Rebel Red Carnation {Kiribaku}

VI

The first 'help' comes just two days later, and I have to admit I'm not expecting it. It's in the form of a trash bag with a few clothing garments in it. He passes it over to me, quickly, as soon as he pulls the cell door open.

"The fuck's this?"

"Hide it," he hisses, "quickly."

"What?"

"There's a hole in the wall in there, right? Deep enough to fit it?"

"...probably, but what the fuck—"

"Just do it!" he says. It's the most demanding he's ever been, so I shuffle back into the cell and stash the bag into the hole. "Take it with you when you leave," he says once it's out of sight. "It's clothing you can take back to The Outskirts with you."

My brows instantly shoot up. "You're fucking kidding," I mutter. "You're actually breaking your own shitty rules for me?"

"They're not my rules, man. And yeah. I told you I'd help you."

"And what happens if you get caught?!"

"That won't happen," he says firmly.

I can't help throwing up my hands. This guy must be more of an idiot that I'd pegged him for. But can I really refuse the help? It's what I came to this shitty place for to begin with; this way, at least I don't leave empty-handed.

But that's when a thought hits me.

"How the fuck am I s'posed to smuggle this out? Tell whatever guard releases me, 'Hang on, gotta grab my shit' and expect to just get away with it?"

"Yes, 'cause that 'guard' will be me," he says, the first hint of a smile of that morning manifesting on his stupid, ridiculously pretty face.

"You can't know that. I bet your parents will—"

"I'll make sure it is," he assures. "Nothing's happened under my watch so they'll probably be okay with me seeing you out. If I'm there, we'll get out a way nobody'll see us and you can escape with it."

I grit my teeth. It seems unlikely, but this fucker hasn't exactly let me down so far, so I don't question him further. At least, not until later when we're back in the shed getting shit to rake more stupid leaves from the courtyard.

"What the fuck happens if they decide to randomly search the cell?" I ask in a hiss-like whisper.

"They won't," he assures me. "Trust me. They do, and that's why nobody's questioned anything going on around us yet. They're all too busy anyway."

"And you don't think they'll suspect you, since you vouched for me?"

"Stop being so paranoid, man," he says. "I'm the one sneaking you things, so if we're caught the punishment will fall on me, not you."

Somehow I don't believe that, but I keep the rest of my thoughts to myself and focus on the shitty work. At least this way there's a chance I might not get back to the slums empty-handed. My mom will probably give me a good smackdown for it, but at least she might do it wearing something more than a raggedy dress I stole from a nearby thrift store donation pile.

As the week wears on, things keep coming, mostly in the form of clothes. I have no idea where he's getting them—if they're his or what—because I don't have much time to look through them before I have to stuff them into the trash bag.

He eventually starts bringing food, too, in cans and plastic bags. Non-perishables. Crackers that will probably be stale by the time I get back, shit like that... but it's not like we haven't eaten worse things. It's all small things, of course—shit I can fit into the trash bag. Despite the cold air wafting in through that shitty hole, I'm grateful for its size, allowing me to hold quite a bit. The clothes do well to block some of the air, too, which is a bonus.