Tidal Vortex E-Book

Amanda DeShane

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Chronicles of the Siren
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 679

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Teal got her name due to the color of her eyes when she was found abandoned as a baby on the Wales seashore. Framed for murder at the young age of twelve she serves five years before being shipped off to a Barbados facility. Sailing across the Atlantic Ocean she soon finds herself tossed into a whole new world. The gods finally know she exists. Being half siren, half demi-goddess, she packs a lot of power. Zeus is not happy that she exists. Born with both Atlantean blood and blood of the gods, she has the power to undo the revenge Zeus set upon Atlantis over eleven thousand years ago. Secrets from the past reveal a human organization called Nimrod who captures sirens in order to expand their human lifespans. Teal travels to Atlantis with her reluctant guard, who stirs feelings within her that could put both of their lives at risk. Royal sirens are not allowed to have any physical contact with non-royals. Will she be welcomed at her father, Poseidon’s court?

Leseprobe

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Chronicles

Of the Siren:

Tidal Vortex.

-Book One

By Amanda DeShane

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“The waves took me under their wings and

into a world I never dreamed could

have existed.”

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Copyright © Amanda DeShane 2020

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the Author. Amanda DeShane has asserted her right to be identified as the author and illustrator of some of the artwork. Some images are licensed through adobe stock.

Trigger Warning: This novel is a new adult epic fantasy novel. The story is a mix between realism and fantasy, with an Atlantis mythology twist. All people, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Beware: there are sexual scenes within this novel. Including jail scenes, and an attempted rape scene.

Also, by Amanda DeShane

Asgard Academy: The Prophecy. Book One.

(18+ Adult fantasy, reverse harem novel)

Chronicles of The Siren- Tidal Vortex. Book One.

(Epic fantasy, New Adult novel)

Join me on my journey as an author on Instagram.

https://www.instagram.com/author_amanda_deshane/

Dedication:

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I dedicate this book to my three-year-old nephew Ryley, who passed away in a house fire. “Rest in peace,” little angel. You are dearly missed, forever loved, and in our hearts always.

A big thank you for all the support during this pandemic. These trying times have been challenging, and I am overwhelmingly thankful for each one of you wonderful readers. Thank you to all my readers that have been supportive of my journey as a writer. Without you, my books would just be words on paper.

Thank you to my editor’s Jeanine Lebsack, and Mel Heeney for all their hard work with making this book even better for my readers. Big thanks to my Beta and ARC readers for their valuable feedback and reviews. Last but not least, thank you to my supportive family and friends who have encouraged me to keep writing when I was swallowed with grief. Thank you to my biggest supporter, my spouse Zach for his support and hours of hashing out ideas with me while I try to figure out how everything can be reasonably explained.

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Prologue

Waves crash against the rocks of the Welsh coastline as a baby’s frantic cry carries on the wind. Upon hearing the eerie wails, a fisher man moves his boat closer to the shoreline. Securing his green wader pants on his broad frame, he jumps into the thigh-high water. He stood just over six feet tall, with brown curly hair, brown eyes, and a bushy beard from months out at sea. No stranger to the waves that forcefully batter against his legs, he trudges forward with determination, spurred on by the frantic sound. He knew the cry of a baby all too well, having two children of his own. His boots crunch on the rocks and colorful seashells, and with each step, the wails grew louder. Heart beating rapidly, his head fills with thoughts of worst-case scenarios as his steps took him closer to a cropping of large grey rocks. They were worn smooth from thousands of years of water rushing the outcropping.

Spotting a slight form with hands and feet flailing in the chilly evening air, he looks around in confusion. He wonders, why would a newborn child, from the looks of it, be on the seashore with not a stitch of clothing and no adult in sight? Scanning the forested area and seashore, he finds no one. Taking off his red wool sweater, he wraps the flailing babe up. Dusk was setting as the sun just finished going down on the distant horizon. The light, once a golden orange, was dimming, but there was just enough daylight left to clearly see the precious female baby he holds in his arms.

Cuddling the babe close, he coo’s to her, “Oh, you tiny lass, stop your fussing. You will be warm soon and we will find you some warm milk to drink. Hush now, you are safe. We will find your mom wherever she has got to, don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

Gazing at the babe in his arms, it surprise’s him to notice her eyes are a bright teal color and her hair is raven black, sprouting out of her perfect angelic head with the whitest porcelain-like skin he has ever seen. Tucking her close to his chest, he heads back towards the rowboat. The only warmth to be had at this time of evening would be upon his fishing boat in the crew’s quarters.

A mother’s eyes watch his every step, from the depths of the water, before a splash signals her departure.

Chapter One

Teal:

I was twelve when my world was pulled out from under my feet. My father, who I loved dearly, died leaving a gaping void that felt like it would never be filled. Almost every night since that fateful night I have had lucid flashback dreams. The moment the police officer explained his remains had been found burned will forever be ingrained into my memory. It was odd knowing I was dreaming. Experiencing a lucid dream while watching yourself from above like a ghost is slightly bizarre. As I watch from above, I notice the instant my younger self’s movements shake and falter, just before she slumped and fell in a heap on the hard-oak floors. The glass she had been holding shatters as it hits the floor. Staring from above at the glass shards and left-over orange juice littering the floor, I feel a fleeting sense of anger that my mother had drugged me. Watching my younger self as she lay there on my bedroom floor, her raven black hair splayed out haphazardly around her head. She wears the faded blue jeans and the black tank top that I had once favored. I cannot help but wish I could turn back the clock and reach through time and space to warn my younger self. Gazing at her, I can’t help but realize how naïve and innocent I was at this young age. I felt void of physical feeling, void of the normal human range of emotion. Just detached as I watch everything unfold from above. From my vantage point, the woman I have always thought of as my mother sneers at my younger self who lays in a heap on the floor.

