The warden is a man in a white laboratory coat with a stethoscope around his neck. He is a seedy bastard, one who takes pleasure in torturing his prisoners in a game of psychological chess. The warden loves to be right, all of the time. I mean, this is his “house”; I’m just a numbered temporary house guest, accounted for in a room with thin walls and thinner tempers.
The staff here at makes appointments for us “guests” to see the warden every so often, usually for some progress report or for questioning what is happening among the ranks.
Today, it was my turn to visit the warden. When it comes to me visiting this sick fuck, I play mental poker. By doing so, he doesn’t see what kind of psychological card hand I’m holding.
An officer comes to my cell and prompts me to follow her to the warden’s office. My cell door opens and I step outside next to the officer. I know better than to make any sudden moves while coming out of my cell; there’s another officer nearby with a sniper rifle, I think, ready to shoot if they think I’m going to harm the officer escort. So I keep my arms to my side as the officer locks up my cell door.
The officer walks beside me down the corridor and into a small room near the open commons area. The officer knocks on the door of this room. I’m looking down at my shoes when a small buzzer sounds, unlocking the door to enter into the warden’s office. The officer motions me to sit down in a small chair, facing the desk and the back of a larger chair.
“Mixter Didenko, sir,” the officer reports.
A hand appears from the left side of the back facing chair, a stoutly cigar is weaved in between thick calloused fingers. A thumb raises in apparent approval. The officer leaves, closing the door behind her.
“My dear Vera,” a low gravely voice emits from the back facing chair. “How are you today?”
I continue to look down at my shoes. “I’m okay.”
“Okay? Is that all?” The voice responded in a half-hearted tone.
I look up to see the chair slowly turn to fully reveal the person sitting on it: a middle-aged looking gent with a slight stomach bulge protruding his uniform. The warden then takes a puff of his cigar before snuffing it out in an ashtray next to his telephone.
“I shouldn’t be smoking in the office,” the warden grinned as he takes the ashtray and hid it from view. He finally weaves his fingers together on top of his desk, then slowly lowers his head onto his clasped hands in hopes to make eye contact with me. A chirpy “Hi” rambles from the warden.
I jump slightly at his greeting, as I was fixated at his hands. “Hi, Mr. Warden.”
To his right on his desk is a file folder with some papers inside. The warden opens the folder and starts to glance over whatever text presented. A small chuckle succeeded by a tempest smile on the warden’s face as he flips through each page. “I’ve heard about you from colleagues of mine. But, the person sitting in front of me doesn’t quite match the description listed in this file.”
I lower my head to resume admiring my shoes.
“Tell me, Vera,” the warden continued. “What do you want to gain from this experience behind bars?”
What a fucked up question, I thought. “Freedom,” I answer.
“Don’t we all?” The warden cackles with comedic timing. Or at least it sounded like it. Still not enough for me to look away from my shoes.
“How are your medications working?”
“Okay. And, how are your therapy sessions going so far?”
I hear a creak from the chair. From the shuffling, followed by some footsteps, the warden got up from his chair. He walked towards me, then placed one of his shoe covered feet next to my shoe covered feet. “Nice shoes,” the warden murmured, but clear enough that I heard him.
Then the warden proceeded to sit himself down on the floor next to my feet. I continued to concentrate on admiring my shoes until his protruding head, with his short cropped hair and eyes with blue lasers that could cut diamonds into half, obscured my view.
I jump slightly again, but this time further back into my chair. Now I’m starting to mentally scramble for something else to look at. This time, I have a bad feeling that he knows I have a poor poker hand.
A set of fingers clasp over my face, in between my cheeks, making my lips pucker. The clasp tightened into a steady vice grip as the protruding head came into my full view, with his blue lasers piercing through my gray shields, coming out from the back of my head. A sudden adrenaline rush runs down my body from this act, activating a dark carnal curiosity from my sacral chakra. I softly gulp.
“You will look at me when I speak to you, child,” the warden spoke calmly, with a quiet sadistic demeanor. “Do you understand?”
I gulp a second time. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” The warden releases his grip from my face and wanes out of my vision intermittently, before reemerging back into the scene and back to his chair behind the desk.
Ugh, this is going to be a long day at the office, I sighed silently….