up tighter. It’s better to be silent, he thinks. If he’s silent, and very fucking lucky, his new cellmate will leave him to suffer through the night alone. He pushes himself into the corner, deeper into the shadows, and waits for some unlikely confirmation that he won't be spoken to again.
It’s hard to tell how much time passes, but he’s sure the others have fallen asleep. Soft cries have been replaced by deep breathing, by light snoring, by nothingness.
In the silence of the night, he takes inventory of his injuries. He has at least a few broken ribs, he's dehydrated, there's probably internal bleeding but maybe, maybe, it'll be bad enough for them to get him to a doctor. Sleep, while his mind desperately grasps at it, doesn't come easily.
“Do you want the bunk?” he hears then, barely a whisper in the dark.
He presses his eyes shut tighter, covering his ears with his hands, and holds his breath. His imagination in those moments though, traitorous as it is, begins to conjure up an image of kindness. It feeds him images of his friends. For just a second, he allows himself to pretend that this man is his friend, here to help ease his suffering by offering him, what, a spot on a bed? When six other men sleep side to side on the ground, and accepting the offer is akin to rolling over and begging the other inmates to break the rest of his ribs tomorrow. He knows the rules.
He pulls his legs in, wrapping his arms around his knees, and whispers, “No.” He swallows, pressing the back of his head against the concrete wall. He doesn’t know why he says what he says next, but the words come too quickly, and once they’re out there, he can’t take them back. “No, thank you.” It's so soft, he wonders if maybe the man– his imagined friend– won't hear them.
Somewhere though, buried deep inside of him, he hopes maybe the man will ask again. Maybe the man will offer him a blanket, or water. Maybe this man really is his friend, and it's not just his mind toying with him. Maybe when he wakes up, the man will stand between him and the others, will declare that he is off limits, that he is valuable and that he is a person who is worthy of sleeping and eating and drinking. He hasn't been those things in so long. And maybe, if he is those things, maybe this man will not allow him to be hurt anymore. He doesn’t know if the idea makes him happy or sad, but it passes the time.
The man doesn’t speak to him again.