Something Wicked 🏳️‍🌈 (bxb)

2: Sylvia's not into handcuffs

MARÍA PENITENTIARY, September 23

That same fucking dream haunted me again.

She summoned me to her. We sparred like enemies, we played like lovers, we slept like dogs. All the time my terror shone like a beacon into the Riyadh night, a scented trail calling the Demon to me.

I woke up screaming with my hands around Robby's neck.

"Get the fuck offa me," Robby wheezed, eyes wide and Adam's apple quaking under my tightening grip. He prised my adrenaline-locked knuckles piecewise from his neck. "Fucking psycho."

I stumbled off his bed and cowered on the concrete at the opposite side of the cell, sucking in frantic gasps. The scar on my arm burned like a brand.

Robby threw back his blanket with a groan. He'd almost made his bed by the time I staggered out of a crouch with my head pounding, still in the sweltering Arabian night of my dream. He'd gotten pretty used to my peculiarities over the past two months, like being near-throttled in his sleep was at least some attention.

I trailed behind him mechanically as our corridor filed into the dining hall in disorderly lines. The slide of wet trays along serving rails and the clink of ladles against plates cleared my head.

We rarely sat alone; usually the same miserable little squad slotted into metal chairs around us each mealtime. But today it was just Robby and me, the others eating in small groups at far tables, distracted by Thursday morning talk of family visits and parole and missing home.

Robby kept his head down and shoveled his frijoles, looking up at me every now and then. He musta sensed the dream-fog still clinging to me. "That's the third nightmare this month."

I shrugged a reply; my throat always felt too tight to talk after waking up from her dreams. I traced a finger up and down the scar that arced along my forearm. It still tingled with heat, as it always did after a nightmare.

Robby pointed a rice-laden fork at my arm. "That scar is fucking infected, I swear."

Two months of knowing Robby 'Falling Star' Nez, and I could predict perfectly when he'd sulk. He was always in the worst of moods on Thursdays, also known as Visiting Day. And a minor strangling by his insane cellmate was the frosting on this Thursday's shit-cake.

I pulled my tray toward me, whispered, "Bismillah al-rahman al-rahim," and began to peck at my rice.

Robby let out a disgusted snort. "It's been two months. Quit that Arab shit already."

"It's just a habit."

"Respect your own fucking heritage, Torres."

"Heritage?" I laughed into my frijoles. "Don't see you teaching Jade any Navajo, Mr Heritage."

Robby stood and began loading his tray with a clatter, his face like a kicked mutt.

Fuck.

I could swear I spent half my days in here making it up to him. I caught his thick wrist before he could go.

"Hey, acho," I offered. "You got some free time after Visiting Hour?"

Robby stood deliberating. Like he had a bunch of major fucking business meetings all day.

"Yeah," he said finally. "Got a couple minutes before class."

I slid my hand against his, pulling his busted-up knuckles toward my lips.

"Fuck's sake, Torres." He twisted out of my grip.

I grinned. "Three PM, usual place."

"Fuck you."