“You pathetic thing. You were never a daughter of mine. I told him, I never wanted you, but no, he brought you home anyway. He would never listen when I told him you were an unnatural abomination. In the end, he loved you more than me. He left everything to you and Derek equally. The stupid fucking fool left nothing to me or our actual daughter. It was not supposed to go this way. He was supposed to die and leave the house and everything to me! NOT YOU! But you bewitched him.”

Derek was my adopted brother, who I had gotten along with. He and I had been like two peas in a pod, as thick as thieves growing up long before I had any idea that I had been adopted. It made sense that Dad would leave him most of his money and property as an inheritance. The money meant nothing to me without my father. There were some things in life far more precious than the almighty dollar.

Cerci, my adoptive mom ran a hand through her short blond hair then leaning over she spat on my unconscious form.

Internally, I thought, “hold up! What does she mean? None of it made sense. How couldn’t I be her child if they both had adopted me? An unnatural abomination?’

Questions bounced around in my head as I float above, watching without the normal range of emotion one would expect in such a situation. She walks over to a closet in the hallway and puts on latex medical gloves. The sound of them snapping snug against her hands echoes in the small space. It occurs to me she probably got them from the doctor’s office she works at. Watching numbly from my viewpoint above, my mother turns back into the hallway closet just outside my childhood bedroom door. Pulling out a box of rags, gas cans, bags of dirt, and bloody clothing, she bends down, placing the bag of dirt on the floor before opening another bag. Pulling out a bloody shirt, she places the red and green plaid colored shirt in my unconscious hands. The metallic smell of blood and gas drifts to my younger self’s unconscious senses as my lucid self-floats closer to view the blood-soaked piece of clothing she placed in my hands. Viewing it closer, I realize it was my father’s shirt, the one he had worn the last time I saw him alive. Her angry footsteps stomp back towards the closet, where she took out a second box and placed it on the floor. Kneeling beside my still form, she rubs blood-soaked clothing on my jeans. Done with the blood-soaked clothing, she reaches for a bag of dirt, before proceeding to grab a gloved handful, rubbing it onto the soles of my younger unconscious self’s shoes.

“You should never exist, but since you do, I see no choice but to get rid of you,” she sneered as she reached for a box she had set down earlier. Opening the box, she pulled out a bag with a bloody knife inside. Placing the bloody knife in my still hands, she wrapped my small fingers around the handle.

Putting the knife back into the box she had earlier pulled out of the closet, she quickly places it under my bedroom window.

“Oh dear! Little Teal went crazy and killed dear old Dad, so she could inherit his fortune,” she gleefully sneers.

White sheer curtains eerily blew in the evening breeze as she stomps towards my unconscious form and stands hovering above where my younger self lay. Kicking my small, unresponsive form roughly in the side, a wicked smile spreads across her face, as my unconscious younger self let out a moan of pain.

“That is for bewitching, my man! You stole his loyalty and love, taking everything that should have been mine!”

I float above, watching as she stands there, shaking her blond head before turning away. Her heavy footsteps retreat to the other room. Then I hear her panicked voice talking on the phone.

“Hello, ambulance! I found my daughter. She is unconscious on the floor, and unresponsive. It looks like solvent abuse. There are empty gas cans all over her room. Oh, my God, please send the police! She’s holding my dead husband’s bloody shirt in her hands; it’s the one he was last seen wearing. Oh, my God, I think she might have killed my husband!”

Then I floated back to my body and woke up wishing it were all some horrible nightmare.

Five Years Later:

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Teal:

Clanging of inmates banging against the bars of the prison cells wakes me from an all too familiar lucid dream. Maybe I routinely travel in my sleep to that horrible day when everything changed, or maybe it’s just a dream. Clenching my fists, body stiffening, I let the raw emotions shoot through me at the injustice of what has been done to me. No matter how many times I experience these dreams, it never seems to get any easier. Somehow, it feels right to think that maybe my unconscious self knew what was happening around me that night. Maybe my soul, or whatever powers that be, are trying to tell me what happened now so I can get myself out of this nightmare of a mess. Fat lot of good it is doing me though, since there is no way to gather evidence of my innocence from behind bars. I’m starting to think there is no way out. It had been such a confusing day when I had awoken in a cell accused of my father’s murder. Letting my mind wander back to that first point of time all those years ago, I vividly recall how it all had played out.

Awakening, I jolted upright, staring in confusion at the holding cell bars, as I wondered where I was. It didn’t take long to find out I was in a prison cell and was being accused of my father’s murder. Shaking my head in denial, I kept thinking, ‘Oh my God. You have got to be kidding, because I loved my father with every fiber of my being.’

Tears streamed down my face as I realized I would never see my daddy again. Screaming at them, I insisted I was innocent until the overwhelming rawness of my throat became too much. One officer moving forward threateningly cornered me, backing me up against the far wall of the interrogation room. Staring at his face inches from mine as he screamed into my twelve-year-old self’s face, I helplessly cried while flinching. The interrogation seemed like it went on and on in circles until I was too confused and ready to say anything that would allow me to go curl up in a ball. Desperately wanting it all to stop, I rocked back and forth with my hands over my ears. This was a nightmare; I couldn’t seem to wake up from. No matter what I said, the evidence all pointed towards me and my father was gone. He had been my lifeline, and now I had no one. Staring at the police officer, now yelling at me, hoping to coax a confession out of me. I sat stunned as I was presented with the damning evidence.

“How do you suppose your fingerprints got on the gas cans and the knife handle?” one officer yells, interrogating me.

