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"I guess I really should've known . . ."

Sam glanced at the unmoving figure on the cot from her place on the floor. It was the first time the blonde had spoken in days. Same had taken up a quiet resilience, recognizing that Teresa would only speak when she was ready. She needed no prompting, just patience.

"I mean," she laughed, "blood is a hard thing to miss in a house of white."

"Did you find out that he was a killer?"

"No . . . Well, I should have . . ."

"Girl, you gonna need t'speak plain English."

Teresa tilted her head back. The stone her head laid on was hard and unforgiving. It offered her no comfort. Her mind flooded back to the memories that now gave her obvious clues to his demented nature.

She didn't look at Sam, not willing to meet her eyes. Her heart longed to get rid of the curse laid upon her, but she wasn't trusting enough of Sam to tell her the worst of it. Besides, the joy of watching the light leave his eyes still tainted her, and she was afraid.

A guard walked by the cell and unlocked it. The burly woman scrutinized both women then motioned to Sam. "No trouble today, Sam. Now stand still."

"Always good t'see a sistah. You won't get no trouble from me." She clapped long-chained cuffs to Sam's wrists and ankles which connected back to a chain around her waist. The guard ignored Sam's comment and allowed another guard – a man – of the same dark complexion past.

He looked down at the form on the cot. Teresa's frail form didn't have much to it, but these girls were here for a reason – no risks. He commanded her to stand. Teresa flicked her brown eyes to his and moved very slowly, but still following orders. The impatient guard roughly grabbed her arm and shoved her against the wall. She grunted in pain.

"Next time, you'll move faster. Now hold still and spread your legs." Teresa immediately did as was asked.

He patted his hands down her sides, reaching around the front. Teresa's body tensed when he got close to her breasts. He only slid his hand between them at the tension, not intending to touch her. He patted up each leg, then simply grabbed her crotch. She reflexively kicked him and landed her heel in his face. She heard a few things crunch.

An explosion in the back of her head sent her sliding down the wall and back onto the cot. Her world flashed red and black for a few moments before it cleared away revealing the white room once again. She looked at the police baton with confusion, not fully comprehending the pain that descended on her.

She numbly felt herself being pulled up and cuffed as Sam was. She now stood between both guards. In her delirium, she felt like an Oreo standing between them. Guards wore black uniforms and the prisoners white.

They were walked through the hallways with similar groups of prisoners and guards. Few women walked freely. They were escorted to the cafeteria for breakfast. They were herded into a line that allowed them a large cup of something that they were to take with them back up to their cells. The cups would disintegrate in twenty-four hours. A bio-degradable plastic. A Christmas gift.

Is it really December twenty-fifth? Teresa wondered. She thought about the first Christmas with her son. The child had been so tired from the night before and had wanted to sleep in. He was three at the time – just old enough to understand that Santa had come and it was Christmas.

"Santa came. It's Christmas. There are presents."

"Huh?" the child had said.

"Santa came. It's Christmas."

The poor child had yawned and fell back asleep. About two seconds later, the child sat straight up, staring wide-eyed, the information finally clicking. He pulled off the covers and bolted for the living room as fast as his little feet could carry him, not even bothering to put clothes on first.

A misstep on the stairs brought her back to reality. She stumbled and fell, dropping the green plastic cup, spilling its contents onto the white floor.

Sam stopped and looked back at the sound. The choice of breakfast this morning was a strawberry smoothie that had been dyed, so that it appeared even redder. Red and green for Christmas – how creative.

What caught her attention more than the red with the stark white of the floor, though was Teresa's look of shock, horror, and disgust. She turned fully and crouched before the mess, staring intently at the blonde's face.

Teresa did not notice Sam in front of her. All she saw was the thick mess of red. It swelled to fill her vision as she stared, paralyzed by revulsion on the stairs where she fell.

"Girl, whatchu thinkin'?"

