Regaining his balance, Grant turned to find the CO’s beefy figure silhouetted at the door. “Enjoy the next two months in here, con!”
Grant rushed back toward the light just as the guard slammed the door with a deafening thud. The jangle of the key sliding and turning in the lock would be the punished prisoner’s last contact with anyone for days.
Blindly turning around and stepping backward until he made connection with something solid, Grant’s back slid down the wall and he slumped forward. He could see nothing, and all he could hear were his panting breaths and the pounding of his heart in his eardrums.
You can do this, he told himself, nausea building in his gut and a heavy tightness constricting his throat. The walls seemed to close in, though he had been in solitary for mere seconds. His bruised, beaten body ached, and the cold, hard floor provided little comfort. Drawing his knees up, he hugged them to his chest and rocked himself in a huddled ball of misery.
Dead silence greeted his ears in the soundproofed cell. He was alone with his thoughts. He mentally replayed the fight in the yard. It had taken every ounce of strength Grant possessed to stand up to his father, only to be rewarded by Enzo allowing rapists to beat the shit out of him. His brain flashed back and forth between the blows from the prisoners and the lashings delivered by his father when he was a child. Grant could not distinguish past from present anymore.
Sixty days? He didn’t know how to get through sixty minutes. He should have just obeyed his father, accepted his protection by renouncing Joe. An image of Enzo’s cold charcoal eyes seared into him. The man who had whipped him and tossed him into a closet some twenty years ago had done it again. He would never escape his father.
Prisoners got sent to solitary all the time. Why the hell was he freaking out so badly? He must be weak, pathetic, cowardly—a basket case. “You fucking baby,” he heard himself cry out. His voice dissolved into raspy whispers. “You fucking baby. Do you need a diaper, baby?”
Like the fucking baby he was, Grant began sobbing.
Time passed in the dark hole as Grant lost his grip on reality. He had no idea how long he’d been in there.
Then a blinding light pierced his retinas, and his hands flew to cover his eyes. His heart and mind raced. His body felt wet. Where in the hell was he? What day was it? Gruff male voices began to crash through his consciousness.
“Christ, what’s that smell?”
“… don’t know what’s wrong—he wouldn’t eat anything for days.”
“Get a doctor down here.”
“Fuck, he’s gone j-cat.”
“… whack shack population just increased by one.”
There were disdainful laughs.
Then there was a hand on his forearm, shaking him gently, nudging him awake. Grant opened his eyes and gradually focused on a man sitting next to him with a gray-bearded face. Grant’s eyes widened and with a start he sat up on the bed, scrambling back toward the wall as best he could with his hands cuffed in front of him.
“It’s okay, Mr. Madsen. You’re safe.” The man attempted to assure him, though no assurance was to be found in this strange, unfamiliar room.
Grant glanced down at his pristine white jumpsuit, nervously darting his eyes around the sterile environment, then daring to look once again at the older man staring back at him kindly.
“I’m Dr. McIntyre. You’re in the psych ward, and it’s March 27, 2006. You came here yesterday after spending three days in solitary. Do you remember any of that?”
Grant slowly shook his head. His voice sounded strange and groggy as he inquired, “Why was I taken here?”
Dr. McIntyre hesitated. “You were not doing so well in the hole, son. You had not been eating, and you were, um, unresponsive. Now, I need to perform a mental status exam on you. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to do your best to answer them, okay?”
Still disoriented and upset, Grant tried to be obedient. “Yes, sir.”
The psychiatrist asked several simple questions. Grant guessed he aced the exam because Dr. McIntyre gave him a reassuring smile.
“The medication seems to be working,” he said.
Grant’s voice rose with alarm. “What medication?”
“You’re on olanzapine, an antipsychotic, Mr. Madsen.”
“No! I don’t want any medication!”
“I’m afraid it’s not your choice. You had a psychotic break in there.”
“No, I’m fine. I don’t need any drugs.”
“You were catatonic, Mr. Madsen. And you, um, well, you had urinated all over yourself in the cell.”
Once the words left the doctor’s mouth, Grant knew they were true. True and devastatingly shameful. He quickly averted his eyes, turning his body toward the wall, away from the prying gaze of the shrink. Helplessly he felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Grant murmured, ducking his head low as his restrained hands came up to cradle his face. He felt naked and exposed as tears of disgrace flowed. He just wanted to disappear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
A river of regret and humiliation streamed down his face.
“Grant, wake up!”
He felt a warm hand cradle his face, tapping him gently. “Grant, honey, it’s okay, wake up.”
With a startled flinch, he opened his eyes and stared into Sophie’s worried gaze, the contours of her face visible in the dim light. He lifted his hands, surprised when they were not handcuffed together.
“You were having a nightmare, Grant.”
Bringing his hands to his face, he was shocked to find his cheeks wet with tears. Clambering into a sitting position, he frantically passed his palms across the sheets, praying he would not find those wet too.
Baffled by his actions, Sophie stared. “What are you looking for?”
Feeling dry sheets beneath him, Grant exhaled, but then noticed her bewildered expression. Oh, God! She was seeing him cry like a little baby! And he could have wet the bed, with her in it next to him. He thought he had peed his pants—a fucking thirty-year-old man wetting the bed! Mortified, he quickly turned away from her. He prepared to flee, run and hide somewhere, when he felt her delicate hand on his shoulder.
“Grant?” Her voice was gentle, so caring. “What’s wrong?”
He angrily shook his head, keeping his back to her. He could never tell her or surely she would leave him. She could never know.
“Why did you keep saying ‘I’m sorry’?”
Fear gripped his heart. How much had he said aloud? He lay back down, keeping his back to her.
Thinking she could help him, Sophie doggedly pursued her line of questioning. “Who were you apologizing to? Who were you telling ‘I’m sorry’?”
You, he thought. I’m sorry you ever met me outside the parole office. I’m sorry I ever dragged your beautiful spirit into my wretched, worthless life. I’m sorry you’ve become such an essential part of my world, when obviously I should let you go.