“I don’t know. I truly don’t know,” I muttered as tears streamed down my face. Stomach knotting with anxiety, I fought back the acidic bile taste that settled in my mouth. My voice strained, periodically breaking, as I answered their questions, all while I wrapped my arms around my roiling stomach that threatened to revolt. Nothing I could say was good enough to refute what they threw at me.

Sitting up, I pull myself back to the present, as I swing my orange jumpsuit clad legs over the side of the bottom bunk bed. The now-familiar smell of body odor and sweat greets my nose as I reach up to rub the sleep out of my eyes. Struggling to push the heavy feelings of depression aside, I breathe deeply, trying to relax as I focus on my breathing. Longing for the smell of salt in the air and the chance to swim in the sea once again settles over me like a heavy feeling of homesickness. The longing almost feels as if it’s too much to bear.

From a distance, I can vaguely hear a guard head this way, as the sound of keys jingling, and heavy boots stomping against the concrete floors carries to my sensitive ears. A guard walks down the hall towards my cell, stopping to bang on each cell’s bars, the sound startling me out of my inner thoughts regardless of vaguely hearing her coming. As she approaches, she shouts out my last name to make sure I am awake.

“Hey Bowen, and Deats, time to wake up and head on down to the cafeteria. Today you both will be a part of group A for bathroom times.”

At the sound of my last name, I twist around turning my head to focus on the guard. I smile politely at the portly guard who stands on the other side of the bars, with her blond hair pulled back into a strict bun on top of her head. Being one of the few friendly guards that treats an inmate with some respect, I value her. I could tell she was the one on duty today, even before she spoke. My ears pick up the distinct sound of her shoes shuffling against the concrete floors. I was aware I had a freakish sense of smell and hearing. When I was younger, I had been teased relentlessly and called a freak.

“Thanks, Faith, I appreciate the wake-up call.”

I smile warmly at her. Thanking her never fails to cause surprise to show on her face when I use manners. I learned early on that it was a rare quality in an inmate. It did not matter that she had not woken me up, it merely was something nice to say.

“You know the drill, Bowen, and Deats, hands on your head for the morning pat down,” Faith says in her best no-nonsense voice.

Samantha Deats, my friend, and cell mate rolls out of bed before shuffling into position to stand beside me. As we stand with our hands atop our heads, the guard unlocks the door and comes into the cell to pat us both down. First, she starts with me. It was the normal routine; they have to make sure no one is carrying a shank. Over the last five years of being in prison, I have seen it all. It was amazing what could be snuck into a prison and what could be made into a weapon in a pinch. The guard finishes patting me down as she checks my body for any possible hidden weapons. I was so used to this routine by now that I just stoically stand there, waiting until she says I can head down to the cafeteria.

“Okay, you’re all clear Bowen, you can walk down to the cafeteria for your breakfast.”

Faith settles her hands once again at her hips, ready to seize her baton if need be. Nodding in answer, I pivot around, heading down the white prison hallway towards the cafeteria. The guard turns to pat down Samantha once I have left the room. My slipper covered feet scuff lightly on the cold grey cement floors. Quickly I run my fingers through my long raven black hair that stops just above my elbows, working out all the tangles that result from my restless tossing and turning throughout the night. I absently wish I still had a brush, but someone lifted the small one the prison guards had issued me when I first arrived. Unlike many other inmates, I don’t have friends, or any loved one’s waiting for me on the outside. So, there are no little gifts or visits every few weeks for me.

When I first arrived here at twelve years old, I had been a terrified kid. They convicted me as an adult and put me in a separate wing for teens between the ages of twelve and eighteen. The rest of the prison held adult inmates. Their reasoning when I was convicted as an adult was that I had premeditated and planned out my father’s murder in detail. No amount of yelling and pleading my innocence with them had helped, although I had tried until my throat was raw. So, they shipped me off to May Shore Prison. Of course, I did not kill my father, but unfortunately, they had enough evidence against me to make everyone present believe I did. It didn’t take me long to realize in order to survive; I needed to become tough and show no weakness. Which was just another good reason these lingering feelings of depression and anxiety need to take a hike. I’m seventeen now, and the library at the prison has been one of my few pleasures in life. In only a few months, I will turn eighteen. I remember fondly how my father had taught me to read from an early age.

I could almost still hear his voice in my mind saying, “Teal, reading makes a person smart. Read everything you can get your little hands on. Knowledge is a valuable resource and don’t waste it when it’s there for the taking in books.”

So, honoring his memory, I read every book I could get my hands on. Reading had become an escape and a way to gain information about the legal system and how it works. I strongly desired the ability to understand all the fancy terms the lawyers and everyone had used. If I could understand then I would be able to defend myself better verbally in the future.

Remembering when I first arrived; I recall how I was shaken by the yelling from other inmates as they would bang on the cell bars. The worst was the catcalls from other prisoners, who were eager to get out of their cells. After years of this, the calls and banging no longer made me jump in fright. Walking with my head held high, on alert for any potential attack, I walk around a corner into the hallway. I’m always on edge when going to the cafeteria. My body knots as tension vibrates through me and I look around. Many people pay the price of letting their guard down and end up shivved or gutted by someone as a result.