Sam's words fell on deaf ears. Teresa looked at Sam without recognition and let out a blood-curdling scream. She crawled away from the mess on the floor, bumping into the legs of her escort. She continued to scream, drawing attention from other prisoners and guards. The other guards hustled to get their respective prisoners into their cells
before something was created out of the commotion.

Teresa grabbed the leg of her escort, and proceeded to cry and whimper into his leg. She clutched at him tightly, burying her face into the fabric of his uniform. He looked down at the form on his leg in confusion, not knowing what to do about the emotional display. He resigned himself to making an example out of her. He shook her off his leg and purposefully kicked her down from the top of the stairs. She landed heavily halfway down.

Numbed again by the shock and pain, she barely had time to recover before the same steel-toed boot kicked her again, sending her tumbling down the last of the steps. Teresa finally landed on the white tile, the coolness helping with the pounding of her head.

"Now if you're so distraught about dropping the god-damned thing, you can be the one to clean up the mess."

"That ain't guilt. Fear that is, you fool."

"What did you say, Prisoner?"

"She's 'fraid o' somethin'. You fools're startin' trouble with me an' my girls again."

The guard picked Teresa up by the shoulders, knowing that Sam had over the other prisoners, and much of the guard. He decided to let it go only once. Teresa said nothing as they passed the red mess once more. She kept her head bowed, heavy blonde locks covering her face. She looked defeated.

Teresa didn't notice the passing of the cells to theirs. She was released of the chains and pushed into the block. She crumpled onto the cot, curled into the fetal position.

Sam looked upon this form with pity and confusion. She had never seen a soul so utterly defeated by a deed that they knew they had done. A little blood seeped from a cut in Teresa's arm. Sam set the smoothie down on the floor and took off the purple wrap that she always wore on her head. Wetting it, she wiped away the blood, feeling motherly.

"Dirk . . . It reminded me of finding Dirk . . . Or rather not finding Dirk."

"You lost a dirk?"

"No, Dirk was the family pet."

Sam continued to tend to the wound. "Sounds like a mean son o' a bitch."

Teresa shook her head and sat up, leaning against the wall, ignoring Sam's efforts to staunch the bleeding in her arm. "Just a German shepherd. Great dog." A brief smile – a rare sight – touched her lips, only to be replaced by her customary defeated stance of covering her face and cowering.

"So what 'bout th' dog had you screamin'?"

"I came home from work – a particularly long day. I found a note on the counter to me that he and the kid had gone out for ice cream. It was dated ten minutes before I arrived.

"I should've known something was wrong . . ." Teresa trailed off and stood, leaning against the cold brick across the cell. She closed her eyes, lost in her pain.

Sam watched her carefully. There was stiffness and tension, anticipation. Anticipation for what? Teresa's hands were clenched tightly. Sam could only read the anger and tension; the reasons behind the feelings were a mystery still. She watched her slide down the wall to the floor.

"There was another note. This one was less decipherable," she began. "There was no barking from Dirk, like there usually was, but I didn't think anything of it – maybe he hadn't heard me come in . . . The note said, 'You can only bark so many times until the bite.' I had no idea what it meant.

"The blender was filled – " her voice broke. "Was filled with a red smoothie. I assumed it was for me . . . I grabbed a glass and poured it in to taste it . . ."

Sam shook her head in disgust, having the pieces already put together in her head. She was too enraptured in the story to her to stop. She just stared down into her own cup, unable to taste it for herself. Her stomach had turned on her, and she couldn't trust it.

"I-I expected sweet. It wasn't sweet . . . It was musty. I noticed . . . hair . . ." The sound of breaking glass claimed Teresa's mind. She was no longer in the cell, sitting next to Sam. She was in her kitchen months ago.

The glass shattered against the stone tile easily. The red mess claimed the floor. The dog wasn't barking for a reason. She collapsed onto the mess, her skirt stained red and coated in chunks of meat and hair. She fought her revulsion and horror of her discovery.

The world threatened to close in on her and she lamented. Dirk had imprinted on her and the loss was so much greater. By the time her family returned home, there was no evidence of the scene of horrors. She refused to come to grips with the piece of her that had died.

