Pitbabe S2, Chapter 6 pg10

 pg10

   Winner never cared how much I ignored him. Even if I showed no sign of responding, he assumed I was listening and kept finding reasons to talk to me, acting like we were close. In reality, I’d never once seen him as a friend—not even an acquaintance I’d bother claiming.

   “We’re gonna get tattoos. You in?” Winner asked, his tone brimming with excitement, eyes wide, grinning like a kid bragging about a weekend trip to an amusement park. At least he was grown enough to know to keep his voice low for talk like this. “I already set it up with Po. Let’s get tatted.”

   A few things need explaining from Winner’s words. First, the “group” he mentioned refers to work groups. Every inmate is assigned to different work groups, like the kitchen group, bowl-making group, barber group, plug assembly group, sewing machine group, and so on, depending on what jobs the bosses bring in. Assignments are usually based on the severity of your sentence. Those with heavier sentences often get sent to the sewing machine group since it involves equipment and takes longer to train, but it pays well. Some people fight to get into it—those who work hard can send home hundreds of thousands.

   From what Winner said, it sounded like tomorrow he and I would be in the same group: the shoe-sewing group. I didn’t like that group much—it was grueling, like slave labor. Stitching long needles through leather took more strength than you’d think. I’d already had a needle pierce straight through my finger once. Of course, no one rushed over with concern or took me to a hospital. The bosses told the room leader to take me to the infirmary for a half-hearted wound cleaning, gave me some antibiotics, and it took forever to heal. Honestly, I thought I was going to lose that finger.

   But besides the higher profits compared to other work units, shoe stitching is the job that lets inmates get closer to sharp objects than they probably should. Normally, anything sharp is strictly forbidden in prison—knives, scissors, even screwdrivers. Anything that could be used to harm others or oneself is grounds for severe punishment if found in anyone’s possession. The only exception is using such tools for work in the assigned units. In my time here, I’ve never seen inmates chasing each other with scissors or needles, but what I do see regularly is them using needles and ink stamps as makeshift tattoo tools. Some do it for fun, others think, Well, I’m in prison, might as well look the part. That’s why Winner’s whispering to me now—because if some loudmouth snitched to the guards, we’d all be in deep trouble. There’s a no-tattoo rule here. On the first day, everyone gets a thorough physical check, with bruises and tattoos photographed for records. The pigs running this place don’t want any liability if an inmate ends up dead in their cell one day.

   “No thanks,” I said lazily, my eyes skimming the lines of the book Jeff had Alan pass to me. I don’t quite get why that kid’s taken an interest in me, but I’m grateful for something to do in this mind-numbingly boring place.

   “What! Why not?” Winner scooted closer on my bunk. I wanted to kick him off, but I was afraid it’d make the drama queen think we were fighting, and that’d blow things out of proportion. “You planning to join the royal guard or something?”

   “Just don’t want the hassle,” I sighed lightly. “If I get caught, I’m screwed.”

   “Just do it on the down-low, man, under the sheets.”

   “What’s the point of a tattoo if no one but me sees it?”

   “Well… there’s always someone who’ll see it,” Winner said with a sleazy grin, nudging my side with his elbow. I’d bet anything he was thinking something filthy. “There’s this one guy in Cell Seven, cute as hell—pale, pretty face, but a bit feisty. Lots of people have their eyes on him, so he doesn’t let anyone get close. But for you? Probably wouldn’t be too hard.”

   “Nah, if you like him, go for it yourself.”

   “Man, are you dead inside or what?”

   “Real talk—how do you even have the energy for that in here?”

   “Every day.” I didn’t know how to respond except with another sigh. Talking to Winner, even for a few minutes, feels like a waste of life. Not once has he brought up anything worth talking about. His head’s probably just sawdust and a stack of porn mags. “If I were as popular as you, I’d never go hungry.”

   “Popular?”

   “You don’t know?” Winner grinned again (seems like that’s his default face), his long index and middle fingers crawling across my chest like a crab, which was ten times creepier than him crowding my bunk. “A lot of guys have their eyes on you. But since you don’t mess with anyone, no one dares try.”

   “Good. That’s how it should be.”

   “Why… you only got eyes for that Pete in your heart or what?”

   That sentence did the trick, making me look up from my book. I shot a glare at the loudmouth, part of me itching to do something crazy, like kicking someone in the face for the first time since I got here. But I knew it wouldn’t be worth it. Being in this place is hell enough—I don’t need to drag myself to an even deeper pit like solitary. My plan is to keep the peace until I serve my time or die here, whichever comes first. I haven’t decided yet.

   “Whoa! You mad?” Winner smirked, his face oozing provocation. I don’t know where he heard it from, because as far as I knew, this was something only Pete and I were supposed to know. “Chill, I’m just messing with you.”

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