The Dead Don't Speak | Open Novella Contest 2020 | ✔

Chapter 6: And So The Living Become The Dead

"What happened to you?"

Dane noisily flipped a page of the worn book she was holding and I read the words on its spine: Federal rules on criminal procedure. I had no idea how she could stomach such dry literature and why she wanted to study criminal law after getting out of Lonewood was something I thought I'd never understand.

"I fell." A nonchalant statement. I examined my cellmate, who lay stretched out on her top bunk, and let my eyes roam over her injuries. An abrasion stained her right cheek and dried blood painted the fingernails of her scraped hands a dull red colour. I imagined it hurt.

"You fell?"

She slammed her book shut and put it down, her eyes drifting to find the ceiling and resting there with a glassy stare. "I fell twice."

I had no trouble believing basketball could be a dangerous sport, especially in prison. I personally never fancied getting a mouthful of concrete and made a mental note to never take my chances with prison sports if I wanted my body to remain damage-free. "You should get those wounds checked out. Disinfected."

"Or what?"

"Or you'll soon be showing up in the infirmary with a whole tribe of bacteria trying to eat your face, and you might lose your hearing right along with it, because the nurses are going to scream loud as hell when they look at you."

Dane snorted. "I can't even tell if you're joking or not," she said before presumably mumbling a few choice words about flesh-eating bacteria in Spanish. "Doesn't hurt much, though, but thanks for your concern. Missed you at the game earlier."

I shrugged, unwilling to discuss what had kept me busy. "You've already got your girlfriend there to support you. I'd be useless on the sidelines." The awkward smile I managed to conjure up worked its hardest to highlight the airy undertone I was going for.

Dane frowned at the ceiling. "Too hard on yourself, Winston."

I gave her a baffled stare upon hearing the new nickname, but she didn't elaborate, leaving me to chase after an answer myself. "That nickname doesn't even make sense, does it now?"

Dane reached for her discarded book, unimpressed, and stated in the most matter-of-fact tone possible: "Churchill."

Church. Churchill. I groaned. If you're going through Hell, keep going! Dane had also spotted the damned quote in Doctor Jones' office and it had cursed me with my worst nickname yet. Never before had I felt such a strong desire to dig up an old British prime minister's corpse and feed it to angry piranhas.

"That's not funny," I said, crossing my arms.

"Blame Doc," came the easy-going reply, confirming my suspicion. "I got the idea in his office and an excellent idea it was."

I would've begged to differ if our conversation straying towards the doctor's office hadn't brought back memories. I saw Liz in front of me, telling me go ask Daniela and leaving me to fend for myself with a cheeky smile, as if the task she'd handed me was as easy as kindergarten math. The picture of Counselor Taylor came back to haunt me like his ghost had done, cutting into me sharply.

I realised that Dane, who'd been in Lonewood for four years now, had probably known the counselor when he was still alive. How much of him did she remember? Would she be able to recall the sound of his voice, his eerie eyes, the bleached teeth bared in that small smile?

There was no harm in asking.

"Off-topic question," I said, loud enough to immediately grab hold of my cellmate's wandering attention. "Do you remember this counselor who used to work here? Matthew Taylor?"