Juicy

The noisy winter wind stroke violently against the barred windows of the cell-like room, along with the soft pattering of sleet, as Casina Brandon, a twenty-one year old girl suffered the aftereffects of the antipsychotic drug she had been given earlier. Except for the indistinct sound of the lighting in the outer corridor, the gentle ticking of a station clock somewhere, and the occasional squeaking of a linen or medicine cart rolling down the hall, the only other sounds apparent were an occasional scream or whine from other patients.

Others were sleeping peacefully, as Casina should have been, but her hatred for the place made her strong and disinclined to follow the rules.

The thin hospital gown was no protection against the cold air seeping through the bare, curtain-less windows. Leather straps at her hands, feet, and waist kept her from warming herself otherwise. The room was sparsely furnished, so there was little she could do to occupy herself, even if her hands were free. Instead, she again lay pondering the circumstances that had led up to her arrest and confinement.

How she had ended up in a mental institute was beyond her. She had committed no crime. It was her foster parents, Norman and Zelda Zack, who should be locked away. She knew her Brother Jimmy’s death had come at their hands, not hers.

As she thought of her little eight-year-old brother lying dead in the Zacks barn that day, over two years ago, scalding tears wet her face. She knew that the nightmare would never go away.

A life sentence at St. Christi’s Institute for the Criminally Insane was crazy. Why hadn’t there been a trial? Or a hearing at least, to determine her innocence? She was still wondering how the Zacks had managed to pull that one off. She sniffed, shivering, wishing she could wipe the wetness from her face and find a warm, soft blanket to snuggle in.

She lay there contemplating the matter, recalling her ill treatment by the Ivory Post PD that day, when her cell door suddenly squeaked open. Stiffening against her bonds, she felt panic sweep over her. She recognized the husky orderly standing in the doorway, his blob silhouetted against the light behind him. Her nemesis. Lester “Crater” McConnell. He was named so because of the acne scars all over his face.

Since she arrived at St. Christi’s, this man had been trying to have his way with her. It was as if he felt it was his right to violate every female in the place, just because he worked there. But fortunately, the head orderly always managed to prevent Crater from succeeding whenever it came to her. Franklin Delaney knew she was young, a virgin, and intended to keep her intact, for whatever reason. If he had any morals, it would have surprised her since it was always Franklin, who forced drugs into her in an effort to keep her docile.

“Hey, babe,” Crater said, shuffling his carcass across the floor to her bed. He fumbled with her straps, making her cringe at his intentions. A large man, he easily kept her secured with a hand to her chest, as he removed all of her restraints. She gasped and lifted her hands to cover herself when he snatched away her gown, tossing it onto a chair.

He grunted with the effort it took to free himself from his trousers, the belt buckle tapping against the metal bed bringing a moan to Casina’s lips. Trembling as she listened to his labored breathing, she made to shove his hand from her. But he caught it, just as his pants dropped to the floor with a soft thud. She groaned in protest, struggling to free herself.

“Dammit! Hold still, will ya? This’ll be over before ya know it.”

“Listen, you stupid--,” Casina began, squirming, “I...”

“Crater!” came the timely, familiar interruption. “How many times must I tell you? Dammit.”

Crater turned to peer at his boss standing in the doorway. “Crap,” he murmured, loosening his hold on Casina. “He must have ESP or somethin’.”

He had forgotten to close the door behind him again, Casina observed gratefully.

“Pull up your damn pants and get your butt out here!” Franklin ordered. “But Frankie...”