Description
"I guess I really should've known . . ."

Sam glanced at the unmoving figure on the cot from her place on the floor. It was the first time the blonde had spoken in days. Same had taken up a quiet resilience, recognizing that Teresa would only speak when she was ready. She needed no prompting, just patience.

"I mean," she laughed, "blood is a hard thing to miss in a house of white."

"Did you find out that he was a killer?"

"No . . . Well, I should have . . ."

"Girl, you gonna need t'speak plain English."

Teresa tilted her head back. The stone her head laid on was hard and unforgiving. It offered her no comfort. Her mind flooded back to the memories that now gave her obvious clues to his demented nature.

She didn't look at Sam, not willing to meet her eyes. Her heart longed to get rid of the curse laid upon her, but she wasn't trusting enough of Sam to tell her the worst of it. Besides, the joy of watching the light leave his eyes still tainted her, and she was afraid.

A guard walked by the cell and unlocked it. The burly woman scrutinized both women then motioned to Sam. "No trouble today, Sam. Now stand still."

"Always good t'see a sistah. You won't get no trouble from me." She clapped long-chained cuffs to Sam's wrists and ankles which connected back to a chain around her waist. The guard ignored Sam's comment and allowed another guard – a man – of the same dark complexion past.

He looked down at the form on the cot. Teresa's frail form didn't have much to it, but these girls were here for a reason – no risks. He commanded her to stand. Teresa flicked her brown eyes to his and moved very slowly, but still following orders. The impatient guard roughly grabbed her arm and shoved her against the wall. She grunted in pain.

"Next time, you'll move faster. Now hold still and spread your legs." Teresa immediately did as was asked.

He patted his hands down her sides, reaching around the front. Teresa's body tensed when he got close to her breasts. He only slid his hand between them at the tension, not intending to touch her. He patted up each leg, then simply grabbed her crotch. She reflexively kicked him and landed her heel in his face. She heard a few things crunch.

An explosion in the back of her head sent her sliding down the wall and back onto the cot. Her world flashed red and black for a few moments before it cleared away revealing the white room once again. She looked at the police baton with confusion, not fully comprehending the pain that descended on her.

She numbly felt herself being pulled up and cuffed as Sam was. She now stood between both guards. In her delirium, she felt like an Oreo standing between them. Guards wore black uniforms and the prisoners white.

They were walked through the hallways with similar groups of prisoners and guards. Few women walked freely. They were escorted to the cafeteria for breakfast. They were herded into a line that allowed them a large cup of something that they were to take with them back up to their cells. The cups would disintegrate in twenty-four hours. A bio-degradable plastic. A Christmas gift.

Is it really December twenty-fifth? Teresa wondered. She thought about the first Christmas with her son. The child had been so tired from the night before and had wanted to sleep in. He was three at the time – just old enough to understand that Santa had come and it was Christmas.

"Santa came. It's Christmas. There are presents."

"Huh?" the child had said.

"Santa came. It's Christmas."

The poor child had yawned and fell back asleep. About two seconds later, the child sat straight up, staring wide-eyed, the information finally clicking. He pulled off the covers and bolted for the living room as fast as his little feet could carry him, not even bothering to put clothes on first.

A misstep on the stairs brought her back to reality. She stumbled and fell, dropping the green plastic cup, spilling its contents onto the white floor.

Sam stopped and looked back at the sound. The choice of breakfast this morning was a strawberry smoothie that had been dyed, so that it appeared even redder. Red and green for Christmas – how creative.

What caught her attention more than the red with the stark white of the floor, though was Teresa's look of shock, horror, and disgust. She turned fully and crouched before the mess, staring intently at the blonde's face.

Teresa did not notice Sam in front of her. All she saw was the thick mess of red. It swelled to fill her vision as she stared, paralyzed by revulsion on the stairs where she fell.

"Girl, whatchu thinkin'?"

