white plastic tablecloth and covered in cups of punch and plates full of cookies and cake. “Are those for us?”
She heads to the table without asking and, when Reggie and Claudell don’t form tackle her, begins piling a plate high with treats. I expect her to bring it over to me, by way of a belated Christmas present, but of course she doesn’t.
The music has gone quiet but Carmen, ever observant, wanders over, finds a CD in a haphazard stack, switches them out and pushes play. Quietly, classily, Nat “King” Cole sings the Christmas song. I wonder if she knew that was Mom’s favorite version, or if it’s just a coincidence.
Dad gets up and joins her at the picnic table, and they talk quietly while piling Christmas tree covered Styrofoam plates with treats and goodies.
I look at Tracy while they’re gone. “Give them a break, Trace.”
“You give them a break,” she snorts around a mouth full of candy cane covered brownie. “It’s disgusting.”
“They’re happy. Let them be happy.”
“What about me?” she blurts, high enough for the guards to notice. Carmen and Dad, too. They look over at us, see us having a “moment,” as Mom liked to call it, and let us have it. “No one ever thinks about me.”
“I do, Tracy. I think about you a lot.”
I can’t tell if she looks doubtful, or grateful. “You do?”
“Of course. Jesus, you’re my sister. What’d you think?”
She sniffs a little, but is far from tears. “I think about you, too, Jace. I think about you, in this place. I think about you out of this place.”
I snort. “Yeah, right. Good luck of that ever happening.”
She looks toward the guards, leaning toward me when she finds them occupied with the last Sno-Ho. Her eyes soften, then her voice. “What would you do, if you did get out of here, Jace? Where would you go?”
“As far away from you guys as possible!” I blurt.
She looks hurt, so I add: “I mean, so I couldn’t hurt you.”
She nods. “Would that… would that make you happy?”
“Look at me, Tracy. Do I look happy?”
Carmen and Dad return just then, Dad red-eyed, handing me a plate. I hold it with my handcuffed hand and feast with the other.
Ever since what happened, I crave sugar. Always. Ever. The cookies, the small slices of cake, the brownies, they disappear along with the bright red punch.
“Gross,” says Tracy and I look up, suddenly aware they’re all staring at me.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Me too,” says Reggie in a tone that says he clearly isn’t. He stands above me, electric night stick in hand. “But it’s time for these good folks to go home now, enjoy their Christmas together.”
“But we just got here,” says Carmen, even as she stands. I shrug, knowing she’s arguing for my benefit. I know she probably has a meal in the oven at home, two long hours away, and wants to get back so they can have a proper Christmas without guards watching, even if there are bars on the windows and shotguns in every room back home.
“That’s okay,” I say as she leans down to hug me. “I want you to get back home before dark.”
She nods, clutching my free hand desperately, if fleetingly. Dad hugs me too, stronger, and longer, this time. “Merry Christmas,” he says, leaning back up, red-faced and dodgy. I know he needs a cigarette, stat.
“See you next year,” I say, pointing to the calendar on top of my meager pile of presents.
His eyes cloud until he sees the page flipped open to January and he smiles. “Oh, yeah, right. We love you, son. Just remember that.”
I nod. “I know, Dad. Me too.” He shuffles away, clinging to Carmen’s hand for support as they amble toward the door.
“Come here, brat,” I say as Tracy lingers in her seat. “You know you want to hug me.”
“Gross,” she sneers, with the curl of a smile there toward the end. “Oh, all right.” She gets up, fussing with her hat as Reggie and Claudell pat Mom and Dad down near the door.
“Here,” she says, pressing something into my hand. “You know I’d never forget your Christmas present.”
Then she turns, gingham skirt twirling, showing little flashes of her candy cane panties as she prances toward the guards. “Do your worst you big, buff studs,” she flirts and, looking into my hand, I see why. She doesn’t want them noticing the hair pin she’s smuggled from her Santa cap into my palm.
I stick it under my tongue and smile, watching her act. When she’s through the gauntlet of guards, just on the other side of the door, she turns and winks just before drifting out of sight.