Stepping into the busy cafeteria, the bland smell of oatmeal and cinnamon assault my senses. While standing in line, waiting for my turn to grab my allotted food, I glance around the large, white-walled room. Blue tables and benches sit evenly spaced apart, anchored to the ground. Along the walls, guards stand at attention as inmates ate and line up to get their breakfast. It wasn’t anything close to a normal cafeteria. Think school cafeteria except with bigger crueler bullies, more security, and more intense ride or die groups. Here inmates stuck to their select groups. There was safety in numbers. Only newbies stay alone, keeping their heads down and ignoring everything around them to avoid getting singled out. They eventually realize they need a group to avoid being an easy target. Heavy unease could be sensed in the air as I grab a blue plastic tray and wait in line as everyone slowly shuffles along. Ahead of me, one inmate is being pushed around and razzed. She has been in here for a while though, so I know she can handle herself. Best to keep my nose clean, as they say, and not poke it where it does not belong.

“One of these days she is going to freak and end that bitch,” Samantha says in a low voice from in line behind me.

“I don’t doubt it. She has it coming, that is for sure. You can only poke something so long before it’s going to snap and rip you apart,” I whisper back to Samantha as I keep looking ahead.

Looking behind and around me, I force my muscles to relax while casually looking around, despite how highly on edge I feel. Samantha runs her tanned hands through her long wavy blonde hair as her brown eyes met my teal ones. It’s best to always be aware, but the trick is to pretend you are looking at people you know. Pretending you’re not on edge and showing no weakness is the name of the game. If you stare at anyone in the eyes too long, they could take it as an invitation to start a fight, or to rape you in the shower block later. Samantha and I have a deal. We watch each other’s backs.

A few days after I arrived here when I was twelve, another inmate had cornered Samantha and attempted to shank her. Internally, I recall how I had jumped right into the fray. I entered the fight, elbowing the inmate in the face. Samantha later told me I had fought like a wildcat. I still remember raking my nails down the inmate’s face as she shrieked. When the inmate slipped past me after knocking me sideways, I had jumped up as adrenaline pushed me forward. The inmate raised her arm to land the shank in Samantha’s side, where she lay on the floor. Clenching my jaw and fists, I let the anger shoot through my veins as I ran towards her. Luckily for me, she didn’t see me coming, as I cut her approach off and kicked her six feet down the hall in the opposite direction. I was shocked afterward at my own strength. Later Samantha admitted she thought she was hallucinating when she saw a slim, black-haired, pale girl kick a seventeen-year-old twice her size far across a room. Samantha thanked me and told me she had my back from then forward, and I in turn had hers. It’s the closest thing to friendship when one is on the inside. Eventually, over years, it has grown into a genuine friendship.

Shuffling forward as the line moves, I hold my blue tray up to receive my oatmeal like slop that passes for breakfast in this establishment. Internally, I remind myself to be grateful. I thought about how I couldn’t remember what excellent food outside of prison tastes like. It has been so long since I had a wholesome, flavorful meal. There are a lot of things I miss dearly, but I have learned that focusing on what I miss is pointless. Long ago I realized this was my lot in life and had grudgingly accepted it. Making my way over to a vacant table, I sit and wait for Samantha to join me. We have a routine of sitting across from each other so we can watch each other’s backs while we eat. Sitting while facing the cafeteria entrance, I made sure I have an unobstructed view of everyone coming and going.

An inmate named Martha sits at a table with her group of mindless followers she has bullied into becoming a part of her gang. Martha is a big, heavy, broad-shouldered girl. She is a bit vain, always fawning over her long, blond golden locks. Her face has a large scar across it, and she hates it when anyone mentions the facial flaw. Sometimes someone just looking at it was enough to throw her into a rage. I watch as she jumps up from the table and pushes another inmate onto the floor. She upends the tray on top of them, where they now sit on the cold concrete. If I have to guess, I would wager to say the inmate probably said something about Martha’s scar.

Samantha walks over and sits down, straddling the bench across the table from me. Today she wore the normal orange jumpsuit with the arms rolled up past her elbows. While I focus on shoveling the almost cold oatmeal into my mouth, Samantha looks at me pointedly.

“That broad Martha is causing issues again. I wish someone would knock her down a peg or two,” Samantha says.

She looks at me while grinning wryly as she wiggles her eyebrows at the prospect.

I laugh under my breath at her antics.

“The prospect is appealing. It would be fun to watch someone hand Martha her ass,” I mumble back as I ate another spoonful of bland tasting oatmeal while letting my eyes scan the room.

Looking up at the sound of heavy booted feet, I watch as a guard walks into the room escorting a new young inmate. The slight little thing hunches protectively in on herself, brown shoulder length hair shielding her face as she trembles. She looks as if maybe she’s of Asian heritage. The guard directs her towards a table, then left. Another inmate sitting at the table takes pity on her and gets her a tray of breakfast. I frown as I worried my lower lip between my teeth.

The small kid looks no older than fourteen at most, still a child just like I, myself, had been when I got here. She looks too slight to be older than I thought. Why the heck would they put her in the shared cafeteria time slot when the adults and older teens had breakfast? I thought internally.

I’m seventeen, but in a few months, I turn eighteen, then I will be put in the west wing of the prison with the adults.

Damn, fuck. She may as well shout she is easy prey. The girl’s body language broadcasts it for her, and the poor kid clearly does not understand that she has just walked into a fucking shark tank, I thought, while surveying the room.

Already many of the inmates have turned in their seats, sizing the poor girl up, much like a shark would it’s prey. Crap on a stick, I thought as I clench my jaw.

Samantha turns and looks at me, before focusing her attention on the room once again.

Turning back towards me, she whispers, “I can’t see this turning out well for her. She may as well have bait written all over her, the poor kid hasn’t learned not to show weakness.”

I had to agree; it wasn’t looking very promising. This whole thing was triggering. It reminds me of when I first arrived here in prison. Thanks to all the counselling books I had read, I know how to cope with my triggers. If I didn’t have access to books, I wouldn’t have known what all the terms the fancy counsellors used meant. The one startling difference between my experience and this girl’s was that no one stood up for me. Luckily for this kid, I knew myself to be a better person than most in here.

