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

Chapter 4: Questionable Life Choices

"Could it be, like, some form of stigmata? My uncle Frasco said he got that once. Hurt like a bitch."

I looked at my bandaged hands and decided Dane was right about the hurt like a bitch part. I did not, however, share her belief that my slashed palms were in any way comparable to Jesus Christ's crucifixion wounds. I would've called her out on the sheer absurdity of her theory if the truth hadn't been far stranger: a malevolent bathroom ghost had tried to shut my eyes forever. If someone tried to tell me anything like that out of the blue, I would've laughed in their face and told them I wouldn't swallow such blatant lies.

"You mean your batshit crazy uncle Francisco who claimed Virgin Mary came to him at night? The guy who went around spreading God's Word because the angels told him to?" I'd heard that story before and my memory functioned just fine.

My cellmate rolled her eyes and leaned back in her black plastic chair, staring up at the ceiling. "So maybe Uncle Fras didn't have his shit together, but still... I mean, what else could it be? You heard what the big guys said, right? Those wounds appeared out of nowhere, and that disturbing message, too."

There wasn't anything intelligent I could say to confirm or deny that, so I shrugged and decided to divert my friend's attention away from the mystery of the whole incident. I crossed my arms, making sure not to put too much pressure on my damaged hands. "Beats me. At least we had a quiet night now."

"Oh, you won't hear me denying that."

The night before had been peaceful, especially when compared to the bloody mess we'd dealt with two nights back. I'd still been on edge the whole time; I slept with one eye open, more aware of my surroundings than ever before, fearing the evil spirit would return and cut all my limbs off this time. In the end, it had been for naught. Officers had come to check on us twice every hour for safety reasons, but when morning came, they'd reached the same conclusion as me: there hadn't been anything to worry about, not once. It was as if the night of the incident had never meant anything, as if it had been nothing but a collective hallucination we shared.

"To be fair," I said, my throat feeling dry all of a sudden, "I'm surprised you're still willing to share a cell with me. All things considered."

I couldn't quite place the look Dane gave me. It seemed a mixture of lazy amusement and mild offense, which made for a rather strange combination. I wasn't sure how it made me feel.

"Oh, come on," my friend told me, exasperation evident in her tone. "Nothing weird ever happened during that whole month we've spent there together, and we're friends, right, Bails? And I'm getting out of here soon, anyway. Been risking my life in this shithole for so long, I might as well do it some more for as long as it lasts. Don't you think?"

The words came with a brave attempt at a wink that turned into a regular blink somewhere along the way. Daniela Guerrero was probably incapable of experiencing basic fear. Then again, the fact she was in prison did sort of indicate she was prone to making questionable life choices, like staying close to someone targeted by an evil spirit.

"Sure."

Humming in approval, Dane looked away from me, pulling a face when her eyes found the white wall in front of us. I followed her gaze, craning my neck to see past a tall girl sitting in front of me, and squinted to see what the projected PowerPoint slide there read. The secret to succesfully defeating drug addiction and aiding its victims, a slideshow by a volunteer speaker whose name I couldn't read. Black Times New Roman font against a plain white background. However high or low the quality of the presentation's contents would turn out to be, the visual aspect made me think the whole thing would leave much to be desired.