I sniffle back a tear and grit my teeth as Reggie and Claudell turn toward me. “Okay, pretty boy,” Reggie says, slapping the nightstick in his hands. “Playtime’s over. Let’s get to work.”
And so it begins. The real rehab. They take my presents, every last one, even the Christmas nature CD, confiscating it for “the greater good.” They lead me out of the room, past the uneaten snacks on the table, and down the hall. They flank me, taller, thicker, older, meaner.
“Have a nice visit, wolfie?” Claudell chuckles, pushing the down button on the elevator in the hall. It’s so nice on this floor, with the tile floors and the peaceful, soothing paintings on the wall. But deep down, where they keep us, is not so nice.
The elevator is claustrophobic with them on either side of me, and they’re not too happy with the silent treatment. “You sad about your presents?” Reggie chuckles, tapping me in the ribs with the safe end of his nightstick. “I’m talking to you, boy!” He shoves harder, harder, until I grunt and then he stops. Like all bullies, he just wants you to show weakness.
Then the thrill is gone.
“Naw, he’s sorry he won’t be able to stare at his sister’s ass anymore,” says Claudell with a hearty chuckle. “Right, wolfie?”
I shake my head, wanting to speak but not sure if the hairpin will make me sound like I have a lisp. I risk it, “Sure, pervert.”
“What’s that?” he asks and, before I can answer, he slaps me in the face so hard I see stars. I almost spit out the hairpin, it’s so hard, but it’s not the first time and, anyay, I kind of expected it.
It goes like that for another few minutes, until we reach the bottom floor, three stories underground. Here it’s dark and dank, the smell of wet dog fur heavy in the air. There are no Christmas carols playing here, no holly covered placemats or paper cups covered in evergreen trees. Just industrial lighting and rows and rows of cages.
One, two, nearly three dozen, at least half of them full with shifters, morphers, lycans and werewolves. They watch me walk by, eyes weary, haunted and dark.
Most of them don’t have families left, because most of them killed theirs. Not on purpose, mind you, but… it happens. Hell, if I hadn’t been locked up for the last three months, it might have happened to my family. Or what’s left of it.
“You know the drill,” they say as we reach one of the last cells in the row. I nod and, favoring my right side where Reggie cracked me in the ribs, I stoop over to untie my shoes before kicking them off. I disrobe quickly, no longer bashful in front of the others, even though half of them are girls.
They take my clothes, slamming them in a locker across the hall. Then I turn around, grab the bars and wait as they frisk me, patting down my arms, my legs, my back, my chest, and then all the sensitive places that made Dad groan.
“Get in there,” Claudell grunts, shoving me with his foot on my lower back. “Merry Christmas, pretty boy. See you tomorrow after the full moon, my man. And don’t worry, we left you a present to keep you nice and full until then.”
In the corner of my cell is a side of beef, so freshly butchered it rests on a puddle of slick, warm blood. Right now, it’s revolting. But when the sun goes down in an hour or so, it’ll be like a stack of burgers and fries, still steaming and fresh and all covered in chocolate sauce with a cherry on top.
That is, if I’m still around.
Reggie and Claudell bicker over my presents, arguing the loudest over the Christmas CD, of all things. Reggie grabs it, of course, in the end. Survival of the fittest and all that. I snort, glad for their bickering as they shuffle off toward their little office at the end of the hall.
The cages are strong and steel, but old, with locks that require keys and doors that require hinges. There are no pass codes or key boxes or swishing electric doors like on the Star Trek Enterprise. I watch them walk away, Reggie laughing triumphantly as he unwraps my CD.
When they’re good and gone, I turn toward the facing wall and wriggle my tongue around until I can reach in and grab the hairpin. It’s stiff and rigid and covered in drool, which I can’t even wipe off with anything but my fingers because I’m buck butt naked.
I look at the pin, then the lock mechanism in my door. My first instinct is to pick the lock, leave the door open just a smidge and, when the moon rises and I shift, race out and attack everything in sight. Not sure if that’s the prisoner in me, or the wolf.
But I still my hand, and shake my head. I’ve lived with my mother’s sin for the last three years, and the worst part is: she never knew she sinned. My