Sam's words fell on deaf ears. Teresa looked at Sam without recognition and let out a blood-curdling scream. She crawled away from the mess on the floor, bumping into the legs of her escort. She continued to scream, drawing attention from other prisoners and guards. The other guards hustled to get their respective prisoners into their cells
before something was created out of the commotion.

Teresa grabbed the leg of her escort, and proceeded to cry and whimper into his leg. She clutched at him tightly, burying her face into the fabric of his uniform. He looked down at the form on his leg in confusion, not knowing what to do about the emotional display. He resigned himself to making an example out of her. He shook her off his leg and purposefully kicked her down from the top of the stairs. She landed heavily halfway down.

Numbed again by the shock and pain, she barely had time to recover before the same steel-toed boot kicked her again, sending her tumbling down the last of the steps. Teresa finally landed on the white tile, the coolness helping with the pounding of her head.

"Now if you're so distraught about dropping the god-damned thing, you can be the one to clean up the mess."

"That ain't guilt. Fear that is, you fool."

"What did you say, Prisoner?"

"She's 'fraid o' somethin'. You fools're startin' trouble with me an' my girls again."

The guard picked Teresa up by the shoulders, knowing that Sam had over the other prisoners, and much of the guard. He decided to let it go only once. Teresa said nothing as they passed the red mess once more. She kept her head bowed, heavy blonde locks covering her face. She looked defeated.

Teresa didn't notice the passing of the cells to theirs. She was released of the chains and pushed into the block. She crumpled onto the cot, curled into the fetal position.

Sam looked upon this form with pity and confusion. She had never seen a soul so utterly defeated by a deed that they knew they had done. A little blood seeped from a cut in Teresa's arm. Sam set the smoothie down on the floor and took off the purple wrap that she always wore on her head. Wetting it, she wiped away the blood, feeling motherly.

"Dirk . . . It reminded me of finding Dirk . . . Or rather not finding Dirk."

"You lost a dirk?"

"No, Dirk was the family pet."

Sam continued to tend to the wound. "Sounds like a mean son o' a bitch."

Teresa shook her head and sat up, leaning against the wall, ignoring Sam's efforts to staunch the bleeding in her arm. "Just a German shepherd. Great dog." A brief smile – a rare sight – touched her lips, only to be replaced by her customary defeated stance of covering her face and cowering.

"So what 'bout th' dog had you screamin'?"

"I came home from work – a particularly long day. I found a note on the counter to me that he and the kid had gone out for ice cream. It was dated ten minutes before I arrived.

"I should've known something was wrong . . ." Teresa trailed off and stood, leaning against the cold brick across the cell. She closed her eyes, lost in her pain.

Sam watched her carefully. There was stiffness and tension, anticipation. Anticipation for what? Teresa's hands were clenched tightly. Sam could only read the anger and tension; the reasons behind the feelings were a mystery still. She watched her slide down the wall to the floor.

"There was another note. This one was less decipherable," she began. "There was no barking from Dirk, like there usually was, but I didn't think anything of it – maybe he hadn't heard me come in . . . The note said, 'You can only bark so many times until the bite.' I had no idea what it meant.

"The blender was filled – " her voice broke. "Was filled with a red smoothie. I assumed it was for me . . . I grabbed a glass and poured it in to taste it . . ."

Sam shook her head in disgust, having the pieces already put together in her head. She was too enraptured in the story to her to stop. She just stared down into her own cup, unable to taste it for herself. Her stomach had turned on her, and she couldn't trust it.

"I-I expected sweet. It wasn't sweet . . . It was musty. I noticed . . . hair . . ." The sound of breaking glass claimed Teresa's mind. She was no longer in the cell, sitting next to Sam. She was in her kitchen months ago.

The glass shattered against the stone tile easily. The red mess claimed the floor. The dog wasn't barking for a reason. She collapsed onto the mess, her skirt stained red and coated in chunks of meat and hair. She fought her revulsion and horror of her discovery.

The world threatened to close in on her and she lamented. Dirk had imprinted on her and the loss was so much greater. By the time her family returned home, there was no evidence of the scene of horrors. She refused to come to grips with the piece of her that had died.