“From the look on your face, I’m guessing you aren’t going to just sit back and let the kid flounder, are you?” Samantha asks.

Her own face now creases in worry as she looks around the cafeteria, scanning for threats.

“You know me well, Sam, it’s not in me to leave the kid to get the shit kicked out of her, or worse.”

Pursing my lips together in a grim line, I get ready to act.

“Well, I’ve got your back then,” Samantha says quietly.

We perch tensely on the bench as we watch Martha and her gang get up and head towards the kid. The kid sits with her brown hair shielding her face from view at an unoccupied blue table with a tray of oatmeal in front of her. One of Martha’s gang went to distract the guards while the rest slowly saunter towards the young new inmate.

“Whatever is going to go down, it’s going to happen now. So, let’s get a move on it.”

I stand up with a confidence I truly do not feel while I glance behind me to make sure Samantha has my back.

“Right behind you. I have your back,” Samantha says.

We are all the way across the room. It will take a bit to get there without drawing the guard’s attention. Got to fake it until you make it, I thought grimly.

Standing at my full height, I throw my shoulders back as I stride over towards the group that now stands in a half-circle around the poor kid. I watch it all play out as we make our way across the large room. The kid pushes her oatmeal around in her bowl, not eating any as she frowns. One of Martha’s gang members walk forward, then reaches out, grabbing the milk on the tray.

“What? Is our food not good enough...? You won’t get special treatment here, rat. That is right, your friend Cam says hello. He’s not so happy that you were talking to the police. Don’t you know snitches get stitches,” Martha sneers.

Martha uses her rather large, muscular frame to her advantage as she leans over the poor girl.

I notice the inmate’s eyes flick up to the scar on Martha’s face and widen. I internally hoped the kid would have enough sense not to stare at Martha’s face. Wishful thinking, though, because the new inmate must have shown her reaction clearly. Martha noticing her stare, winds up her arm, and slaps the kid upside the head. She then proceeds to dump the milk all over the kid’s lap. The kid sits frozen, still flinching from the hard slap.

She mumbles, “I never said a thing. I won’t say a thing, I swear! Tell Cam I am loyal. It’s fine. Please, just tell Cam I didn’t snitch. Please leave me alone.”

Martha leans over her threateningly, as her group moves in behind her. Her overweight, bulky muscular frame is all threatening as she slams her fist on the table causing the kid to jump and the tray with the bowl of oatmeal to jump slightly in the air at the force. Martha smiles at the reaction as she slams her fists into the kid, sending her flying off her seat, onto the cold grey cement floor.

“Come on, show us what you’ve got. Cam does not believe that you are loyal. If you did not rat on him, then how did the feds find out about the stolen cars? You stupid little snitch, bitch. It wasn’t just stolen cars; it was drug shipments hidden in them too. Cam’s message is, ‘You stupid bitch, you fucked up my world, now I will fuck up yours,” Martha mocks.

She steps toward the kid, only to be blocked by me as I insert myself between her and the kid.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? This isn’t your business, fuckwit! Fancy yourself friends with a rat, do you? Back off and mind your own business,” Martha says menacingly.

I stand my ground with my feet shoulder-width apart and my hands balled up, fists in front of me. I secretly hope Martha will just back down and bugger off, but I also know the reality of that happening is slim unless the prison guards step in. Even then, Martha would eventually try to make me pay for stepping between her and the kid.

“You talk a lot of shit. Leave the kid alone and stop being a bitch.”

Out of the corner of my eyes I see Samantha help the kid up off the floor and alert a guard to what is happening. The guards step forward threateningly, drawing out their batons as they let their presence be known.

“Hey, break it up! Break it up now! Martha, you already have two strikes against you so unless you and your girls want solitary confinement, back off and cool down now!” one guard yells as three more stood ready to step in if need be.

Martha smiles at the guards and nods her head towards the opposite side of the cafeteria, indicating that the rest of her group should retreat.

“No problems here, Officer, we were just saying hi to the new inmate. Turns out she wasn’t so polite to us,” Martha explains as she backs up.

She then turns around and walks past the guards who are facing me to join her group. With the guard’s backs facing her now, Martha turns and looks pointedly at me as she ran her finger across her neck and then points at me.

“Well, it’s clear I’m now on her kill list. How charming.”

“Oh, you are oozing sarcasm! I absolutely love it!” Samantha says as she grins widely from where she stands with the kid. “She will have to step over my dead body first.”

I turn to the kid, who is now cowering while standing behind Samantha. “Hey kid, my name is Teal, and this here is Samantha. You are safe for now, but I would avoid Martha and her gang if I were you.”

The kid looks around wildly, eyes wide, palms sweaty, and hands fisted at her sides while breathing heavily. She clearly was dealing with anxiety after that encounter.

“Look at me and breathe, girl. I am not sure how to say this, so I am just going to spit it out. You’re in prison. If you want to survive here, you can’t show weakness. Don’t cower, hide, or act vulnerable. Think of it like you are in a room full of sharks, you cry, act weak or that sort of shit and they smell it like sharks would blood. You can hang with us if you would like, there is some safety in numbers,” I explain as Samantha watches my back.

“Don’t be shark bait, okay, understand?” I ask as Samantha looks at the kid, who now nods her head.

“Thanks for standing up for me there. My name is Jean.” She still seems unsure of whom to trust, but clearly trusts us more than Martha’s bunch.

“No problem. I will go see if a guard can get you a new jumpsuit. That milk is going to sour soon.” Samantha scrunched her nose at the thought of sour milk before she turns and leaves to seek out clean clothing for the girl.

