Nikolai, Excerpt 1 (gen)
Aug. 17th, 2008 11:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdThe federal prison of the Confederated States was located deep in Mississippi, near the town of Laurel, three hundred and fifty miles from Memphis. Unremittingly brutal, most of the inmates merely passed through it on their way to execution. Fewer than thirty percent of those who entered its gates ever walked out as free men.
Ligatos watched the convict gangs cutting trees and deadwood, their scarlet uniforms bright in the December woods. Idle hands were the devil's workshop, and in the C.S., it was assumed that eighteen hours a day of hard work was adequate to keep convicts from associating with their old compatriot.
He imagined Nick, rousted from bed at four, hustled through breakfast and morning count and chapel by five-thirty. Then hard labor for six and a half hours. Only the most trustworthy would be given outdoor work. Lunch would be ten minutes for a pouch of kibble and the bathroom. Another seven hours, then a tasteless dinner of processed soy and corn in the cafeteria-–the C.S.A. fed its prisoners exclusively on the Prison Chow made by Purina, and gave the real food they raised to the local poor-—gulped in a scant half hour, and more work until midnight.
Sundays were spent entirely on religion. The prisoners were allowed to sleep until five. Then breakfast and chapel until noon. The afternoons were spent in prayer groups. Many churches and individuals wrote to the prison, requesting the prisoners pray for this or that. More chapel after dinner and Bible study until midnight finished the week.
He knew Nick would be miserable under the regimen. With the added punishments that robbed him of his sleep time, or slowed his work, he should be ready to return.
Ligatos wanted his boy back. There was something about Nick, something he hadn't felt for a protégé since Valerio. He glanced at his beautiful bull, driving now, his broad shoulders set and hard. He missed Valerio. He would do something about that when his bull got home. He frowned. That would be when Nick needed him most. Ah well, he could steal an hour from work one morning.
He hoped Nick would be smart enough to pounce on his opportunity. Tanis had seized hers instantly. Valerio had never doubted Ligatos' ability to do the impossible. Ligatos smiled, remembering the big man crashing to his knees and begging to go home. Ironically, David, the smartest of all his pupils, had spent the longest behind bars, six excruciating, near-fatal months. Whipsawed by his own intelligence, he had not believed that simply asking would get him out. Nick had been inside for a month, now. Ligatos only hoped it was long enough.
He took a few minutes to primp, checking his perfect hair, perfect clothes, sweet breath, and expensive cologne. He wanted Nick reminded of all he had thrown away with a single rash gesture. When the car stopped, he picked up the ivory-capped mahogany cane. He didn't truly need it, but he knew the effect would be worth the inconvenience of carrying it.
Nick was scrubbing the floor of the visitors' room. He was on hands and knees, easily accessible. By the faded bloodstains on his prison grays, he'd been accessed many times. James had seen the surveillance videos, and watched the brutal men take his boy. He still wasn’t sure if it aroused or revolted him.
Nick looked terrible. His head had been buzzed and visible bruises marked his face, especially around his jaw. There were dark shadows under his eyes as if he wasn’t sleeping. He slumped in the gray jumpsuit, moving as little as possible and seeming pained when he did. If it hadn’t been a mere four weeks, Ligatos would have said he’d lost weight.
"Boyd," snapped the guard, "visitor."
Nick jumped at the sound of his name and scrambled to his feet. Ligatos knew if Nick had hesitated, the guard would have applied the cattle prod someplace unpleasant. Nick dropped his head and stared at the floor when he saw who it was.
"Hello, boy." Ligatos walked across the room, cane tapping loudly as he leaned on it much more than necessary, and seated himself on the uncomfortable plastic chair.
Nick couldn't come up with an appropriate greeting until Kelly jabbed him in the ribs with a nightstick. "Good morning, Sir." He seemed keenly aware of his shaved head, the wet spots on the thin, ill-fitting clothes, the stink of bleach.
"Sit, Boyd. You can finish scrubbing later. Maybe I can even find some help for you."
Ligatos didn't miss the flinch at the seemingly innocuous words. He had no doubt that help would demand payment from Nick.
Nick sat silent, staring at his rough, raw hands. They were red and chapped, not the soft hands of an office worker or thief any more. He didn't look up. Ligatos caught the small sniff and knew Nick could smell him over the bleach and despair, all expensive soap and cologne. Nick looked ready to cry at the sight of the cane.
