Chapter Text
I woke up to the sound of shouting. Si and Matt were at it again, their voices becoming louder and more aggressive, echoing through the empty corridor and cells. New voices started to join in, annoyed at being woken up before the 6am alarm.
I buried my head into my threadbare pillow and tried to go back to sleep, but I knew it was no use. Another day in the hell hole had begun. I rolled onto my back, counting in my head to see how long it would take for the guards to come. It was 49 seconds when I heard the grating noise of the steel door at the end of the corridor come to life, signalling the guards arrival. I rolled onto my side to better see the action, catching eyes with Mike, my cellmate, as I did so.
Neither of us spoke, knowing better than to draw attention to ourselves, but we shared a look when we saw it was Roberts and Delaney on duty. We knew bad had just gotten a whole lot worse.
Most people had gone silent at the sound of the door, probably rolling over and pretending to be asleep, but Si and Matt were too angry and riled up to notice. If anything, they had gotten louder. Their cell was across and only a few down from mine and Mike’s, giving us an unobstructed view when Roberts pounded loudly on their bars with his baton. They both jolted at the noise, jumping away from each other guiltily. Their faces drained of colour when they turned to face the large, domineering figures of Roberts and Delany.
Roberts is notorious for his love of humiliation, believing a ‘healthy dose’ is good for inmates, even when the infraction is minor. He stands well above six feet, and although strong and well built, is leaner than the slightly shorter but stockier figure of Delaney. Delaney is unforgiving and believes strongly in the use of corporal punishment, with few ever making a return trip to his office for punishment. Out of all the guards, they are the most feared among inmates, with heads dropping as soon as they are sighted in the corridors, and trouble rarely occurring in their vicinity. Neither are usually on morning duty, and never together. I think I would have been sick if I was in Si or Matt’s place. They didn’t look far off to be honest.
Neither guard said anything for a good minute, letting the deadly silence and fear wash thoroughly over both Si and Matt. When both resembled ghosts and had started to shake, Roberts began to speak in his cruel, mocking tone.
“Rather early for such a heated argument boys, don’t you think?” He paused and I watched as Si nodded quickly, fiddling nervously with his nightshirt sleeve. Matt was frozen, unable to move.
“I heard from Brownley that you’ve had a few arguments recently. Haven’t you?” He asked coldly, whilst Delany began to unlock their cell door. This time he didn’t wait for an answer, his voice becoming even colder as he spoke again, “Well, I don’t think you’ll be arguing again any time soon.”
I watched, hardly breathing, as Delany went into the cell and grabbed them both by the scruff of their necks. He pulled them into the corridor, in full view of everyone, and without speaking stripped them of their nightshirts, leaving them naked and shivering. He beat them with his belt side by side, making them stand straight and still, calling out the number and thanking him after every stroke. After the fifth I turned away, unable to watch anymore, staring instead at the blank wall. After the ninth I covered my ears and buried under my thin blanket to try and block out the noise. I don’t know how many strokes they were given, but it felt like the beating went on for hours, although it had probably been less than twenty minutes.
When the guards had long since disappeared, the 6am alarm finally blared. Mike and I made our beds without talking, and stood silently by our cell door for inspection. I didn’t look over at Si and Matt’s cell, although I could hear faint whimpers and the occasional pain-filled gasp. The corridor, which had been unusually quiet, fell to an eerie silence when the door at the far-right hand began to creak open. I held my breath and stared straight ahead, listening to Roberts’ voice bark out reprimands and orders as he moved down the line, inspecting every cell and inmate.
Ours was the eleventh cell on the left, and I felt Mike stiffen when Roberts stopped outside, his shiny black boots catching my eye and making me feel inadequate in my bare feet and oversized grey nightshirt. He didn’t look at us straight away, reading his clipboard and checking something off before finally lowering it and unlocking our door, barking “Corners,” as he did so.
We didn’t need telling twice, scurrying to our designated corners, opposite our beds, noses and toes pressed against the painted breezeblock. He was much more thorough than most guards, checking every drawer, pulling down our two posters and tossing both sleeping pads on the floor. I winced internally when I heard him push all of Mike’s precious carved animals off the shelf above his bed, but I didn’t dare move or make a sound.
Luckily, there was nothing contraband in the cell, which he was eventually forced to admit. If I was being honest though, I wished he would spend longer tearing apart the cell, anything to prolong the next stage of inspection.
“Moss. Get here,” he barked.
I turned quickly and hurried over to where he was standing, next to Mike’s nightstand. I nearly tripped over the mess of bedding, books and toiletries strewn across the floor, and he glowered at me dangerously.
He didn’t speak, just looked at me expectantly, and I hurriedly removed my nightshirt, standing before him naked.
“Open.” He commanded. I opened my mouth, trying not to gag and he pushed his fingers in my mouth, checking under my tongue and the sides. Most guards just shine a light in and do a cursory look, sometimes asking you to lift your tongue.
Finally, he took his fingers out, wiping them dry on a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Bend over and spread.” My heart sunk, but I turned to face the corridor and bent over, spreading my cheeks to present myself for inspection. There was no snap of disposable gloves, no opening of a bottle of lube, no warning at all. His cold, dry, calloused finger stabbed into me. I gasped and yelped out in pain, earning myself a sharp smack across the thigh in return. My eyes watered and I bit my lip, silently trying to count in my head, wishing I was anywhere else. He probed my insides for far longer and far more thoroughly than usual, before pulling out painfully and smacking me hard again.
There was no gentle pat and “well done” like Davison usually gave, or even Hanley’s bored “off to the showers then Moss”; just another, still harder smack and a terse “Shower.”
I didn’t need telling twice, mumbling the required “thank you, sir,” and rushing out of the cell and down the corridor before he could call me back. I went through the open-door Roberts had come through and hurried to join the queue of other naked boys and men waiting for the showers in the washroom.
Nobody spoke, which I understood when I saw Delaney at the front of the queue, overseeing the showers and occasionally sending someone back with a smack if they didn’t meet his standards.
I was near the front of the queue when Mike joined me, his cheeks still wet with tears and his bottom a hot, fiery red. He avoided my eyes and didn’t speak, so I knew he didn’t want to share what had happened after I left.
When Adam, a man in the cell a few down from mine and Mike’s, had finished washing and had been approved by Delaney, I joined the row of other inmates hurriedly trying to wash as thoroughly as possible. The water was cold, meaning nobody wanted to spend longer washing than necessary. The warden said we get cold showers because they’re healthier and we need ‘toughening up’, but everyone knows it’s because the sub classifications are given less funding than doms and gens, and they don’t want to waste money on hot water.
As far as the general public are concerned, any sub who breaks the law is worthless, only good for slave labour at the mines and factories. After all, what good is a sub that doesn’t follow the rules? It wasn’t until about ten years ago that the concept of rehabilitation for subs was implemented, although it remains largely unpopular and underfunded. I was lucky to be sent to Marshall Sub Correction Facility really, anything is better than spending the rest of my life trapped underground in the mines, where brutality is even more common, and food very scarce. Most subs die within their first three years after being sent to the mines, with chances of survival only slightly greater at the factories. We are reminded daily to be ‘thankful’, grateful for our ‘opportunity to be reformed’. I know that things could have been a lot worse, but I cannot be thankful for being beaten and humiliated, treated like a lesser human being because of my classification.