Jean slightly shakes as she stares around the room in fright. “Thanks for helping me.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jean. I don’t know about you, but I’m no longer hungry. I think it’s best we leave. Let’s go back to mine and Samantha’s cell until it’s shower time.”

Jean seems to pause for a second, considering her options. “Okay, sure. They have not assigned me a cell yet. I was told they would let me know after breakfast.”

Seems she has decided to trust us, after all. My mind wanders as I try to think of what Jean must have ratted the Cam guy out for. How deep in shit is this kid?

Occasionally, I wonder just how many innocent people like myself fell through the cracks of the legal system and ended up incarcerated. Shutting down my musings, I step towards Samantha, who has just returned with a new jumpsuit for Jean.

“Okay, I think it’s best we head to our cell,” I say to Samantha.

“Yeah, probably best,” Samantha agrees. We head towards the cafeteria exit. Samantha and I had recently been moved into a cell together.

As a group, we walk out of the cafeteria towards block B, where our cell is. Both Jean and Samantha follow wordlessly down the hall. We walk past many inmates that are mingling in the halls before we turn right and head down a new hall.

Once in our cell, we turn facing away and let Jean change out of her milk stained suit. Samantha and I sit on her lower single bunk bed in the small cell, quietly waiting for her to join us. Once changed, she joined us, sitting on the vacant bunk bed next to our bunk bed that had not been assigned to anyone yet.

Samantha looks at the new inmate Jean and asks, “So what are you in here for Jean?”

Leave it to Samantha to be bold and right to the point. Jean looks at me and Samantha, then shrugs her shoulders.

“Car theft. I was a passenger in the car, but no one will believe me when I tried to explain that I did not know it was stolen. Turns out Cam, my now ex-boyfriend, had stolen it,” Jean explains as she shrugs her shoulders.

“Wow, that sounds crazy. So, what happened?” Samantha exclaims as she leans forward, intently listening.

“Cam only explained in vague detail what was happening once I was in the car. The only sliver of truth was when he admitted to stealing the car. Five minutes into our drive, I noticed the siren blaring behind us and the red and white flashing lights.”

“Holy shit, girl! What did you do?” Samantha asks.

“Yeah, I would have been freaking out,” I admitted.

“At first he wouldn’t tell me anything but caved after I lost my shit screaming at him. Of course, it was all lies and accusations that came out of his mouth. I asked him why the police were chasing us and why he was not stopping? He laughed, telling me they were not after him.”

“So, you had absolutely no idea,” Samantha says.

“Nope none. When I looked back, two police cars were chasing us. Then he reached past me as he slammed on the brakes and pushed me out of the car. I still have road burn all over one side of my body. One police car stopped, taking me in for questioning while the other chased him.”

“Please say they caught the bastard?” Samantha asks.

“No, he got away. When they took me in for questioning, I found out about the house and drug smuggling. Apparently, they had someone in custody who pegged me as the guilty party and my signature was on everything,” Jean says.

“The fucker set you up! I would’ve ratted on him.” Letting my shock show clear on my face, I leaned back against the cool concrete wall.

“During my trial, I learned just how deep he had dragged my name into everything. He was smuggling drugs in stolen cars that he was storing on the property under my name. Then here I’m because he put my name on paperwork for buying a house as the home base for his smuggling. He forged my signature on every document and a witness has placed me as the one who signed everything.”

Jean shakes her head angrily while clenching and unclenching her fists.

Samantha pounds her fist into her open left palm.

“That fucking bastard!”

“I didn’t understand! But my name was on everything as the owner. All the paper trails led to me. Apparently, he now thinks I ratted him out because after they arrested me, someone in his inner circle snitched on him and a big shipment got confiscated in a raid. They arrested many of his men and now they are serving time. I know with what he did I should have given them everything. But during the court trial I found out people who rat on him end up dead, and I value my life.”

“What a loser I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Sometimes in life things just were not fair.

“Anyway, enough about me. What about you both?” Jean asks.

Samantha, who now sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed, jumps right in. “So, he just left you to take the blame, eh? What a total loser.”

“How old are you? I don’t mean to pry, but I am surprised that you had a drug smuggling boyfriend when you look like you are fourteen,” I ask as I clamp my fingers together in my lap.

Jean looks at me as she tucks her hair behind her ear and laughs.

“I look younger than I am. I’m actually sixteen, although I have been out on my own since I was fourteen. I didn’t think my credit was good enough to be approved to own a piece of property anywhere. I pointed that out to the police, but they said I had someone cosign with me. I don’t understand who would have cosigned the documents with Cam. I’ve been told that without makeup I look a lot younger. It’s probably in part because of my being part Asian descent.”

Jean twirls a piece of brown hair around a finger as she visibly starts to relax a bit.

Looking over at Samantha now, she asks, “and what about you?”

“I got caught selling drugs, and because I wouldn’t rat out the guy, I got them from, they put me away,” Samantha says.

Jean nods, then looks at me with questions in her eyes. “What about you, Teal?” Jean asks.

I grimace as I absolutely hate having to share the why of how I found myself here. I always dread when people ask me the classic “what are you behindbars for?” 101 questions were never far behind. Telling my story was difficult, especially since I know I am innocent.

Looking Jean in the eyes, I realize the irony of the situation. Since we both were young girls, innocent to some degree. It hit me heavily that we all truly got the short end of the stick. Sam had been in the wrong for selling drugs, but if she snitched it would have been game over for her. A little voice in the back of my head points out that most people in prison like to boast they are innocent. Yet just maybe all three of us were truly innocent, each to some degree.