Ligatos watched the convict gangs cutting trees and deadwood, their scarlet uniforms bright in the December woods. Idle hands were the devil's workshop, and in the C.S., it was assumed that eighteen hours a day of hard work was adequate to keep convicts from associating with their old compatriot.
He imagined Nick, rousted from bed at four, hustled through breakfast and morning count and chapel by five-thirty. Then hard labor for six and a half hours. Only the most trustworthy would be given outdoor work. Lunch would be ten minutes for a pouch of kibble and the bathroom. Another seven hours, then a tasteless dinner of processed soy and corn in the cafeteria-–the C.S.A. fed its prisoners exclusively on the Prison Chow made by Purina, and gave the real food they raised to the local poor-—gulped in a scant half hour, and more work until midnight.
Sundays were spent entirely on religion. The prisoners were allowed to sleep until five. Then breakfast and chapel until noon. The afternoons were spent in prayer groups. Many churches and individuals wrote to the prison, requesting the prisoners pray for this or that. More chapel after dinner and Bible study until midnight finished the week.
He knew Nick would be miserable under the regimen. With the added punishments that robbed him of his sleep time, or slowed his work, he should be ready to return.
Ligatos wanted his boy back. There was something about Nick, something he hadn't felt for a protégé since Valerio. He glanced at his beautiful bull, driving now, his broad shoulders set and hard. He missed Valerio. He would do something about that when his bull got home. He frowned. That would be when Nick needed him most. Ah well, he could steal an hour from work one morning.
He hoped Nick would be smart enough to pounce on his opportunity. Tanis had seized hers instantly. Valerio had never doubted Ligatos' ability to do the impossible. Ligatos smiled, remembering the big man crashing to his knees and begging to go home. Ironically, David, the smartest of all his pupils, had spent the longest behind bars, six excruciating, near-fatal months. Whipsawed by his own intelligence, he had not believed that simply asking would get him out. Nick had been inside for a month, now. Ligatos only hoped it was long enough.
He took a few minutes to primp, checking his perfect hair, perfect clothes, sweet breath, and expensive cologne. He wanted Nick reminded of all he had thrown away with a single rash gesture. When the car stopped, he picked up the ivory-capped mahogany cane. He didn't truly need it, but he knew the effect would be worth the inconvenience of carrying it.
Nick was scrubbing the floor of the visitors' room. He was on hands and knees, easily accessible. By the faded bloodstains on his prison grays, he'd been accessed many times. James had seen the surveillance videos, and watched the brutal men take his boy. He still wasn’t sure if it aroused or revolted him.
Nick looked terrible. His head had been buzzed and visible bruises marked his face, especially around his jaw. There were dark shadows under his eyes as if he wasn’t sleeping. He slumped in the gray jumpsuit, moving as little as possible and seeming pained when he did. If it hadn’t been a mere four weeks, Ligatos would have said he’d lost weight.
"Boyd," snapped the guard, "visitor."
Nick jumped at the sound of his name and scrambled to his feet. Ligatos knew if Nick had hesitated, the guard would have applied the cattle prod someplace unpleasant. Nick dropped his head and stared at the floor when he saw who it was.
"Hello, boy." Ligatos walked across the room, cane tapping loudly as he leaned on it much more than necessary, and seated himself on the uncomfortable plastic chair.
Nick couldn't come up with an appropriate greeting until Kelly jabbed him in the ribs with a nightstick. "Good morning, Sir." He seemed keenly aware of his shaved head, the wet spots on the thin, ill-fitting clothes, the stink of bleach.
"Sit, Boyd. You can finish scrubbing later. Maybe I can even find some help for you."
Ligatos didn't miss the flinch at the seemingly innocuous words. He had no doubt that help would demand payment from Nick.
Nick sat silent, staring at his rough, raw hands. They were red and chapped, not the soft hands of an office worker or thief any more. He didn't look up. Ligatos caught the small sniff and knew Nick could smell him over the bleach and despair, all expensive soap and cologne. Nick looked ready to cry at the sight of the cane.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-08-17 05:17 pm (UTC)~M~
no subject
Date: 2008-08-17 05:24 pm (UTC)http://www.darkroastpress.com/nikolai.php
has another excerpt.
(my mental Nick there in the icon)
no subject
Date: 2008-08-17 05:31 pm (UTC)And there's another on-line publishing option. Yay!
~M~