“I was set up and framed for my adoptive father’s murder. No one believed me when I told them I didn’t kill my dad and then I found out during the court case that they had adopted me.”

“Fuck! What a horrible way to find out you were adopted,” Jean says.

“Yeah, it was harsh. Anyway, because all the evidence pointed to me, I was convicted as an adult of his murder. They said there was enough evidence to lead them to believe I had planned every detail of his murder. The jury all voted on if they should try me as a juvie or adult. Lucky me, they sentenced me as an adult and put me in here, because it is a maximum-security prison that has a separate wing for underage inmates, hence here I am.” I shrug my shoulders before wrapping my arms around myself comfortingly.

Jean’s eyes bulge as what I said set in. Then she frowned. “That’s not right. How could all the evidence have pointed to you if you didn’t do it?”

I sigh because explaining why I was behind bars always became a version of twenty-one questions.

“I don’t know how for sure, but I assume someone close to me at the time took my DNA and set up all the evidence. The only possibility that makes sense is my adoptive mom being the one to frame me. Even then, it doesn’t all add up in my head. I have faced the fact that I might never come to know the truth, at least not while I’m stuck in here.”

I still felt far too unsure about my lucid dreams to put too much stock in them. I didn’t want to accuse the only mother I had known of doing what I saw her do in those dreams. What if they were just dreams or nightmares and not as accurate as they felt? I thought internally.

Suddenly, the cell door rattles as a guard bangs on it. A guard calls out our last names, causing me to twist around in the direction of the cell door.

“Bowen, and Deats, you’re with group A for your shower. Get moving before you run out of time,” the guard says before he turns to head back down the hall.

“Go on without me. I don’t feel like heading to the washroom,” Samantha says.

“Well, I better go grab my chance to get clean. I will see you both later. Stay clear of Martha, Jean,” I say as I head out the cell door towards the bathrooms.

They assign all inmates to a group for bathroom time. Each inmate was given the chance to shower and get clean a few times a week. Walking into the bathroom, I grab a white towel and head to one of the change stalls. While I keep a watchful eye on my surroundings, I make sure not to get caught looking at anyone. The sound of rustling clothing falling to the floor and other girls going about their personal hygiene routines was all too familiar after all these years. There were the odd few inmates that bothered little with personal hygiene, but most people avoided them. I glance at myself as I walk past what served as a mirror here in prison. I glimpse at my warped reflection. My raven black hair hung loose, and my teal colored eyes stood out brightly from my pale, porcelain white complexion.

Turning away from the mirror, I quickly strip out of my orange jumpsuit and walk to a free shower stall where I pull the accordion-like doors shut and turn the water on. Oh, sweet heaven, I thought as the warm water pelts down over me. I closed my eyes in bliss at the feeling of the water cascading down over me as my stiff muscles relaxed. It was normal for my skin to feel dry, but when I showered it was like my skin felt moisturized and alive. Water was my haven, the one thing in life that always made me feel relaxed and energized. I grab a plain white bar of soap and quickly wash my body. My mind wanders to memories that sadden me, yet make me yearn for what was snatched away from me so cruelly when I was twelve. As the water washes over me, I was transported in my mind back in time.

“Look here, Teal, this little worm is going to catch you a big fish that we will cook tonight over the campfire,” my father said.

He laughed at how my face scrunched up as he skewered the worm onto a hook. He beamed at me and scooped my slight frame into his lap. Taking my small hands, he helped me hold the fishing rod.

“There you go lass, turn the reel right here and it will lower the line into the water. That’s right, awesome job! You, my wee lass, are so smart and such a fast learner,” he praised me as my five-year-old self beamed in the light of his praise.

Suddenly the line pulled taunt, and he laughed.

“Time to reel it in, Teal. You caught a fish, sweetie,” he said encouragingly as my little hand with his big one helped me reel the line in.

As the fish was reeled out of the water, I squealed, “I did it! I caught one Daddy! It’s a big one too!”

He laughed and pulled the fish into the boat. Taking the fish out of the bottom of the boat, he pulled the hook from its mouth as it flopped on the floor of the rowboat; we sat in.

“Oh no! Daddy, it can’t breathe. The fish is sad. I don’t want to eat this poor fish, Daddy can we please let him go?” I asked, as tears started slipping down my small, pale cheeks.

My father tipped my chin up, so I looked straight at him as his big hands stroked my raven black hair.

“My wee lass, it’s the circle of life. Honey, the fish eat smaller fish and us humans and animals eat the fish. You have eaten fish before at home on your plate,” he explained with such patience and gentleness.

“He’s hurting Daddy. Can we please eat something else tonight and let the fishy live? Pretty please?” I asked as I begged for the big fish’s life.

Tears fell down my cheeks. He wiped the tears away with his rough, calloused thumb.

“Okay Teal, this one time we will let the fishy go, but my lass, you realize I’m a fisherman and I catch fish like this one and bigger for work, right?” he asked as he hugged me, then pulled back.

“Yes, Daddy. I know, but I want to save this fishy,” I said stubbornly as I crouched in the boat’s bottom and tried to lift the fish with my small hands. “Daddy, I can’t lift the fishy. Help Daddy, I don’t want him to die! The fishy is sad and hurting,” I said in a panicked little voice.

He sat staring at me oddly for a minute. Like always, he came to my rescue and helped me pick up the big fish and put him back in the water. I reached my small hand over the side of the rowboat and giggled as the fish happily swam up to my hand and rubbed against my outstretched fingers in thanks. Hearing a shocked intake of breath from my father, I turned around, smiling.

“He is happy now, Daddy!” I said as I beamed at him and hugged my father tight as I climbed into his lap and kissed him on the cheek.

“Ah, lass, what was that for?” he asked, as laughter sparkled in his green eyes.

“For helping me save the fishy Daddy,” I said as I beamed at him. He laughed and started rowing the boat to the shore.

The water was running colder as I came back to reality. Happiness from that memory lingers like a warm, invisible blanket, but it was bittersweet. I lean my forehead against the white tile wall as the water falls over my neck and runs down my body. Closing my eyes tight, I remember the conversation I overheard that evening on that camping trip when I was five.

My father had been amazed that I had not freaked out when I held the slimy fish. In his experience, he had never seen a kid take so smoothly to holding a slimy wiggling fish like I had. He had seemed unsettled that I was so at home with the sea and my surroundings.

Later that night, after he had tucked me into bed with a kiss to my forehead, I lay there listening to him and Mom argue. I could hear the awe in his voice, when he explained to her that the fish had come back to the boat to rub up against my little fingertips in thanks. Her gasp of shock even had my father pausing for a split second. He then explained that I had a lot of empathy for the fish, as if I could tell how it felt. Then my mother absolutely lost it! My mother had gotten mad and said it wasn’t normal and that chances were that I was just like those other types of people. I didn’t know what people she was talking about.

She yelled at Dad, saying I wasn’t normal, and something was wrong with me. I fell asleep that night crying, wondering what she meant about something being wrong with me. I knew my mother didn’t favor me like she did my other siblings. Dad always said it was because I was a total tomboy and a Daddy’s girl.

Coming back to the present I found that the water was chilly now, but regardless I loved the feeling as it slid over my skin. I let the water wash my tears away as they slipped out. At least here was a somewhat safe spot to cry, as long as I didn’t make too much noise. I miss my father horribly and wish he were still alive today.

“I swear to you, Daddy, wherever you are up there, I will find out who murdered you one day. They will pay for ripping your life away so cruelly,” I whisper quietly to my father’s spirit.

I liked to think he watched over me from time to time. It would horrify him to know they had blamed me for his murder.

Suddenly, my ears pick up footsteps and whispering. I have superb hearing and can hear two people, one heavyset, and one slim, by the sound of their footsteps entering the bathroom.

“She should’ve minded her own business. Now we are going to teach her a lesson she will not forget. We can’t have her sticking her nose into our business all the time. Cam paid us to take the girl out. We can’t let him down or he is bound to turn the tables on us and send someone else on the inside after us.”

“I will hold her down. You gut her, but make sure to aim for her heart. We don’t want her surviving this,” one of them says.

I could hear their slipper clad footsteps tap lightly on the tile floor as they walk slowly and quietly. Adrenaline shoots through my body as my mind whirls quickly, and I try to come up with a way to thwart their approaching attack.

“Okay, let’s show her who’s boss here. I definitely don’t want to deal with Cam sending someone to take us out, and she’s standing in our way,” the other one says.

They both step into the main bathroom area, their light footsteps echoing in my extremely sensitive ears.

Chapter Two

Teal:

Their footsteps drew closer. I leave the water running and quickly crawl below the stall. The rough tile slightly scrapes my legs as I urged myself to move quickly and quietly into the next shower stall. I got back to my feet and eyed the height of the stall wall in front of me. I then jumped, grasping the top of the stall, climbing naked up the stall wall, so I was perched high on top of it, close to the roof, with an unobstructed view of the room. Martha and Cici, her little sidekick in training, were headed towards my shower stall, with a whittled toothbrush that glints as the lights in the room hit its shiny melted plastic. Looking around, I found myself surprised because everyone else had cleared out of the bathroom in a hurry.

Where the fuck did they get the supplies to make a shank? I thought. I frown, today wasn’t my lucky day. I never would have guessed that today I would be the one to hand Martha her ass. But here I was, balancing on the top of a shower stall wall, completely wet and naked. I watch these two, who thought they were so smart, attempt to sneak up on me. Resigning myself to what I would have to do, I sigh quietly and tense, my muscles getting ready to fight for my life. It was a dog-eat-dog world, here on the inside. As much as I want to turn around and run, I know that was not truly an option. It was fight or die’ in here, and I rather enjoyed living, even if my life here in prison had not been the greatest.

Martha and Cici move slowly towards the stall they believe I am in. I brace my hands against the roof and silently walk along the narrow stall wall towards the shower I would’ve been in had my hearing not alerted me to their presence. Martha grabs the accordion shower stall door and shoves it open with Cici hot on her heels.

“Where the fuck is, she? They said she would be here,” exclaims Martha angrily.

Guess I have a traitor to worry about too, I thought as I decide I will have to fight. If I didn’t fight now and put them in their place, they would attempt to injure or kill me later, and a surprise attack could end much worse. Jumping into action, I leap down onto Martha, and I wrench her arm sideways. Martha holds the shank in her grasp as I yank it out of her hands, then position it to stab her in the stomach. I lunge forward, letting my momentum and weight push her to the floor as I drive the shank into her. Martha screams in pain as she collapses in the shower stall under the spray of the shower, still raining down on the tiled floor. Blood oozes out from under her still body. I turn, dodging Cici’s attack. Then I lunge forward towards her, kicking Cici, sending her flying backwards across the room into some benches. She lands against the bench awkwardly on her arm. It snaps as she screams and grasps the shank with her other hand. I step forward and grab her hand, twisting it until she drops the shank onto the tiled floor. I carefully toed the handle, sliding it across the bathroom tile away from her reach.

“You and Martha are lucky I’ve chosen not to kill you. If either of you attempt to hurt me or anyone I care about, I won’t be nearly this nice again.”

I clench my fists at my sides until my knuckles blanch white. I back away, keeping my eyes on her as I move towards my towel and clothing.